#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 run up to his car like everyone else around you and congratulate 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.

[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.

[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.

[angelsfat3]

꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝓛𝖔𝔳𝑒 ) ／ㅤ𝔐𝓸𝑟𝖊ᆞᆞᆞ𝑃𝔩𝖊𝓪𝒔𝖊.

𝖣𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 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.

[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

[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.

[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!

[maudie-duan]

Summary: And god, this was the craziest part for him, the part he couldn’t wrap his mind around—you—how you had him so easily. How if you had been any other girl, he would have just fucked around, given you nothing but an act, someone clever, detached, someone that would have played this safe. He never pictured giving you this version of him, the one kneeling behind you, already half hard from nothing but the sound of your breath, knowing full well you loved the way he used his tongue.

A/N: Based on this request<- Thanks Anon for this awesome request!! I hope it's everything you want and more. 💓

Word Count: 10k

Warning: If you've seen the music video or heard the song...you know the vibe. Just a cute little lead up to pure smutty filth. Fluff/Smut

It was the way his cross pendant dangled from his neck, your red lips reflected back as he pressed you into the backseat, your sweaty bodies melding together in the heat of the night. The way you knew in your bones that he was far from holy, but you would have fallen to your knees for him any chance that you were given, his body like a work of art, an altar, his car your sanctuary.

Maybe there was innocence before his hands found your body, but the innocence had drifted, stretched beyond your grasp the second he laid you bare, young lust a driving force for all your sins, each moment you chose to steal away with him. 

Now, close your eyes.

Do you see it? The ink etched into his tan skin. Your very own road map, like an anchor, like a guiding light. His body the lighthouse, your body his harbor—a dreamscape vision you could always evoke, his hand gripping the steering wheel, the other on your thigh as your heart raced, watching the sun dip low on the horizon, knowing he was yours the moment the sun went down. 

It was always the nights that you longed for.

When the heat of summer filled the night breeze thick and heavy in your lungs, like all the times He had you gasping, your whole body teetering on the cusp of reality, the pleasure sending you to a wordless realm, you could never explain in the light of day as the windows fogged over, blurring the outside world around you—a building high snatching what little oxygen was left in the car, but god, it was worth it. 

The heat only adding to the sensation as the weight of his body hovered above yours and you knew once your bodies collided, flesh to flesh, there would be nothing else, just the sweet taste of his name filling your mouth like the crisp burn of carbonation on a hot day, drinking him in until there was nothing left. 

 Because it was just a sip at first, you savoring the taste of him on your tongue until you needed more, a gulp down your throat, and then it was gulp after gulp.

Yet a gulp could never be enough to quench the thirst you had for him. 

Harry.

His name, your sweetest thought, your endless mantra booming from the depth of your lungs, a fierce prayer uttered at the end of a breath as you gasped in air, desperate for more. Little did you know Harry would become the song you played on repeat all summer until you knew it by memory, his presence forever ingrained in your mind, a fucking anthem you would never forget. 

H: I’m on my way. Could you wear those cute jeans I like? The ones with the rips.

Y/N: The ones you said my ass looks good in? 

H: You know which ones I like. 

H: Also, we’re going swimming, bring what you need. 

Y/N: I have to be home early.

H: Damn, how early? 

Y/N: 10.

H: Yeah, that’s not happening. It’s like the last days of summer. We’re breaking the rules. We’ve been good all summer. 

Y/N: Harry…

H: Come on, love, tell me you don’t want it. 

Y/N: Want what? To get in trouble?

H: 10 is early. You know what I want to do. 

Y/N: Yeah?

H: You know I want it.

Y/N: Tell me how bad you want it? 

H: I’ll show you later. 

Y/N: Promise?

H: Save that dirty talk for tonight. Now, get ready, I’ll be there soon, gorgeous. 

The moment you stepped out of your front door Harry knew he was a goner, you standing there, ass turned to him in those fucking jeans that hugged the plains of your curves in all the right places, and Harry sat there like a begger looking for scraps, eyes feasting as you fumbled with the keys in your hand, your arms full of stuff, as you turned the key in the door. 

When the keys dropped from your hands, Harry took this as his cue. Surveying your body as you bent to grab them. He got out of the car then, his mind already sifting through every dirty thought, filtering through every position that’s ever had you face down, ass up, making him weak for you already, weak for what he knew was to come—always needy for you, a hopeless fool knowing he would be peeling those fucking jeans down your strong thighs later. 

As soon as you turned around, Harry was already hooking a hand around you, gripping a handful of your hair, and when he gave it a light tug, drawing your head back, your eyes met his. He smirked down at you then, and let out a breathy laugh, unable to wait any longer to press his lips to yours. 

This had become one of his favorite things to do: to take you by surprise. It was something about the way your eyes went round, your mouth slightly open—a deer in the headlights look in your eyes, like the first time he pushed inside you. The look of wonder as he filled you, your mouth rounding into an “o” as a pained moan left your parted lips. 

He thought you would make him stop like every girl that came before you, but as he buried himself completely he felt you tense around him, and your eyes drifted shut, your nails digging into his flesh, almost painful, and out of instinct he stilled himself above you, unsure of your silence, or the stillness of your body, and what it meant.

Harry watched as you drew in a slow breath, your chest rising and falling with the effort. The pain he knew you felt was evident in the pull of your brow as your eyes flitted open, pupils blown, and he swore he felt his world stop when the most beautiful smile he had ever seen slowly spread across your face, something mischievous playing at your features.

When you exhaled he felt your body relax under him, his dick pushing deeper, and you gasped out a laugh, sucking in a harsh breath, and when you said, “Why did you stop?” meaning every word. 

You had him. 

Like a thief in the night, you stole him in that moment, but really, you had him the moment you stepped foot into his car. When the smell of your vanilla perfume filled every one of his senses, your presence ushering in summer, and he knew, he just knew. 

This is what you liked most about him, the way he couldn’t keep his hands off your body, his lips always finding yours the second he was close enough to engulf you, but you couldn’t blame him, because fuck, there had never been anyone else that had you this way, every touch welcomed, every touch wanted, needy in the way that it was never enough. 

“You haven’t worn that lipstick in a while…” Harry says, eyeing your lips, that sexy smirk that found you at your door, still out to play, and his mouth completed the smile as you smoothed your lips together. 

“I forgot how much you liked it,” you lie, dragging a thumb over the corner of your mouth, wondering what it looked like after his mouth just had his way with yours. When you had to nudge him off you, so you didn’t get carried away, knowing that someone was sure to see you. 

“It’s so red…” he tells you, his eyes on the road, “like cherries in the spring…” and his words are smooth, as smooth as the hand reaching over to run a slow path up your thigh. 

“Red like your cheeks that one time I…well there were a lot of times actually…” he begins, his hand continuing to roam, inching further up your thigh, the warmth nearly grazing the inseam of your denim jeans, and you clap your hand over his, stopping him in his tracks, stopping yourself as the impulse to spread your legs swarmed your mind, but you knew it would feel so good. 

“Behave…” You joke, squeezing his hand, “Don’t start something you can’t finish…”

Harry lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head, as he pulls into the gas station, “You know I can’t control myself, baby,” he rasps, leaning in to kiss your cheek, and he shifts the car into park, “I’m addicted…” Your eyes roam his face as he hooks a finger under your chin, and you stare, watching his green eyes take you in. 

“You have a little smudge…” he starts, his voice low, running his thumb along the swell of your bottom lip, his gentle touch drawing it open, and he bites down on his lower lip, “Fuuuuuuck—” he breathes.

“Those lips…so fucking beautiful. So fucking good for me.” he finishes, dragging his thumb down the center of your lip, his eyes trained on the movement, and the hunger in his eyes sends a pulse between your thighs, your head already swimming with wild thoughts, like hoping he would push that thumb into your mouth, force it back, until your lips were closing around it. You knew exactly what he would do, the exact reaction you would pull from him. 

And this thought still surprises you, even today, even now after the countless moments the two of you have shared over the past couple of months. You hadn’t experienced anything like Harry before; whatever this was between you, this electric undercurrent running through you both anytime he was near.

You understood it, the lack of control, because you barely had any yourself. It was like this magnetic draw he held over you, the feeling blanketing the world around you whenever he was near, narrowing your focus to only him, but you didn’t care about anything else, because what did you need to care about, when you knew you could let it all go the second you slid into his passenger seat. 

He was right, though, the lack of control neither one of you had. He seemed to pull something out of you, something that lived within, a side of you that very few had ever seen. At least not to this extent, it was always a rare sighting, this fierce longing that forced itself from you both the moment you knew it could be more, that this connection was buzzing with a want, that hummed at the tip of your fingers the first time he touched you. 

You didn’t understand it at first, what was happening, what his energy was provoking in you. The first time you wore this lipstick was the first time you noticed his interest, how he couldn’t keep his eyes off your lips. 

It was one of those nights before you guys ever hung out alone, but you could feel it inching toward it; you just weren’t sure how you would ever make it happen, but you knew you wanted to. All night, Harry had been sneaking glances your way, you catching his eye from across the room, that sly smirk peeking at the corner of his mouth.

You felt it in the pit of your stomach, the nervous flutter threatening to show its face, and all it took was the accidental brush of his fingers over your hand as you both reached into the cooler full of random drinks—Harry reaching for the last diet Pepsi—and your whole body heated at the thought of a single touch. 

Of course, he did the kind thing and gave you the drink—eventually—and as you reached for it, he drew it toward him, and you stood there confused, yet captivated, watching as his strong hand gripped the can with an air of confidence that had every nerve in your body standing on edge. 

You had no words for it, and when he popped the tab on your drink, you felt the click burst through your chest with excitement, the crisp sound breaking the silence building between you, yet somehow it drew you closer, your cheeks burning, and you stared back at him wondering how he just made a gesture so fucking simple, feel like a moment of intimacy, you weren’t sure you should even be witnessing. 

Then he passed it toward you, your eyes surveying the can as if it could explain what had just happened, explain what you were feeling, because you were definitely feeling something, and out of nowhere, you were pushing the can back toward him, your hand resting on his forearm.

“You can have a sip if you want…it only feels fair since it’s the last one…” and you knew you were smiling as his breathy laugh made your ears perk up, but you couldn’t help a single thing that was happening. 

Because something was in fact happening. 

“Are you sure?” he laughs again, “I’ve heard I can be a bit greedy…” he admits, his eyes dropping to your lips.

“Just don’t drink all of it,” you tell him, “Only a sip…” Then you were pushing your hand into his arm, nudging the can his way. 

“I can’t promise anything…” and there was something thrilling in his words, nerve-wracking as he brought the can to his heart-shaped lips, pressing the rim flush, making your mouth water, as Harry watched you swallow down hard. 

There it was, the look you would never be able to escape again. It was the way his eyes never left yours that made your mouth go dry, and the second his head drifted back ever so slightly, his eyes fluttered shut, the can tilting enough to spill into his mouth, and then his lips parted, the liquid beginning to waterfall at a pace you knew you needed to stop, but you almost couldn’t bring yourself to stop him as he guzzled down your drink. 

And that was when you realized that your hand was still on his arm, and you gripped hard, tugging it back toward you as Pepsi dripped down the can, Harry taking a wide step back. His eyes flicked to his arm, to your firm grip, bringing a smile to his mouth, and when he passed the can your way, you locked eyes with him. 

As soon as you brought the can to your mouth his smile widened, a cunning smile you would eventually learn meant trouble, but in that moment, you felt your first greed for him, the feeling tingling up your spine as you let your lips meld to the wet rim, and as the cold chill of the soda filled your mouth, you watched as Harry slowly dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, and you were screwed

A single look dragging you under, and you knew you would drown in it. 

The first time Harry kissed you, you were wearing that lipstick, your red painted lips the only thing he could see, the same night he had watched them close around the rim of a can he had just had his mouth on. 

The truth was he had felt you creeping through his bloodstream for weeks, and now that your friend group was back from college, ready to start the summer with a bang. He knew he could no longer lie to himself and say he hadn’t thought about you from time to time. Wondered what your life was like, wondered what life would have been like if you guys had ended up at the same college like you all planned.

And that plan worked for everyone but you. 

You were always that girl in his mind, the one who got away. Before he ever took a chance with you, he could always feel whatever attraction that was obvious between you ebbing at the surface, but at the time, you were his best friend’s girlfriend—always out of reach, always off limits. 

So when your ex came with a date to your guys’ little friend get together, Harry knew this was his chance, and when Monica was too drunk to drive you home, he offered you a ride. To his surprise, there was no reluctance; you slid into the passenger seat, sealing the unspoken fate of your summer. 

When Braden brought his new girlfriend to the party, you knew it had to be serious. It’s not like you hadn’t heard the stories, that was what your best friend Monica was best at, the gossip, your vessel for all the things you had been missing out on since you decided last minute to go to a different school. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go; you just knew that everything with Braden would have turned toxic, and at the time, you weren’t over him, over the thought of you two. When he broke things off, saying “you both needed time to be your own person,” you hated him, and later, you would hate him even more when you realized he might have been right, like maybe, deep down, you needed the push more than you knew.

So when you saw Braden with his new girlfriend, your polar opposite, it ignited a sense of freedom, solidifying the ground you both stood on, and you didn’t give the thought of him another chance, because if you were really honest, you had moved on way before you had seen his familiar face, even if there was that little voice inside you wondering what if? 

But maybe that was natural.

That night, Harry offered you a ride home, and the moment you climbed into the passenger seat and he closed the door behind you, something about it was like taking a breath of fresh air, a new vision floating to the front of your mind.

There had always been something about him. Of course, you knew him; you were as close to him as you could be to your boyfriend’s best friend, but there was always some invisible boundary. A line you never dared cross. Every conversation had always been surface level, eyes never lingering too long, always Braden and Harry in the same sentence. 

Even in those times, your eyes found his from across the room; he was a familiar face. And maybe there were those rare moments when you both clicked, and shared a random conversation in a group setting, or one of you told a joke that had you both laughing, you couldn’t lie to yourself, and not wonder, even if it was for the briefest moment, that you both might actually have more in common than you thought. 

In those moments when it happened, it was always a tiny thrill, a subtle moment of excitement bursting through you mind when your eyes met his, because he was hot, sexier than your boyfriend at the time, fuck, like no other guy you knew, and there was something about him that was different from the rest, and everyone knew it. Everyone said it, all the stories you heard, the girls, god, you just knew.

And maybe there was always a little piece of you that wanted to explore it.

So when he pulled up to your house that night. You both slowly let your easy conversation fall silent as you gazed out the window, your front door marking the end of your evening, but you weren’t ready for the night to be over. “Are you excited to be back for the summer?” Harry asked, clearing his throat. 

Your eyes moved from the window to his face, falling to his mouth, his neck, and lingered, and you watched him swallow as his Adam apple bobbed with the effort, “Maybe at first, I mean I am…I don’t know I’m kind of bored.” you answered, letting a slow smile rise as your words landed. Harry shifted in his seat, licking his lips, as his back fell against the driver door. 

“Do you think there is anything that could change that?” He prodded, and it’s like the universe itself was trying to set the mood as the song lapsed into something smooth, a familiar song, setting the backdrop for the tension rising. 

His eyes were on your mouth again, eagerly watching, awaiting your response. “I don’t know…I’m sorry. Is this maybe strange? I don’t know, like the two of us alone?” You questioned, mirroring his position in his seat, and you narrowed your eyes at him, a playful gesture, and then your back hit the door, firing off the automatic locks, and the frantic noise ricocheted throughout the car as Harry let out a laugh, his gaze sweeping over your face as your heart picked up at the sudden jolt of panic shooting through you. 

You couldn’t hide your surprise in that moment, knew the look was written all over your face. Quickly, you tried to play it off, pretending like it didn’t faze you, and you lowered your brows, easing your body from its rigid state as you began to slowly slouch against the door again, this time more aware of your placement. 

“Guess we’re not going anywhere now, are we?” He says, more as a joke, but you were definitely not going anywhere, “Do you feel ‘strange?’” Harry starts, bringing his hands up to make air quotations, and you roll your eyes, biting down on your lower lip, trying to fight the smile that wouldn’t leave your face.

“No, really, are you uncomfortable?” He asks, poking your knee with his long finger, “Does it feel weird…just us hanging out?” 

“Honestly? I thought it would…” You tell him, “and maybe it should?? Feel weird? But it doesn’t.” You answered meaning every word, and when you saw the sly smile spread across Harry’s face, you sucked in a breath, your chest tight, that same thrill from earlier that night, stealing your focus. 

“Good—“ he breathes.

“What about you?” You toss back the question, “Technically, we haven’t crossed any lines. You’re just driving me home, right?”

Harry laughs, looking down at his hands, those cute dimples dipping as a strand of hair falls in his face, and when he looks up, he runs a hand through his hair, eyes dropping to your fucking mouth again, and god, it was so fucking obvious, but you wanted to hear the words leave his mouth, wanted to be able to repeat them later when you left this car, and he’s staring back at you with that smug smile that’s starting to ruin your life and when he says: 

“Yet—I think the answer you’re looking for is yet…and I’m not normally one to push my agenda on anyone, but I know you can feel this…” he tells you flitting a finger back and forth, “and maybe I’m a shitty friend, but Braden has clearly moved on. I know you saw it tonight…I guess I just…have thought about you…have thought about this before—”

“Before?” You stop him as curiosity floods your whole body, a rush of excitement flooding to the tips of your fingers as you straighten your spine.

“Yeah…is that shitty of me?” He asks, and his British drawl has you fucking beside yourself, swooning like every girl at the party tonight, like idiots tripping over themselves to get in a single word, yet here you were, the one alone with him, the one he’s confessing truths you’ll hold for dear life later—for those rainy days, when you think of all the words he will have whispered across your naked skin. All the nights you will have rode that dick, you’ve been peeping all night. Those tight yellow swim trunks not hiding a damn thing—like right now as you peered over at the bulge resting between his legs, the yellow mesh material packed and he wasn’t even hard—and fuck, he just said exactly what you wanted to hear. 

“Is it shitty of me for thinking the same thing?” You forced, swallowing down the saliva that was trying to collect in your mouth. It’s like his presence is bringing out this animalistic hunger, that’s beating at your chest, and you sense it in the air, smell the scent of your body heating up, sweat pulling between your breast, your pussy pulsing in your shorts. 

“Would you want to hang out again… like just the two of us?” He offered, pulling at his shorts as he adjusted in his seat, and you sat there as still as you could, nearly holding your breath. 

How could a question as simple as hanging out hold so much promise? A simple question, yet you felt it like a spark, a surge of electricity buzzing over your skin, a tingle up your neck. They weren’t just simple words. They were an invitation, a fucking polite ask to explore whatever this was building between you, because it was there, this energy pulling at you both like a dare. 

His easy question pushing you both to the edge of temptation, yet you wanted it, and you knew it, and so did he, or he wouldn’t be asking, “Yeah, I’m game for whatever.” Was all you could push past your dry throat, and you looked him dead in the eye, a smile rising on both your lips, and that’s when you knew there was no turning back. That this would be the start of something that might change you forever. 

Harry was beside himself when your answer was yes. He hadn’t really thought it through, his question had just spilled out of his mind in a desperate attempt to not end this feeling that was pulling at his chest—this tug like a magnet to you as his heart picked up, the sound drowning out the hum of the engine, every beat like a fucking countdown to what might happen next. 

He had always pushed this energy he felt with you away, dulled it in his mind. Made every excuse to keep his distance, but tonight he felt the tension rising in the air, a veil slipping over you both as the outside world fell away, and it was you, only you. 

He knew how he wanted to end this night, felt it like a low simmer across his lip every time his eyes fell to that perfect mouth, so fucking red, so fucking inviting. He had to kiss you. He had to find a way for his lips to meet yours, or he might not make it to the next hangout, because it was already too far away, even if you said tomorrow, he knew he wouldn’t make it. 

Because all it took was one glance from you, one lingering look to steal his thoughts, to steal what little composure he had left of himself because your presence alone was working him to the fucking bone, unlike any girl before you. He couldn’t even compare because there was already this hopeless level of want that had been forbidden all this time. 

And here it was—you—finally within reach, so he knew he had to take his chance, “I like that lipstick on you…” is all he could come up with. He didn’t want to come out and just say it, knew he didn’t want to rush you, but he had to try at least. 

He couldn’t help but stare at your lips, watching you smooth them together at the mention. When his gaze finally flicked to you, your silence weighed heavy in the air, thick with the weight of anticipation, all the possibilities pulling at a single gaze once your eyes met his. 

Christ, you were stealing his breath, the innocence in the way your hands balled in your lap, fist squeezed tight like maybe you were just as nervous. Harry’s heart was racing, excitement constricting his chest. That’s when you spoke:

“What do you like about it?” You barely asked above the noise in the car. 

“Everything…” he muttered, his nerves threatening to take the words he already had filling his mouth, “The way it hasn’t budged all night. It’s perfect.”

“Honestly, don’t let it fool you. I’ve had to keep up with it all night…it’s one of those annoying lipsticks that smears easily—” And you laugh, cutting yourself off, “Not that you care about the details…” You finish.

“Smears, huh?” Harry follows up, eyeing your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. 

Each second was like a time bomb waiting to go off, and he knew he just needed to take the leap, but then you surprised him. “I can show you…” You nearly whisper, your words almost shaky, but Harry felt it too, the most nervous he had ever been, but there was a safety in your presence, in your past history, an almost friendship just waiting to be explored.

“Here…” You tell him, and when you reach forward and grab his wrist, you pause, locking eyes with him, “Is this cool? Sorry, I didn’t even ask.”

“Yeah—” Harry chokes, barely able to get a single word out as you inch closer and suddenly you are so close, and when he scoots his body forward on the seat, the narrowing space between you closes, now loaded with a shifting energy that had the hair on the back of his neck rising. 

This is it, he thinks, when he says, “I’m good with anything. I trust you…” His gaze drops to your hand, firmly encircling his, and he feels the slight tremor of his own hand, already trying to fight against it, determined, as your grip tightened with a quiet intensity, and then he saw it, the slight shake you were trying to mask, and he let it go.

Silently, without a word, he watched as you brought the sensitive flesh of his wrist to your plush mouth. Jesus, the press of your mouth against his skin was so delicate, so slow, it almost felt like a secret. Harry could feel your breath, the warmth of it blooming out and up the length of his arm, making his stomach lurch. And as your lips pushed into him he wondered if you could feel his pulse, wondered if you noticed the jump beneath your lush mouth, so fucking soft, and red. 

All the while, Harry just sat there, stunned, holding his breath the entire time, his eyes never leaving your face. And when you lingered there—he swears you did—longer than necessary, He found himself having to fight the thoughts that were making his dick stir in his shorts, because this, he never pictured this, and now he could feel his polite composure slipping as a hunger rose like a ravenous animal. 

When you pulled back, you didn’t let go of his hand, Instead, he watched you gaze down at the perfect imprint, a half-moon curve of lipstick, and it was as if you had branded him, made him yours in a way that was more permanent than any ink he had ever gotten, because he would never forget this. This moment would live forever in his mind, and fuck, he wanted to say something so bad, but god, he had never been at a loss for words, not like this. Not when it felt like every word mattered. 

The longer he stared the more he wondered if you were as shocked as he felt, because you hadn’t looked up at him, you just kept staring at the work of art stained on his skin, your fingers still curled around his forearm, jaw slack, and dammit, when your wet tongue smoothed across your bottom lip, he pulled away from your grasp, and grabbed your face, your cheek cradled in the palm of his hand.

That’s when your eyes finally meet his, that look of surprise still lingering, the one he’ll obsess over all summer came to life in your eyes, wide and questioning, and when Harry’s thumb caressed your cheek he felt you relax into his touch, a gentle ease, easing between you both, a moment as delicate as your lips to his wrist.

Your eyes were searching his face then, eyes darting probably mapping him out, and when they land on his lips, he knew what he wanted to do, but there was that hunger again, twitching at the tips of his fingers, and all he wanted to do was smear that perfect lipstick across your beautiful face.

So when his gaze moved to the swell of your lower lip, he felt your breath halt, and he pressed a firm print into the center of your lip and dragged a slow strip of red past your mouth and onto the smooth skin of your cheek, and holy fuck, it was electric, that doe-eyed look in your eyes, that never left his as he destroyed the tiny perfection that you just gave like a gift. 

Yet it was fucking primal, a need that had to be satiated, and when you let out a strangled moan, he didn’t fight the thoughts this time, because he wanted you to know what you did to him, he needed you to see the desire growing hard for you in his shorts, for you and only you.

Because that’s what he wanted, and that’s what he would get.

He wanted you like the oxygen leaving his lungs, like the heart pounding in his chest, and when you pressed his hand into your cheek, there was no second-guessing himself, because you wanted it, he knew it, he could see it in your eyes, feel it in your touch. That’s when you sprang forward, crashing your mouth to his with a force so wild it knocked the air from his body. 

There was only greed in this moment, only need, only a want so desperate that there wasn’t a single second of apprehension, only compliance, and as his mouth moved against yours, he felt the rhythm fall into the perfect give and take, something so natural he didn’t even have to think, and when he coaxed you into his lap, shifting the seat back to make room for you, you pulled away, giving him a silent nod, and that’s all it took to seal the deal, setting the tone for the summer, because now there really was no going back.

And you both knew it. 

Harry wasn’t your first, yet every experience with him felt like venturing into uncharted territories—a thrilling escape, where the familiar turned into a breathtaking marvel, your world now bursting with color before your eyes, as if Harry was shining a light on all your shadows, all the things you thought you should hide. Illuminating your view with every touch, every kiss until it was all that you saw, all that you wanted. 

It really did start as innocent, only making out, granted each time was hot and heavy, never a dull moment when you two were alone, but it was something you guys wanted to keep to yourself, something that was just for the two of you, and it stayed that way for a while as you both explored one another. 

It wasn’t until the first time you had sex that things seemed to shift. You had felt it coming, knew you wanted it, but it still took you by surprise. You didn’t think it would happen like that, it just did, Harry laying you down in his back seat, your body already sticking to the leather. 

Everything that was leading up to that moment was pure desperation, but not this, not that night. It had changed everything, it was the night you knew you wanted more, that you knew you could fall in love with this guy that was hovering above you waiting for you to say the words, to grant him passage to a world you both knew was changing, even if you didn’t say it out loud.

And god, he was so fucking delicate and patient, a kindness he had given so many times before, because it’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, like you didn’t know what was waiting for you. How many times had you felt the press of his dick through his jeans before you felt it in your hands. Felt the solid ridge of his cock begging for you to touch him, because that’s how it started. 

It was your curiosity that was the driving force for everything leading up to this point. Because you knew it would be different from your hand wrapped around his dick, or your mouth stretched around his girth—a choke here and a gag there, it wasn’t the same. Those were just the baby steps, and even though you both felt that needy hunger trying to take over, you tried not to let the fear steal your courage.

 Later after everything, you would tell him how it felt, how painful it was, but in that moment you wanted it, you wanted him, so you didn’t make him stop, and fuck, when he pushed inside you, you felt that primitive urge rise, that anamilistic nature he seemed to feed take over. 

And it was already begging for more.

Braden had been the only guy you slept with before Harry, and you couldn’t even remember the last time. So when Harry pushed into you that night, you felt your whole body freeze as you gawked up at Harry. It wasn’t out of fear, or nerves, but because the shock of him splitting you open was so intense, so foreign to anything you had ever known, that for a moment all you could do was clamp your thighs around him and hold on for dear life as every fantasy you had of this moment turned into a searing ache so blinding you had to force your eyes shut, to collect yourself.

Yet the pain continued, and as Harry stilled himself inside you, you thought you would scream, your nails digging so deep into his skin, you could feel the flesh gathering underneath the nail—a fucking brutal fullness you thought, as a dream and reality collided, an ache so fierce you could feel in your teeth. 

For a second, you thought you would cry as your body sang with the pain of him sinking deeper, filling you more the moment you tried to relax, and you lay there as your body tried to rebel, yet you wanted it, you wanted more, the cruel stretch, your walls trembling and raw around him.

Holy fuck, it was like a light switching on, as a smile spread across your face, all the endless possibilities flooding your mind, and you needed it. Wanted him to destroy you in every way, wanted to give yourself in ways you had never given yourself before, and when you opened your eyes and saw him staring down at you, you knew he would let you, that he would give you the space, the freedom you had longed for, because he had already given the power you had craved long before this, his body and endless plain to explore that he let you have anytime you wanted it.

And when you asked, “Why did you stop?” with a breathy laugh, it would become the sweetest contradiction and as he began to move, you both drifted to a place you would never be able to find words for as you spread yourself wider, and he filled you with a pain that was almost too much, yet there was pleasure, a tenderness so deep that your bones rattled in the aftershock, when he made you come, your whole body coming undone in his arms as you lost control.

You had never come like that before, not even alone, and you knew that nothing would ever quite match the way you trembled in his arms, gasping into his shoulder as tears pricked behind your eyes, joy and pain so intertwine you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, in that moment you knew there would always be a mark, not just on your neck or the insides of your thighs, but somewhere deeper, somewhere primal, somewhere only he could reach.

And these were your thoughts as you gazed into his green eyes, his hands pulling you snug to him on his lap as your friends moved around you, carrying on as if this had always been—you and Harry— and as you watched his eyes sweep to the sunset, you felt the slow crawl of anticipation mount your spine. 

You loved the sunset, knowing that with it brought the whisper of the night already calling to you both as you let your pool towel drop, and you stood, beckoning Harry to follow you into the pool.

Harry discovered early on that whatever you guys were doing would be an equal give and take. Except on the nights you begged him to wreck you, to fucking destroy everything. He never knew if it was the past or the present you that you wanted to banish. He could only guess, because every time he followed through and you were crying out his name, or the rare nights, when you were sobbing into his neck afterward, something would change, a tiny spark turning to a blazing fire in your eyes. 

It changed him, whatever it was; you had changed him. He had never been more sure of himself than when your bodies collided. When he knew he would be able to give you what you wanted—and that was him.

And he wanted you, so it worked. 

It was fucking majestic.

Like right now in this very moment, all his thoughts from earlier, coming full-circle. When his only thought was to have you face down ass up, and here you were, face planted into the back seat, your ass in his face. Just for him, just the way he liked it, and he spread you wider, both palms on your ass cheeks, pausing long enough to appreciate the view, the almost bruised purple of his handprints on your hips from last night, the way you shamelessly arched for more.

“Harry,” you whispered, and he could feel your body trembling already, jerking toward him with a need, in the stillness of his movements.

And god, this was the craziest part for him, the part he couldn’t wrap his mind around—you—how you had him so easily. How if you had been any other girl, he would have just fucked around, given you nothing but an act, someone clever, detached, someone that would have played this safe. He never pictured giving you this version of him, the one kneeling behind you, already half hard from nothing but the sound of your breath, knowing full well you loved the way he used his tongue.

There it was in all it’s fucking glory, your pussy—fuck, yes, that pussy was already dripping, needy—opened to him easily, swollen with need and glistening, and he buried his face in it, tongue lapping through your folds and circling your clit, savoring each sound you gave him. 

Harry knew how to work you, starting with a gentle suck, then hard, as the pressure built in your moans, making his head spin with pride only you could give. He loved this, loved how unguarded you became under his mouth, how giving, how much you wanted him. He found your slick entrance with his thumb, sliding through it, then pushing up, curling until you gasped his name and pushed back into him, your nails scraping across the leather seat in tandem.

He could do this for hours. He would, if you asked him. He told himself that was what made you different from every girl who came before—that you truly wanted him, how you fucking melted for him, became molten and alive in his hands, eyes rolling back as if the pleasure he gave you was religion.

Every night spent like this was like a mission, and he ate you until you were shaking, thighs beginning to buckle, and when he parted your ass, tongue trailing up, you moaned out the word “Baby..”, the sound going straight to his cock, and he groaned into your ass as he began to lick a stripe along your rim, then pressed in, slow and dirty, his pointer finger slipping into your wet cunt while his tongue fucked your tight little asshole. 

It was fucking filthy, he couldn’t deny it, but you were a vision, hips jerking, shoving your ass back until his face was buried in it as your hand worked your clit, and you took everything he gave you, begging for more. “Harry—holy fuck—don’t stop, please don’t—” and he wouldn’t, not until you came. Not until you were falling to pieces in his mouth.

He loved you for this, for letting him do anything, for trusting he would never hurt you. He wondered—more and more now—if this was maybe love. 

If this was what he had been trying to avoid, pressing the thought of you into shadow, refusing to say the word aloud. It was easier to show you. To drown you in pleasure, to never let you doubt what you meant when you were in his arms. He knew he could make you come, and that’s what he did, and when the sound filled the car, high and sharp, fucking guttural, he growled into your skin, nipping tight on your ass as you pulsed and jerked in his grip.

And as you repeated his name over and over, he wondered if he could say it. If having you like this would be enough, if it had to be. Summer was ending soon. You would go back to your college, he to his, and maybe you both would pretend this was just a fling, a pause between lives, but every time he was inside you—like right now, you pushing him back against the seat, hard, knocking the air from his lungs, and climbed onto his dick, letting him slide into your body, deep, and it was everything, your pussy was so fucking slick and perfect, and here was that desperation roaring up in you both—he wanted to tell you all of it.

He wanted you to know. Even if you never said it back.

At first, you thought it was the orgasms, your mind wrecked with the aftermath, your mind giddy and stupid in the afterglow of his presence settling over you. It was magic, pure fucking magic. 

And that’s what you had chalked this summer up to, but then something shifted, your mind becoming maybe obsessive, but that wasn’t it, maybe you obsessed over the feeling, but take all the pleasure away and it was him—Harry holding you, his arms becoming a sense of safety, that feeling of home.

You didn’t understand how you could already miss someone when they’re hands were on your body, they’re dick pushed inside you so deep you could feel him in your belly, a feeling that you felt you could no longer live without, but did you truly have to? 

“Can I just feel you for a second? I just want to feel you…inside me,” you whisper, sitting flush to his thighs as he sinks deeper inside you. 

“Yeah…” Harry groans, his breath hitching in his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. “We can take it as slow as you want, Love.” He tells you, pressing his warm mouth to the skin of your neck, and you lifted your gaze to him, a soft smile playing at your lips.

It was this, the fervor in the lilt of his voice washing over you. It was there from the start, how you knew you’d be safe. There was always an openness, an exploratory nature, that he let unfold between you. 

It was the smear of your red lipstick across your cheek, that awakened it all—the low hum of panic that set in, but you felt that thrill, that tiny morsel of shame that rose with the act, but the second his mouth pressed to your lips for the first time you felt the twitch of something wicked, a guttural longing to destroy yourself, a messy disire to satiate that shame.

To take back its power over you, flip the feeling upside down, to flex and bend that feeling, until it was yours, until you got everything you wanted—until you were used and spent, and fucking turned out until you no longer recognized yourself in the mirror. 

It was a hunger, a need and as your mouth pressed to his, gentle and slow, Harry moved with you, following your lead, you felt the flutter in the pit of your stomach, the pulse of his dick, the reaction you knew you could pull from him.

It made you wild, and here it was that feeling creeping down your spine, making your pussy clench around his dick, and you both felt it, a collective gasp filling the car, your sweaty bodies a slick, slide as your boobs pressed to his chest, and your hips began their slowed rock. 

Harry forced his mouth to yours, and his lips parted as the sensation set in. That’s when you shoved your tongue into his mouth, and his tongue met yours, making you let out a soft moan as you reveled in the taste of yourself on his mouth, which still lingered on his tongue like a gift. 

You pull back then, bringing your arms with you, and you press the palms of your hands to the tops of his knees as he scooted forward in the seat, his hands at your waist to keep you steady. You both knew this was only the lead up, your eyes locking as you situated yourself on his hard dick.

And you shifted your weight into your palms, rolling your hips up with the movement, watching as Harry’s eyes rolled back, his head falling to the headrest, and his hands lazily fell to the curve of your hips. 

“Fuck—that’s already so good,” he breathes, pushing the words to the ceiling, and you smiled that knowing smile, because god, it’s already so fucking good, his dick the perfect stretch inside you. 

You do it again, this time a little slower to tease, listening as Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, how easy, how fucking amazing it was to make a pitiful pained mess of him, his grip needy, digging into your skin. 

When you do it again, hips rolling faster, his head falls forward, face diving into your tits, greedily lapping his tongue over skin as they begin to bounce, and your rythmn picked up to match his mouth. 

Your grip on his knees tightened as his tongue landed on your nipple, then he sucked it in with a loud pop, that made you laugh as pleasure ran through you, “Do it again,” you tell him, meeting his eye.

“You like that?” he asked, voice rough with desire, you could see it in his eyes, a wild glint roaming.

“I want you to bite it,” You told him with a breathy laugh, “Mmmm…just like that…” you cooed, your hand flying to the nape of his neck, desperate to keep his mouth at your breast as he began to suck and lap at your nipple. 

And you ground your hips down with the sensation, Harry already dragging your hips forward, his hands now fully devouring your flesh, kneading your ass and thighs as he slouched lower, feet braced on the floorboard of the car, like his whole body was a throne made for you and your pleasure. 

You could feel the pulse of him inside you, and it sent you reeling, it was fucking insanity, your cunt like velvet, fucked raw as you lifted your hips, grinding a slow circle around the head of his cock. You knew it was vicious, but you did it just to hear him whimper, a tender high-pitched sound shooting straight through you, and you rolled your hips again, slower this time, more teasing, taunting, forcing your pussy to clench just to watch his breathing stutter, his eyes squeezing shut, tongue catching at the corner of his mouth.

When did it happen? When had you gotten this bold? Because it was addicting, this sense of control, the grip you had on him, how you could fuck him stupid just by moving your hips a certain way, yet Harry was eating it up, every second, his broad tatted chest gleaming with sweat, eyes glazed over, adoring, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You gonna come for me?” he said, voice rash with want.

And you nod, want stealing your words as you ground down hard, feeling every ridge, every inch of breath snatching friction as your body stretched tight around his dick, that familiar ache giving way to a slick, heated pleasure, a build so fast you nearly gasped at how close you already were, but you needed it, and so did he, and fucking hell, his hands were urging you on, a rhythm set by his hips bucking up to meet yours, so deep and so hard you had to throw your head back, the whole car echoing with the messy slap of skin.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, crying out as you clamped down on him, and suddenly you were desperate—like if you didn’t come now you would die, like if he didn’t hold you tighter you might fucking float away as you clawed at his shoulders, and you mashed your tits to his face, smothering him as you bounced on him, faster, harder, as the salacious squelch of your messy pussy, echoed around you both, and it was like the thumping of the car seat was making you ferocious—your desperation driving him deeper.

“Oh fucking god, Harry—please—I swear—”

He couldn’t answer, only groaned and bit at your breasts, leaving marks, tongue lashing over your nipple as you rode him, a finger sinking hard into your ass as the other spread you open. 

Harry forced his hips up then, trying to meet every needy drop of your body, and his finger plunged deeper into your ass, fucking plugging you, the double sensation taking you higher as your clit throbbed, catching on every upstroke. Shit, It was consuming you, every drag against him almost too much, and you could feel it, the tension tightening, the wave threatening to crush you.

“Say it,” you begged, not sure what you needed, you just needed something—his words, his mouth, anything to keep you from unraveling too quick. 

“Say what, baby, fuck—Tell me what you want.”

“Say I’m yours,” you gasped, nails raking down his arms, “Say I’m your fucking baby, Harry—Tell me I’m—”

And your words brought out something in him, almost feral as groan spilled out, so fucking loud you almost came on the spot, his hands clutching you so tight, you knew there would be handprints later. 

“You are, yeah?” he whispered, smashing his mouth to your ear, breathing it like a sin. “You’re my fucking baby—my girl—always—”

Fuck it was everything you needed, you coming undone, splintering around him, whole body locking, your orgasm ripping through you like a fever, heating like a fire, a thousand tiny explosions that made the world go white behind your eyes—a deafening loss of control  as your muscles clenched so tight around him that you didn’t even realize you were sobbing until he made a desperate, broken sound, shuddering as he trembled underneath you, cock bursting deep inside as jets of heat filled you up.

It was too much, and you collapsed forward, chest to chest, fists bunched in his hair as you rode out every last wave. But he didn’t stop, not even as you crumbled into his lap, he only held you, both of you swealtering in the heat of the night, shaking, and soaked in one another’s filth. Harry’s lips found your temple, your jaw, your ear as you blinked back to life, and your hands began to caress his scalp as your grip let up.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, chests heaving for air, the weight of it settling in your bones: not just the sex, but the feeling.

You pulled back then, hand moving to his cheek, thumb trailing his bruised, bitten lip. “Oh my god,” you breathed, half-laughing, tears welling in your eyes. “Harry���”

Harry met your eyes gently, everything on his face laid bare. “Yeah?” he whispered, thumb brushing over your collarbone, a delicate gesture like he never wanted to let you go.

You felt your throat seize, fear threatening to take over, and you almost chickened out, almost bit back everything coming forward, but you couldn’t fight the words, not anymore. “I think—I think I’m in love with you,” you confessed, voice tender with wonder.

And for the spance of a single heartbeat, there was silence, and as your eyes swept over Harry’s face, his answering smile was the truest thing you had ever seen, and when he pulled your face to his. You felt it, the way his lips moved against yours, an achingly tender pace that made you want to cry, and then he said it against your mouth, a ragged rush of I love you, baby, I promise, and you knew he meant it.

You both stayed like that for a cooling minute, tangled together, until your legs started shaking and you laughed, peeling yourself off his lap, his cum running down your thighs as you righted yourself on the seat. Then, Harry reached for your face, sweeping stray hair back, kissing your swollen lips again, like a soft, reverent caress, so intimate you felt your throat burn with it.

“I meant it,” he said, quieter now, nervous, heart in his throat. “I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s not even funny.”

Heat rose then, a fresh warmth blooming in your chest, but it wasn’t lust, it was something better, something wholesome, devastating, but it was all yours, and you smiled, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and you leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose. “Yeah,” you hummed. “Me too.”

He laughed, and the sound of his rasp was nearly dizzying. “My girl,” he said again, like he was trying it on for size, like he couldn’t believe his luck, like finally he could speak his truth.

You looked down at yourself, at the mess you guys made, at him and the red lipstick smeared on his jaw, his neck, his chest, at your own reflection in the window when Harry turned the overhead light on, as a blur of color and sweat, and fucking bite marks filled your vision, and holy fuck, you had never felt more yourself, never felt more awake, like summer had been invented just for this, just for your bodies and the filthy fucking—and now, for love.

Because what could be better than this?

And as you both collected yourselves, you knew the world was waiting, but in here, there was only the two of you, the soft music looping, the familiar smell of sex and summer heat, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth, and you knew you would never forget this, not a single thing.

Harry pulled you back in, both of you sticky and half-dressed, his hand trailing lazy circles on your bare thigh. “At least we still have tomorrow?” he teased, his voice sleepy as a satisfied grin took way.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated, beaming up at him, “and the day after, and every fucking day after that, if you want.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Darling, there’s no one else I’d rather see. Promise.”

And damn, if you didn’t believe him.

Because this was your summer, and you knew exactly whose baby you were.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-daniel @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other Stuff<-

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

For the human asks I'm assuming they're an adult. What if the reader was a child? A child that's stuck in Home, has no idea how to take care of themselves etc.

.

That's a good question!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Wally, Barnaby, Poppy, Howdy & child Reader

Wally

★ He sees the situation at face value. You were somewhere else, now you're here. Isn't that how children work? They just appear sometimes. Like how baby rainbow monster blushes come from flowers. Wally never questioned it.

★ When he realizes you struggle to care for yourself, he steps in. Teaching you to comb and brush your hair. Showing how you can get it to look just right. And guiding you through ways to put it up if your hair is long.

★ Home seems to have a soft spot for this new child. Sometimes, when Wally is brushing your hair, Home pulls out the bathroom drawers. Allowing you to choose whatever hairpins or you want. Though Wally doesn't remember leaving those things in the bathroom...

Barnaby

★ "So, kid, you just appeared one day? Pretty neat trick. Can ya teach me?" Laughing it off in front of you. But when he's alone, he thinks about it. Who was taking care of you before this? Last time he asked, Home slammed all his windows shut. Like a warning.

★ He called his mom for advice. Reasoning she'd know more than him. Thanks to her, Barnaby knows what to do. Before the call he had been feeding you ice cream for dinner. Now, you only get away with that on your birthday.

★ The day he found you is your birthday. Barnaby decided that. And nobody argues about it. Because, honestly, what would they do? Just pick another day? You can't remember your real birthday. Hell, nobody knows how old you actually are.

★ Barnaby loves playing keep away. Holding something so out of reach you have to think outside of the box. It's his way of getting you to use "active problem solving skills" as Frank would call it. Sometimes, Wally helps you.

Poppy

★ Everything about your situation concerns her. And she takes you under her wing as soon as she meets you. There's something terribly wrong with this situation. She can feel it. "Oh, honey. This wont do. Come along, you'll be staying with me." Leavening no room to argue.

★ She makes sure they eat, sleep, and stay safe. Practically adopting them. Asking questions carefully. "Sweetheart, do you remember what you like to eat?" To try and jog you're memory. Though it doesn't work.

★ On nice days, sometimes you convince her to go outside. Talking abut how nice the flowers look and what you've seen the others do. At first she just smiles and nods, trying to be polite. Then, the idea of standing by the door feels less scary. If you're lucky Poppy might walk you to the bodega.

Howdy

★ Howdy doesn't say anything out loud. But he thinks about how you got here. Don't you have any family? A single person looking for you? It's odd. But there are no answers when he looks for one. So he tries to avoid the topic.

★ Instead of jokes, Howdy lets you pay in skills you've learned. Folded laundry? He hands you a candy bar. "Good work, kid!" It's his way of encouraging you to learn. If you're up for it, he shows you how to mop the floor. In exchange for something off his shelves.

★ If you don't show up for a day Howdy gets worried. And asks around when too much time has passed. Telling Barnaby "The kid hasn't been by. Have you seen them?" When you finally show up? He pauses whatever task he's on to ask where you've been.

[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.

[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. 💛🩷

[insanityclause]

DESPITE THE FACT that Tom Hiddleston plays the titular role of Chuck in the new film The Life of Chuck, he was only on set for five days. And despite the fact that The Life of Chuck is written and directed by Mike Flanagan (a modern horror master best known for his terrifying limited series on Netflix) and based on a novella by Stephen King (whose name is practically synonymous with the morbid and the scary), Hiddleston's time wasn't spent screaming, fighting off evil clowns, or navigating a post-apocalyptic world.

No, Tom Hiddleston spent most of his time on The Life of Chuck dancing.

"I learned how to moonwalk, and then we were off to the races," Hiddleston tells Men's Health on a Friday evening in late May.

Despite what the names involved might have you think, The Life of Chuck really isn't a horror movie at all. Instead, it's a story about life and death, a look at the impact small moments in one life can have on another, and the things that stand out in a memory when it all comes to an end. And as the film slowly but surely lays out, a number of those moments in the life of a regular guy named Chuck Krantz (played by Hiddleston with a gentle, compelling kindness) come when he's given an opportunity to dance.

Chuck isn't someone you'd expect to start busting moves, though; he's an accountant in a suit holding a briefcase. But in Hiddleston's most intensive scene in the film (which took up four of his five days on set), he put far more on display than just his newly-acquired moonwalking skills. The sequence, which Flanagan had originally composed by drummer The Pocket Queen (who appears in the scene) and choreographed by Mandy Moore (not that Mandy Moore, but rather an acclaimed professional who worked on movies like La La Land), combines elements of jazz, swing, salsa, cha-cha, Bossa Nova, and Polka dancing; the Moonwalk was part of a freestyle element.

Before production, Hiddleston had a call with Moore to discuss the sequence, who then set him up with assistant choreographer Stephanie Powell in London. The two would practice for a few hours every day, and getting to the majestic point of the lengthy dance featured in the film wasn't all smooth sailing.

"I found out that jazz and swing were very close to home, and Bossa Nova was a little further away, so I had to work on that," Hiddleston says. "Some things come naturally to every human body and other things don't. Some people can kick a ball and it just goes in the goal, and some people can just pick up a dance step. But it was such an education, because dancing is completely instinctive. It's not intellectual. It's not a brain thing, it's just a body thing, and the body responds."

If you're mainly familiar with Hiddleston from his role as Loki in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, you'll be shocked by what he achieves in The Life of Chuck. The film is split into three acts, and Hiddleston only significantly figures into the second. But despite not having a massive amount of screen time, he's the face of the character; everything we know about Chuck brings his image to mind, and the impact he makes in that middle section is enough to last for the entire 111-minute runtime.

As The Life of Chuck hits theaters, Men's Health had the chance to catch up with Hiddleston to talk about bringing a story about life, death, and mortality to the screen, how his Marvel career may have inadvertently prepared him for learning that intense dance sequence, and a tease toward his next adventure as Loki.

MEN'S HEALTH: I have to tell you—I was talking to your old Loki friend and co-star Owen Wilson yesterday for a different story.

TOM HIDDLESTON: Amazing. How was that?

MH: He was great. Very fun, and very much how he seems on screen.

TH: He's the best. He's actually the best. He's one of the great men. I love that guy.

We've been through many, many times together. I know you've seen the work, but we made Loki in the pandemic, and so sometimes he was my only human interaction, and I was the same for him. We've talked about pretty much every subject under the sun.

MH: It's a very specific type of bond. Speaking of bonds, you seem to have drawn a very close connection to your character in The Life of Chuck after just a short period of time on set. Why did you want to get involved with this movie?

TH: Honestly, I read the script over Easter of 2023, and I remember exactly where I was. I read it in one sitting, and I was overwhelmingly moved by it. The wisdom in it really struck me.

I understood what Mike's extraordinary screenplay and Stephen King's short story was trying to say, which is that every seemingly ordinary human life is magic. And that inside the soul of every human being is an internal world of connections, both real and imagined, connections to people we love, to experiences we've shared, to memories we've made. And that in the last hours of our lives, as much as our lives are often full of struggle and grief and loss and pain, what remains is love and those moments which might seem small, but actually create a kind of constellation of connection. I found that so profound, and I really related to it.

I really relate to the idea that no human being is one thing. We're not just the job we do or the role we have in our family or our group of friends. We all have an internal world of infinite possibilities, and maybe when we're children, those possibilities feel closer. But as we get older, it's easy to allow those possibilities to start to feel reduced. The great joy of being alive, though, is that you're always alive until you're not. There was something about the soul of this film. It was about life and the consideration of what life means, especially as life comes to an end. And maybe that's only when it comes into focus.

Hiddleston isn’t in The Life of Chuck much, but his presence is felt throughout the movie.

MH: People tend to push away themes of life and death, and this movie is eager to tackle them head on. And almost ironically, because it's by Stephen King, by the end it's something that's not even scary to think about.

TH: I don't mean this to sound morbid, but any consideration of death inspires a consideration of life, and what the purpose of life is. Any human life contains this great range of experience, and it takes great courage to hold onto what's good when it feels like the world is falling apart.

Life is brief and precious and often fragile, and it's our privilege to grab hold of it with both hands. If you're in a position where you're able to, you should do whatever it is that makes you feel alive. For Chuck, it's dancing. He's an accountant. He's Mr. Businessman in a business suit walking to the business conference and staying in the business hotel, but suddenly he remembers he's also a dancer, and that gives him joy.

When I was making it, I kept thinking, "I wish everybody could feel the urgency of that." That's the uncertainty of being alive—we wake up every morning and we don't know the day or the date that our lives will come to an end. We live in that uncertainty all the time, and we do the best we can with what we have. But whatever inspires that feeling of joy and that feeling of connection, whether it's math or dancing or football, do it with everything you have. Because in the end, that's all that remains.

MH: Did you have any specific influences approaching this performance?

TH: It was something I really took from the script and I thought a lot about. I thought a lot about Chuck's childhood and how it would have informed the man he became. He was someone who was talented at math and good with numbers, but also this really gifted dancer, and it gave him joy, and it connected him to his grandmother.

But he also had these very early experiences of loss. He lost both his parents very young, and he lost the sister he never had at the same time. And he had all of those experiences of the joyful and beautiful relationships he had with his grandparents, and the films he loved to watch as a kid. I thought about the films I loved that were similar, like all the great movies of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, the Gene Kelly movies, Singing in the Rain, An American in Paris, Cover Girl.

I thought about my own love of dancing, which I've always loved to do, but just as a guy with my friends; I was hoping I could synthesize all these things. I knew the dance sequence had to be this explosion of joy and spontaneity, but I also wanted it to be a great tribute to those influences. I was doing my bit of Gene Kelly and doing my bit of Fred Astaire, even if I don't move with quite their level of elegance and grace.

MH: I'd say you came pretty close. How did trying to prepare for that kind of intense, lengthy dance sequence compare to past experiences training for roles?

TH: It's so interesting. Over the years as a performer, the thing I've learned about movement is that agility is your friend. Having a baseline range of motion and being able to be adaptable is something I've really valued. If I'm training, I hope I don't get stuck in a singular way of doing things, because the body loves being surprised.

The baseline of my routine is running, because it keeps my stamina up, and it keeps me on an even keel. Practicing for this gave me such enormous and lasting respect for dancers, because truly great dancers are among the most elite athletes in the world. There's such extraordinary strength and stamina and flexibility and precision required. So in doing the training, I was like, "This is super intense." It's different from combat training in a way, and it's certainly different from training if you're trying to build a body that doesn't come naturally. But in lots of ways it was quite similar.

In my experience of playing Loki particularly, some of that stunt choreography is quite similar to dancing. In some of those really epic confrontations in the Marvel movies, often we're doing stuff on wires, and Loki's spinning and twisting. And his whole thing is that he's like a mercurial element. You can't pin him down. And so often in the confrontations with Thor or with the Avengers, the fight choreography was more akin to dancing than fighting. In a way, some of that prepared me really well for this. It's just that Loki doesn't do his fights to someone standing behind a drum kit and whacking out a Bossa nova.

MH: Although you do get some fun music stuff in Thor: Ragnarok.

TH: Yes, that's true—Led Zeppelin!

Hiddleston, second from the left, with Mike Flanagan, Karen Gillan, and Chiwetel Ejiofor.

MH: One of Mike Flanagan's signatures is that he uses reuses many of the same actors frequently. Would you want to work with him again?

TH: 100%. I found his leadership extraordinary. He creates such an atmosphere of trust. He innately understands that when you're directing a film, you're conducting an orchestra of people all bringing their own immense skill and imagination to the table. And it was extraordinary to be on that set and to be surrounded by so many people who've worked with him time and time again and there's a shorthand. And to be welcomed into that family, I had the most wonderful time. He's so impeccably prepared, but also that preparation gives him great freedom on the day because he knows what he's looking for, but he's open to being surprised by what he doesn't know.

My time on this film was relatively short—I was filming for just one week. And it was the first week of principal photography, so I left and handed the baton over to Chiwetel Ejiofor and Karen Gillan, and then they handed the baton over to Mark Hamill and Benjamin Pajak and Mia Sara. My lasting feeling as I flew home was just of immense gratitude for a really joyful experience. It was a very happy time, It was really good people telling a story that we all felt really passionate about. So, yeah. Hoping it's not the last.

MH: You mentioned Karen and Chiwetel, who have also been in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and you've already been announced as part of the cast for Avengers: Doomsday, which should be a major 2026 movie event. Any chance we'll see a Life of Chuck reunion there?

TH: It's a great question, and it's one I don't know if I'm allowed to answer, truthfully. But you are correct in that I will appear in Avengers: Doomsday. That I can confirm. And that I'll be working opposite some other actors in that film, that I can confirm. I can't tell you which actors.

It's very exciting. I have loved playing Loki. Loki's been a companion for a long period of my adult life. Loki's a character of such depth and range and complexity, and it never feels like the same experience. It always feels new, and this one will be new in its own way. I'm grateful that I'm still on the team.

This interview has been condensed for content and clarity.

[whispersingojo]

Please Pick Up

OC version (read the first part!) (x reader version!)

Word count ✮ 984

“Satoru?“

“Yea?”

“How’s your head feel?”

“Eh, a little longer…”

Satoru turned his face into Kuromi’s stomach, laughing softly and nuzzling closer. The two were sat on a bench outside of Jujutsu High. Satoru had a migraine after a long mission, so Kuromi offered to take a break from their paperwork to have Satoru lay in their lap. The two sat and laid there for quite sometime, Kuromi running their fingers through Satoru’s hair while he laid there in their lap.

“Satoru I need to finish my work- you have to get up,” Kuromi began adjusting Satoru off their lap, getting up eventually.

“Oh come on, Kuromi,” Satoru pouts, “you’re no fun,” he sits up, retying his blindfold around his eyes.

“I have to finish up my work before tomorrow, you know this,” Kuromi replied in their typical monotone voice, dusting themselves off.

“I know but what if tomorrow is the last time we ever see eacho- ow!” Kuromi punched him in the arm, stopping him mid sentence, “what was that for!” He whined playfully.

“Don’t talk like that,” Kuromi ruffled his hair, leaning down and kissing his cheek, “I’ll see you later, Bluebell.”

Satoru smiled, “see ya, my little shadow~”

Kuromi rolled their eyes and stuffed their hands into their pockets, walking away back to their office.

Satoru regretted what he said that day. He felt like it was his fault this happened because of what he said. Regardless, he felt it was his fault. It was his fault getting sealed in the first place.

Satoru sat on the outskirts of when Sukuna and Mahoraga faught. He wondered how Kuromi felt, what they saw that day. Satoru ran his hands though his hair, feeling the strands through his finger tips.

“It’s getting long…” he thought to himself…thinking about how Kuromi used to cut his hair. Satoru couldn’t cut his hair…he felt bad even touching it. He felt as if it was washing away Kuromi’s touch. He’d do anything to have Kuromi run their fingers through his hair.

Satoru looked down at the blindfold in his hand, feeling the fabric.

Satoru knew Kuromi had left him over a thousand voicemails, he had was working up the courage to listen to them. He didn’t know what to expect from Kuromi. They had never experienced such loss like this, so he didn’t know what to expect. He took out his phone and swiped it open, looking at the photo of the two of them.

Every year, since Kuromi didn’t have time to celebrate their own birthday growing up, he’d always plan a day trip for just the two of them- even before they started dating.

Satoru had brought Kuromi to a flower garden called Hitachi Seaside Park in Ibaraki prefecture. He had never seen Kuromi so happy before. The two of them took a photo together before they left, having the memory now live forever.

Satoru smiled softly at the photo, but soon remembered he’d never be able to make memories like this one again- not with Kuromi.

He tapped the contacts icon on his screen, scrolling down for what felt like ages till he reached the very first voicemail.

Satoru lifted the phone to his ear after pressing play on the voicemail.

“Hey, Bluebell…long time no see.”

Satoru couldn’t help but laugh a little, but it hurt him to hear the pain in their voice. He continued to listen to the voice, every word ripping at his heart.

“having to be strong without you is exhausting…and I know you’re not dead and I’ll eventually see you again but not knowing when…it feels worse than if you were actually dead,”

Satoru, in that moment, wished he was. He’d be with them. He wouldn’t be here with the memory of them. Satoru began to cry out of frustration with himself. Why? Why did he have to be so careless? If he hadn’t been sealed, Kuromi would still be around. He wanted to hear them tell him to rest- to take a break. He wanted to lay his head on their lap one more time. Hug them one more time. To kiss their head and tell them that everything will be ok.

When the voicemail ended, Satoru sat there in silence as he cried softly. His tears running off the tip of his nose and falling onto the ground. His tears stung his eyes, soaked his lashes. He felt like he deserved this for being so careless.

How was he supposed to be the strongest, when the person that made him strong was gone?

Satoru tapped to the call button on his phone, dialing Kuromi’s number. He lifted the phone to his ear, the ringing making his heart race. Maybe somehow they’d pick up, maybe they weren’t really dead, maybe they-

“This is Kuromi Fushiguro. Sorry I couldn’t answer your call, leave a message and I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

Satoru’d heart sank, listening to their voicemail. He took a deep breath in, trying to regain himself before leaving a message.

“Hey, little shadow…sorry I couldn’t get back to you in a timely manner,” he let out a pained laugh, trying his best to be happy, “sorry that I wasn’t there to save you…I’m sorry for all of this. I-“ Satoru sighs painfully, able to keep his heart together, “I love you, I’ll see you soon, Angel.”

He hung up, letting his hand fall into his lap. Satoru stared at the ground beneath his shoes, wondering what he was gonna do with himself.

He continued to call them every day after listening to a few of their voicemails. Satoru missed them more and more every day, each day becoming more unbearable than the last.

Satoru missed Kuromi, so much.

So he didn’t care that Kuromi would never get to hear these messages.

He just missed Kuromi, and this was all he had left of them.