#like the others would be this sketch is far from perfect

[sharkwidow]

Revelations | Tony Stark x reader!

Summary: Since you were born on the same day as Tony Stark—May 29th—you’ve always shared a unique connection with him. Years later, as Avengers, best friends, and souls who deeply understand each other, you both discover that the feelings you’ve kept hidden are finally ready to come to light.

Content Warning:Anxiety, insomnia, panic attacks, emotional wounds, references to kidnapping and Afghanistan (MCU), emotional content.

Word Count: Approximately 2,103 words

Note: Inspired by a request from @kk03sworld , thanks for the idea!

Ever since you were born on the same day as Tony Stark—May 29th—there was always something special between the two of you. Despite the age difference, you shared a unique spark that made you inseparable. You were always Tony’s best friend, the one person who was there at every stage of his life, even before he became Iron Man. Your friendship wasn’t just marked by compatible personalities but by a similar way of thinking and being: both of you were incredibly intelligent, with an insatiable curiosity about the world. In your case, though, your talents went far beyond technology and science.

Unlike Tony, who immersed himself in the world of engineering and physics, you found your refuge in art and music. Your drawing skills were flawless—you could sketch any detail with impressive precision, capturing the essence of everything you saw. But your musical ability was just as incredible. You could play any instrument, but guitars—especially electric ones—were your favorite. Your world was a perfect blend of logic and creativity, of brilliant ideas and artistic expression.

"You know, I think we should try something different with this design," Tony said, studying the sketch you’d made for a new armor idea he was developing. He couldn’t help but show you his projects, knowing your opinions were as sharp as his.

"The thing is, you’re forgetting the form, Stark. It’s great, but it needs a curve here…" you replied as you adjusted some details on the design, then looked directly at him.

Tony chuckled under his breath.

"You always have something to add! There’s no beating you."

It was in moments like these that he looked at you like you were the only person who truly understood him—even when the world only saw him as the genius billionaire philanthropist.

Your relationship with Tony went far beyond friendship. You’d been by his side during his party days, his Playboy era, when chaos was a daily part of his life. But you were also there during much darker times, when everything changed. You remember the time you and James “Rhodey” Rhodes went with him to Afghanistan. What was supposed to be a routine mission turned into the moment that would change Tony’s life forever.

You were there, in that cave, helping Yinsen and Tony as they worked on the first Arc Reactor. That was the turning point. That place, that moment, was where Tony Stark became Iron Man. While Tony fought to survive, you used your medical skills to keep him alive. Even though fear and anxiety consumed you, you never let him see it. You were there, fighting beside him, just like always.

After Tony returned, everything changed. The armor, the tech breakthroughs, and the fame weren’t the only things different about him. Over the years, you started realizing what you felt for him—and that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same about you.

As time passed, through missions and your responsibilities as an Avenger, your bond only grew stronger. But you also knew Tony wasn’t perfect. He was a complicated man. Though he appeared to have everything under control, inside he wrestled with much deeper things. Insomnia, anxiety, and panic attacks plagued him, and on the many sleepless nights, you sat by his side in silence, never pointing it out. You understood, because you struggled with the same shadows.

One night, after a particularly tough mission, the two of you stayed at Avengers Tower. Tony was in the lab, working on a new version of the armor, while you sat on the couch playing the guitar, letting the notes soothe your restless mind.

Tony entered the room without looking at you, completely absorbed in thought.

"Did you know there’s no one like you?" he said abruptly, his voice low and sincere. "Sometimes I wonder how you’ve stayed by my side all this time."

You looked up at him, set the guitar aside, and walked over to where he stood. Despite his strong, confident exterior—the one everyone else saw—you knew the real Tony, the one who hid behind the Iron Man shell.

"Tony…" you said softly, a sigh escaping your lips. "I’ve always been here, but sometimes I wonder if you really see me—if you see what’s beyond all of this."

"Of course I see you. You’re my best friend… You’ve always been more than that."

The air grew thick. Your hearts beat in sync, but neither of you dared to take the next step—until he did.

"You know, I think I’m tired of hiding how I feel," he said, stepping closer.

You stayed silent, surprised, but when his eyes met yours, you instantly knew what he meant. Without another thought, you leaned in, your lips meeting his, finally freeing everything you’d both kept buried for so long. It was your first kiss, yet it felt like time stopped—as if the universe had conspired for this moment, for the two of you to finally realize what you’d been searching for all along.

"I can’t believe it took us this long," Tony whispered between kisses.

"Neither can I," you replied, your smile glowing from within.

After that kiss, everything changed. From that moment on, there were no more doubts between you. What you had was no longer just a friendship—it became something deeper, something essential. You both knew life wouldn’t be easy. Missions, battles, and whatever the world threw at you would always be difficult. But now, at least, you knew you could face it together.

"So, how about we stop doing things halfway?" Tony said with a playful smile as he looked at you.

"Definitely, Stark," you replied, still savoring the sweet memory of his kiss.

And that’s when you both finally understood: you’d known what you had from the very first moment you met. But now, at last, love was out in the open—with no more fear of hiding it. And together, you and Tony Stark would face whatever the future held, with the love and protection you’d always been ready to give him.

[flapjack-biscuit-scone]

heya gang, i promise i’m still kickin’. take this sketch as proof

i finished finals this past week and am hoping to post more art now that i have the time. i honestly have so many pencil sketches of these two! but there’s something in my brain that makes me only want to share my finished work with the world, even with fan art. perfectionism, i guess. but if y’all are interested i’ll post more sketches to keep things active on this page. i only just started here, dammit!

[ssshiversss]

MAPPING REVACHOL (2.0)

Back in July of 2024, I was incredibly inspired by the project Mapping Revachol by Map Max and wanted to continue on with an attempt of my own. The canon map we're given felt out of date and more than a little incongruous with what we're told in-game, and being both an avid fanfic writer and compulsive visualizer, I really wanted to be able to see Revachol in my mind's eyes.

So, taking inspiration from both Map Max's attempt, as well as meticulously combing through in-game dialogue (with the help of my intrepid friend and far more meticulous researcher than I, @spine-y) we scoured Fayde for any and all directional references to the different districts of Jamrock, East and West Revachol, and everything that lay beyond. (Shoutout to the MoralIntern questline, that one came in clutch).

I took a few liberties with district placement, especially because the wiki also seems to contradict a few things we're told in the game. You may not agree with my choices, and I'm open to suggestions! I may not make any changes anytime soon because this took forever, but I also welcome any other attempts to map Revachol!

(The red line that cuts through Central Jamrock and Faubourg is Boogie Street!)

Included below is my initial sketch before I realized that doing this in markers and microns would actually be the death of me, and then some of the early screenshots of trying to figure out what the hell the 8-81 would actually look like and how to make it make sense.

Does it make perfect sense? No! I'm not a cartographer; I'm a fanartist. I'd much rather draw men dicking each other down nasty style. But this was an incredibly fun project that only took me... only six months to complete.

I hope you enjoy!

--

I NEED YOU.  YOU CAN KEEP ME ON THIS EARTH. BE VIGILANT. I LOVE YOU.

[harunovella]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ love language (verse ii); s.g.

synopsis: when gojo satoru first interacted with you content: teen gojo era, fem!reader, hopeless!romantic gojo, 1k+ words of gojo and reader saving a kitten (a moment straight out of a romcom for sure), not beta read (sorry for any errors!) note: truly didn't think the first part to this anthology series would gain such attention! thank u for that! again, these can be read as a standalone (or connected to this one, but you don't have to read it); enjoy and lmk if u want more!

It was this specific cherry blossom tree Satoru always found you under. The one Kento mentioned the first time he ever asked him about you. If you weren't busy with training or missions, or enjoying life outside the jujutsu world, he found you there. Although there was an array of trees, there was one specific one you seemed to gravitate towards. 

He wasn't sure if it was the specific spot that had good lighting for when you wanted to read or sketch in your little book, or maybe it was the way the roots formed a perfect spot to sit in between... whatever it was, he knew it to be your tree. Even when you weren't around. There was something... welcoming about it. Whenever he walked by with Suguru and Shoko nearby, or whenever he was aimlessly wandering around, he always found himself peeking in its direction, hoping you were sitting underneath it. 

For a confident young man, it took Gojo some time to make his way to you. Claiming to love you when he hadn't even uttered a word in your direction was bold, even going as far as believing you were his soulmate was quite the exaggeration. So why was it hard for him to simply say hello? 

Maybe it was because he wasn't a simple person. Nothing about Gojo Satoru screamed simple. He was anything but that. Yet, a task as easy as that—which came naturally to any other girl around him—was a hassle. Each time he thought he found the courage to step up, he let his racing heart deter him. 

That was until you made the first move. 

It caught him completely off guard, the way you gently tapped his arm from behind, peeking up at him with that sweet smile of yours. His heart did somersaults, his eyes widened behind his round frames, so big that his shades couldn't even hide them. He had been on one of his little walks, new treat in hand that Shoko bribed him with in order to practice her reverse curse technique on him. He was bored, completing his missions and not having much to train on when he already excelled at everything. 

At everything except talking to the girl of his dreams. 

"Hi," you kindly greeted, smile reaching your eyes. Oh, god, you were an angel. A being descended from up above. How could you exist so easily in such a cruel world? He needed to protect you, right? Even if he could see your cursed energy oozing out so brightly. You must've been powerful, something he never considered, always looking at you like you were some little bunny to keep in his pocket... not one who could possibly kick the shit out of him (if he'd let you and he definitely would). "Can you help me out?"

"Pretty..." the words slipped his mouth before he could even process them. Quickly sealing his lips and clearing his throat as you tilted your head, Satoru straightened his back. "What is it?"

Dismissing the sudden word vomit, assuming he was in his own world, you pointed to the left of you. "I sit under those trees, but I keep hearing soft meows coming from one of them. I'm too short to reach... do you think—"

"Yes," the white haired young man instantly nodded as you blinked. Without a second word, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the tree that you claimed your own. 

You, a bit baffled, were unsure as to how exactly he knew which tree you had been pointing at when it was a general direction. Yet, there he was, approaching the tree you were referring to. "It's quite high up, but you're very tall!" You called out before following after him, lightly jogging to catch up before stopping behind him as he eyed the tree. 

In reality, Gojo didn't think any of it through. He just wanted to say yes to be around you, to hear you speak more. Not... to climb up a tree to save a stray kitten. But, whatever made him look better in his eyes, he didn't mind. 

"Be careful!" You exclaimed as you watched him make his way up the tree, no hesitations. You were a bit surprised that someone so easily wanted to help you save a cat. Maybe he liked animals, too?

Or maybe he was a fool madly in love with you—you wouldn't know this yet. 

"Oh, there! You've got 'em!" You clapped as you watched the uniformed young man gently reach for and latch onto the small, white kitten. 

"Ah, don't worry, I'm only here to help you," Gojo said, carefully pulling the kitten towards himself. "I've got you, you're safe now. I just gotta figure out—"

"Watch out!" You shrieked.

"Shit!" Satoru yelped as he lost his balance, clutching the kitten close as he slipped from the branch. Landing with a loud thud, followed by several groans of pain (and pure embarrassment... when did he ever make himself look like a complete fool?!), Gojo rolled around with his eyes closed. 

"Are you alright?!" You panicked, rushing over and kneeling at his side, gently lifting his head with one hand as your other pressed carefully against his shoulder, eyeing his body for any wounds. 

"Agh... dammit..." he grunted, eyes fluttering open and adjusting to the brightness of the sun. Blinking a few times, blurred vision focusing, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. Your hair that was usually held back by its ribbon, cascaded around your face as a few strands slipped out from the ponytail. With eyebrows narrowed and a look of worry on his face, Satoru's embarrassment turned into that of timidness. You were engulfed by the sunlight, glowing like the angel you were. "Gosh, you're so pretty..."

"Are you okay?" You asked in a panic, his mumbled words coming off too slurred to understand. "Did you hit your head too hard?"

Shaking his head as he forced himself to sit up, Gojo rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "No, 'm fine..." he sighed before looking down at his hands to the kitten. "So is this little guy."

Turning your attention from the white haired young man, to the matching kitten, you gasped, "what a hero!"

Grinning and feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, Gojo shrugged, "eh, ''twas nothing..."

"You almost broke a few bones, though..." you frowned, looking back at him. 

"I'm tough," he brushed off before turning to face you. Now eye to eye, the sudden confidence instantly sizzled away as he gazed at you from up close. A sudden silence weaved between the two of you as your eyes locked, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kittens purring filled the air. "I..."

"Um..."

"You should keep it," Satoru suddenly said, handing you the kitten. "Deserves a nice home."

"Oh, me?" You asked as you took the kitten in your hands, caressing its soft, white fur. 

"Yeah, I wouldn't be a good dad," he chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You... You'd be a great mom to it, I'm sure."

Eyeing the kitten, then looking back up at him, you smiled, "we can coparent."

At your offer, Gojo gulped. "Co... parent?"

"Yeah, like, help me out with..." lifting the kitten up, you squinted your eyes, "her."

"I... I don't know much about taking care of animals but I can try and help as much as I can," he offered, scratching his head nervously. 

Smiling, you brought the kitten close to your chest, "you saved her from a tree, I'm sure she will remember that."

"Yeah, maybe," Satoru blushed.

Looking down at the kitten as you pet her, listening to her gentle purring, you happily sighed, "what's your name?"

Quickly pointing at himself, the blue eyed boy asked, "mine?"

"Mhm," you nodded. 

"Gojo. Gojo Satoru. You can call me Satoru, though," he nearly blurted out as you chuckled before giving him yours. 

"Well, Satoru," you beamed as he melted at the sound of his name slipping off your tongue, "I think I'll name her after you."

"Wha— Satoru? But... she's a girl?" He tilted his head with furrowed eyebrows. 

"I was thinking of a nickname," you said before looking down at the kitten. "I'll name her Toru. It's cute, right?"

Nodding slowly, then faster, Gojo agreed. "Yeah, Toru is cute."

Lifting your gaze to meet his, you gave him a toothy smile. "Toru it is."

[awhoreintheory]

Circus Boy

Directly inspired by @erinwantstowrite 's art!!! post

Request from awesome amazing cool Anon

Over the years, circuses have lost their spark.

Dick would know— he’d literally grown up in one. Back then, the circus was a symphony of effort and artistry. Weeks, sometimes months, were spent perfecting routines. Performances were designed to dazzle, to inspire awe, no matter the country or culture of the audience. The comedy sketches weren’t just filler— they were genuinely funny, capable of drawing laughter even from the most reluctant parent dragged along by an excited child. Every act had a rhythm, a purpose, and above all, passion. The performers took pride in their craft, and the audience responded in kind, feeding off the energy, cheering and clapping until their hands were raw and their throats sore. 

Now? Now they were dull. Predictable routines recycled ad nauseam. Costumes that looked like they were bought in bulk from a clearance rack. Tents and stages slapped together with the barest effort to resemble grandeur. The magic, the joy—the soul of it all—had been replaced with a singular, glaring goal: profit. No one cared if the audience laughed, gasped, or even paid attention, so long as they paid their entrance fees.

But recently, whispers of something different had started making waves in Gotham: a circus gaining a reputation for being... well, different.

Dick’s curiosity was piqued. He hadn’t planned to go, at first. But the memories of his youth, of what the circus used to mean, stirred within him. Before he knew it, he’d wrangled (read: blackmailed) together as much of the family as he could to go see it. Which, wasn’t a whole lot considering quite a few were out of state currently, but it was enough to make him smile.

“Why must I come along? I do not see the point,” Damian groused, arms folded tightly across his chest as the group approached the circus grounds. Despite his protests, he made no move to make a stealthy exit.

“You’re coming because it’ll be good for you,” Dick said, ruffling Damian’s hair just to annoy him. Damian promptly swatted his hand away, glaring daggers at his adoptive brother.

“You don’t even know if it’ll be good,” Tim chimed in, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “What if this thing is as boring as all the other ones you’ve complained about?”

“Then we’ll all get funnel cake and call it a night,” Stephanie said brightly, making it clear where her true excitement lay. “I’m in it for the food, anyway.”

Dick pouted. “You didn’t have to say the quiet part out loud!” 

“Don’t underestimate funnel cake,” Duke added with a smirk. “It might be the only thing saving this trip if the show’s a flop.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but his grin didn’t waver. “You’re all so cynical. Just... trust me, okay? I have a feeling about this one.”

Sure, a lot of the decorations seemed cheap thus far, but Dick can’t blame them. They’re clearly low budget, with only two shows a week, versus the seven to ten a week Dick was used to. The difference was the genuine passion and excitement in the eyes of the performers. And they were just doing pre-show stunts on the street to rouse excitement! 

Tim hummed thoughtfully. “This place has been gaining rapid popularity,” he said, the subtle edge in his tone making it clear he was already analyzing every detail. Dick saw his fingers twitch as if to take a picture. 

Dick glanced over at him but didn’t comment. He recognized that tone— Tim was in detective mode, quietly piecing together threads no one else could see yet. He did, however, take the opportunity at his siblings' distraction to subtly herd them in the direction of the tents, eager to get a good front-row seat. Damian noticed, but he didn’t do much more than roll his eyes.

Steph, however, rolled her eyes dramatically. At Tim, not Dick. “Can you just enjoy one thing without looking for a criminal conspiracy, Tim?”

Tim matched her with a roll of his own eyes, the two slipping into a bickering match that’d put an old married couple to shame if they weren’t so aggressively gay. Meanwhile, Dick let his attention wander to the stage, studying the equipment with the practiced eye of someone who’d lived this life.

Suspended high above was the trapeze rig, its bars wrapped in worn leather, the steel cables taut and secured to thick iron frames. The safety net below, while a little faded, looked sturdy enough to do its job. Not brand-new, but serviceable.

To one side, a highwire stretched across a dizzying height, its slim cable shimmering faintly under the tent lights. The rigging showed some signs of age— slightly dulled bolts and scuffed counterweights—but nothing that made Dick worry. It would hold, even if the daredevil walking it would need nerves of steel.

A teeterboard sat center stage on the ground, its spring mechanism ready to launch performers into flips and vaults. Nearby, a stack of brightly painted crates and barrels hinted at comedic skits. Clowns would probably tumble over them with exaggerated flair, while a sturdy seesaw-like prop suggested slapstick gags involving plenty of unintentional (and intentional) falls.

The whole setup had a charming scrappiness to it. The equipment could use a little TLC, sure, but Dick had no doubt it would hold up under pressure. He could tell the performers had put their trust in it, and that meant something.

For a moment, Dick felt a flicker of nostalgia. The way the crew moved, the crisp efficiency with which they handled the gear— it reminded him of home, of the way his parents had always treated the stage with reverence, as though it were sacred ground.

“Do you see how high that wire is?” Duke muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and apprehension as he followed Dick’s gaze.

“I see it,” Dick replied softly, his heart tightening. He couldn’t help but wonder who had the guts to walk that cable, let alone pull off any stunts on it. He’d definitely have to stick around and chat them up, maybe have a little friendly competition. 

“Awe, man,” Duke sighed, visibly disappointed. “Guess we weren’t excited enough.”

Turns out “early” wasn’t early enough because the seating area was packed. The whole first three rows were aggressively claimed, forcing the group to settle for seats in the middle of the fourth row.

Steph and Duke promptly excused themselves to grab popcorn—or, more accurately, for Steph to scout for funnel cake. Dick had to respect the consistency.

Damian glanced at Dick, then at Tim with a withering look. “Drake, cease your ramblings. They sour my mood.”

Tim blinked, clearly taken aback. “Wait, just me? Steph was talking way more!”

Steph, who had been halfway out of earshot, whirled around with mock offense. “Excuse me? I wasn’t the one turning this into an episode of ‘True Crime: Circus Edition.’” 

“Yeah, because you’re too busy planning how to steal funnel cake from children,” Tim shot back, crossing his arms. Damian’s eyebrow twitched. Dick wondered why peace was but a mere illusion. 

“Oh, please,” Steph quipped. “You’d be the kid I steal it from, Drake.”

Before Tim could come up with a retort, and Damian became a convicted felon, the lights dimmed, cutting their bickering short. A hush fell over the crowd as the familiar low hum of a drumroll began to build.

The ringmaster strode into the center of the stage, clad in a dazzling coat of crimson and gold that shimmered under the spotlight. If you looked any closer than that, you’d see how tacky and cheap it was. His booming voice carried effortlessly across the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to a night of wonder, daring, and delight!” the ringmaster announced, his voice ringing through the tent as the steady drumroll built the tension. “Prepare yourselves for the extraordinary, the astonishing, the absolutely unbelievable! The show begins... now!”

The drumroll reached its peak, and with a dramatic flourish, the spotlight swept upward to reveal the first performer perched high above the stage. A man in a sparkling gold costume waved grandly to the crowd before swinging onto the trapeze. The audience clapped politely as he performed a few rudimentary tricks— basic flips and graceful swings that showcased control but lacked flair.

Two more performers joined him, each clad in similar glittering costumes. They moved with confidence, transitioning through formations and passing between trapezes, but the moves were predictable and lacked the edge Dick was hoping to see. Certainly, nothing that would make this rinky-dink circus as popular as it got so quickly. 

Tim leaned toward Dick, his tone flat. “You dragged us here for this?”

“Underwhelming,” Damian muttered, his expression neutral but his tone sharp.

Dick didn’t respond immediately, though he couldn’t disagree. The tricks were technically fine— safe, practiced, polished— but there was no spark, no passion. No magic. He resigned to going home disappointed and also to the inevitable flaming via siblings. 

But then, just as one of the performers finished an awkward landing on the platform, the ringmaster’s voice boomed again.

“And now, prepare yourselves for the prodigy of the skies, the one and only Amazing Arach-Kid!”

The spotlight shifted upward again, revealing a much smaller figure poised on a separate platform, high above the others. It was a boy— young and wiry, dressed in sleek crimson and black, his face obscured by a half-mask (not dissimilar to their domino masks, actually) that glimmered faintly in the light. For a moment, the crowd was silent, uncertain what to expect.

Without warning, the boy leaped.

The gasp from the audience was audible as the kid— Arach-Kid?— launched himself into a dramatic triple flip, his body twisting gracefully through the air before he caught the trapeze with flawless precision. The crowd erupted into applause, the energy in the tent shifting instantly.

He didn’t stop there. Swinging with a force that sent his trapeze soaring higher than any of the others had dared, he released at the peak of his arc and spun into a double somersault. Instead of catching the next trapeze, he landed neatly in the arms of one of the adult performers, who looked genuinely startled by the boy’s precision. He grinned, waving excitedly at the audience as they roared with applause. 

From there, the routine transformed. Arach-Kid became the centerpiece of the act, seamlessly incorporating daring flips, twists, and transitions between trapezes. He was passed between the adults with perfect timing, their previous mediocrity eclipsed by his sheer skill and energy.

“Whoa,” Duke murmured, leaning forward in his seat. “He’s... good.”

“Who is that kid?” Tim asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Better than the rest of them combined,” Damian said bluntly, though his tone carried the faintest hint of approval.

The boy ended his routine with a jaw-dropping quadruple somersault, catching the final trapeze one-handed and hanging upside down with effortless control. Gasps and cheers erupted from the audience, their applause thunderous as he let himself swing for a moment, letting the crowd bask in his daring. Then, with a fluid motion, he swung back, releasing the trapeze bar for one final flourish.

Dick leaned forward, his breath catching as the kid’s body twisted into the unmistakable maneuver— the signature move of the Flying Graysons.

The crowd roared as he executed the technique perfectly, his form flawless, his timing impeccable. He landed with a clean dismount, arms raised triumphantly, and offered the crowd a playful bow before darting off to the wings. Even with the stage empty, shouts and applause echoed for a long time after the boy left. 

For a moment, Dick couldn’t move. His stomach churned as memories of his parents on that same trapeze flooded his mind. No one else knew that move. No one could. His parents had created it, and Dick had learned it from them. It was their legacy— his legacy.

So how, in the name of all that made sense, did this random kid just pull it off perfectly?

The lights shifted again, smoothly transitioning to the next act: a somewhat clumsy but undeniably entertaining tightrope routine. One performer started with a wobbling walk, arms flailing for comedic effect. Another joined, balancing precariously with a broomstick for support. The final performer added a unicycle to the mix, pedaling shakily across the thin wire as the audience laughed and clapped in delight.

It was… objectively funny.

But Dick barely noticed. His good mood had evaporated, replaced by a heavy knot of unease in his chest. At this point, they must have a hive mind with how they immediately filed out of the tent without a single word exchanged. 

“That was—” Tim started, breaking the tense silence.

“Dick,” Steph interrupted, her voice low, “did he just—?”

“That was your move,” Tim finished firmly, his eyes locked on Dick’s.

“It’s not possible,” Duke added, glancing at the now-empty trapeze rig. “Right? It’s your family’s thing. There’s no way some random kid from Gotham knows it.”

“I am more concerned with how he knows it,” Damian said, his voice cutting. His eyes darted to Dick. “This is your domain, Richard. You must have answers.”

Dick didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. In disbelief, he muttered, “I don’t.”

Steph frowned. “Okay, well... what do we do? Do we just ignore the fact that some kid pulled off your impossible secret family move?”

“No,” Dick said sharply, his voice colder than any of them expected. “We don’t ignore it. We find out who he is, how he learned it, and what the hell is going on.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Do you think someone’s trying to get your attention? Like, deliberately?”

Dick shook his head, though his face betrayed his uncertainty. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, it’s... it’s possible, but...” He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “I need answers. This isn’t something you just pick up on YouTube.”

The group left the small but packed circus, their earlier excitement replaced by a shared tension. The cool night air did little to clear their heads as they walked in a tight huddle, glancing over their shoulders as if the boy would materialize out of the crowd.

“Something’s not right,” Tim said, breaking the silence.

“Obviously,” Damian muttered.

“I mean it,” Tim snapped. “Moves like that— you don’t just do them. It takes years to learn without a teacher.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re sure no one outside your family knew it? Like, absolutely sure?”

“Positive,” Dick said firmly. “The only people who knew it are gone. Except me.” His voice dropped as he added, “Or at least, they’re supposed to be.”

The group exchanged uneasy looks, about both the situation and Dick’s reaction to it. It takes quite a bit to rattle him, so to see him, well, rattled was weird. Beyond weird. It was downright wrong. 

“Either way,” Duke said cautiously, “we’re going to figure this out. Right?”

“Oh, we will,” Dick said, his voice grim. “We don’t leave things like this unanswered.”

As they disappeared into the Gotham night, paranoia settled over them like a second skin. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t going to stay a mystery for long. 

[siriuslylantsov]

through your eyes i see, a smile you bring to me

matt murdock with sculptor!gf who makes a sculpture of him because she wants to have matt see himself through her eyes.

sculptor!gf who has him sit for a few hours, she thinks its a tortuous process as she takes rough sketches, pictures from different angles, and carves out the main areas of his face into the clay but he doesn't mind–he focuses on her breathing and the beat of her heart as he meditates.

it's made over the next days, in a little studio where sculptor!gf works tirelessly. it has to be perfect.

“don't sacrifice your style for my sake,” matt says one day when she tells him about how tedious it is to smooth out the clay. he knows that when she usually sculpts, it's rough, patches of clay pressed over each other in textured harmony. “you won't be able to feel it then,” she murmurs distractedly, hunched over her workspace. “it doesn't matter, angel. it’s your eyes isn't it?” he counters and she begrudgingly concedes, she hides her smile and he can feel it in the way she bites into her lip.

she doesn't know how far his sight goes, if she can even call it that. does he know what he looks like? is he only able to picture himself from before the accident? when he was a child? does he feel his face like he carefully did hers when she walked him up to his apartment after a night out with foggy and karen? she plans to ask him these things later, she still has so many questions about his situation but for now this will do.

when it's finally finished and she presents it to him, she's a nervous wreck. he can hear the way her heart races as she sets it down on his coffee table. the way her muscles strain slightly tells him the piece is heavy and he thinks about how she carried it all the way over to his place, his lips curling into a small smile. he pats the seat beside him for her to sit.

he reaches out to the mass he senses in front of him, hands settling over what he assumed was his hair. to be fair the texture did make it difficult to feel but it was clear that he passed over the swoop of his hair when he did. his fingers trail lower and she watches intently as they purposefully skim over his forehead, then his eyebrows, over the bridge of his nose. they part as the drag over the highs of his cheeks and down to his jaw where the dried clay replicates his scruff that she oh so admires. one hand drops down to her knee where he caresses lightly in appreciation and the other curls around the back of the sculpture's neck, thumb hooking around under his chin. 

he pauses there, noting the placement of a scar, right above his adam's apple, where a line of raised skin used to reside, now less prominent due to time passed but there nonetheless. his thumb passes over it a few times, recalling how when he first met her that cut was fresh–he’d never have known stumbling half-dead into her art studio months ago would have led to this and god was he grateful for whoever beat him up that night. 

she leans her head against his shoulder, also thinking what he was. she presses a kiss into his shirt, “do you like it?”

“yeah. i really do,” he whispers earnestly, “thank you.”

she lifts from his shoulder to hold his face, similar to how he was with the mound of clay but with infinitely more care. “i don't think i could ever replicate how perfect you are,” she matches his tone, a little sad. it makes her sad that he’ll never truly be able to see himself but it’s ok, she’ll be there to tell him–and show him–for however long she can. 

for @neverthatsirius-jo (my fellow mattie enthusiast)

[hauntingrabbits]

Happy Batman day! Went back and finished the last batch of the MLP AU I had sketched way back in May.

Part 1, Part 2

More info under the cut!

Enigma/The Riddler (Edward Nygma)

Intelligence and puzzle-solving are deeply valued among sphinxes, and those who fall short of their standards are often ridiculed and cast out. Among some (prejudiced) Sphinxes, other sapient, non-Sphinx species such as ponies are looked down-upon or seen as fundamentally inferior for not putting as much stock in puzzles and the like as sphinxes do.

Enigma, though considered a prodigy for his remarkable intelligence and skill with puzzles even among his fellow Sphinxes, was ostracized when a pony unfamiliar with Sphinx culture (a younger Sundown traveling Equestria for his training), humiliated Enigma by unraveling a puzzle of his that was meant to be judged as his final submission in a prestigious event, permanently staining his reputation and wounding his massive ego.

After years of quiet ridicule from his peers and his own growing obsession over the event, Enigma eventually snapped and fled to Gotham for revenge. His contempt has since spread far beyond that of the original pony he wished to prove his superiority over, and he now makes all of Gotham the target of his obsessive schemes, constantly trying to prove his superiority and feed his ego by putting ponies through his elaborate puzzles and riddle-based traps. He sees Batpony’s skill and determination in foiling him as both an inherent challenge to and a slight against his own abilities, reminding him far too much of that original pony from so long ago. 

Other notes:

-Apparently sphinxes in MLP have pony heads instead of human heads which makes sense I guess but it threw me through such a loop man.

-Whilst traversing the wiki I ended up with the same problem I had with chimeras in the first post where only one ever shows up in the series and there's no other info on them. So I made stuff up again.

- I imagine Sphinxes live a very long time, so the event Enigma was embarrassed at would probably take a long time to roll around again and he'd be forced to stew with his anger and wounded ego for far too long. I'm not sure what the puzzle was exactly or how Sundown dismantled it, but I imagine he did something extremely simple that a Sphinx would never have thought of (a la that software engineering joke), making it feel far more unfair and humiliating than if he'd solved in the intended way.

-His naturally crooked tail settles into the shape of a question mark, and the pattern on his arm is meant to look like a stylized question mark wrapping around his forearm (the "dot" is the white of his paw).

2. Miss Friday (Miss Tuesday)

Enigma’s teenaged assistant, Miss Friday seems to be the only pony the sphinx enjoys (or perhaps simply tolerates) the company of. Beyond her having met Enigma in Tartarus during their simultaneous imprisonments, the exact origins of her relationship to and exceptional status with her boss are a bit of a riddle in of themselves. Regardless, the two seem to have something of a mutual understanding, and Miss Friday’s mental prowess and dubious moral code are more than a match for Enigma’s own.

Other Notes:

-Yes this is a "The horse's name was Friday" joke. I'm sorry it was just too good to pass up.

-Miss Tuesday already sounded like a MLP name, but the horse named Friday thing was just too perfect for somebody who works under a guy who's whole thing is riddles. Also I relistened to the BTAA episode where she's introduced while coloring her and I noticed they reference His Girl Friday several times, so fun coincidence?

-The candy-striped leg patterns are based on her canon costume's striped pants & are meant to mirror the Riddler's wrapped leg pattern. The dark patterns on her face are supposed to be reminiscent of eye bags.

3. Mania (Bat-Mite)

Bat-Pony’s self-proclaimed biggest fan, Mania is a Draconequus embodying the spirit of obsession. Normally he watches the hero from his own dimension, but at times he tries to insert himself into the narrative or help Sundown fight, both to varying degrees of success. Though he genuinely adores Bat-Pony, Mania is usually more of a hindrance than a help, and can even be directly antagonistic at times when his obsession goes too far. 

Other notes:

-Similar issue to Chimeras and Sphinxes, only two Draconequuses (Draconequui?) show up in the series, one being Discord (embodying chaos), the other being a comics-only villain known as Cosmos (embodying malice), but honestly what little we're given worked super well for the character anyway. Discord seems to come from his own unique plane of existence/dimension and Cosmos has similarly strange origins; both have penchants for causing mischief with incredible reality-warping powers; and both embody non-physical concepts. Bat-Mite being a reality warping 5th dimensional creature obsessed with Batman was surprisingly easy to adapt.

-He has the head of a pony, a ferret-like body, two front rat paws, mite antennae, an insectoid wing, a bat wing, a pigeon foot, a chevrotain (mouse deer) foot, and a monkey tail. I tried to have him mostly made up of animals that were very small, seen as mischievous, and/or seen as pests.

4. Poison Ivy (Pamela Isley)

Said to be more plant than pony, Poison Ivy is the self-proclaimed princess of the Green. Though once a regular Earth pony, she began to spiral after receiving her cutie mark and fully coming into her powerful natural attunement to plant life. Fleeing into the nearby forests on the outskirts of Gotham, she wasn’t seen again until many years later when Gotham’s city refurbishment and expansion efforts began to encroach on the forests borders, where she reemerged with strange new powerful magic and retaliated violently.

Though she isn’t recognized politically or physically as an alicorn, plants grow from the flesh of her body in the pattern of a horn and wings characteristic of those born into or bestowed with royalty, and the strange natural magic that accompanies them seems to almost rival that of a true alicorn’s.

Other notes:

-I dont really have anything to add to this one I just thought a false alicorn would be a cool concept.

-the whole alicorn royalty thing is very strange to think about isnt it? I feel like the ruling class having such insane amounts of physical and magical power probably has much more pressing ramifications than ever was, would, or should be addressed in a kids show but they are fun to think about.

-Her actual name is Poison Ivy, yes. It sounded like a pony name. I don't know what that says about her parents.

-The leaf wings are folded down in the graphic but I think they are flighted, or at the very least useful for gliding and expressing emotions.

5. Saltbrine (Oswald Cobblepot)

Short, stout, and flightless, Saltbrine’s moniker of “The Penguin” has its origins in the taunts of his peers from his youth. Though the title has persisted into the current day, it’s often spoken with far more fear and trepidation throughout the alleys and backstreets of Gotham than ridicule. Saltbrine owns two of Gothams most well-known businesses, one being the luxurious, high-class Iceberg Lounge…and the other being the organized crime syndicate the former acts as a front for.

Other notes:

-Again don't have much to add to this one. One of my favorite designs though, I love the giant beak face.

-The bird half is actually based on a puffin, because a penguin felt too on the nose for Oswald and too strange for a hippogriff (I couldn't get the wings or face to look right at all either). I feel like the title being an insult works a little better if he's not literally half-penguin.

-he's the same color my club penguin avatar used to be (RIP)

[enjakey]

Light Switch in the Dark

Or, the train to Paris that led to Shanghai

Pairing: architect!Sunghoon x author!fem!reader

TWN | (30k) | strangers to lovers, right person wrong time | a single perfect night could change the course of everything | so much yearning | angst, suicide, blood, mental health issues, loneliness, loss of partners, reader gets Alzheimer’s | not your average happy story and very sad ending ig | written into five distinct parts, each framing a significant point in their lives | heavily inspired by HIMYM and Grey's Anatomy and this reel.

Summary: two strangers travelling on the same path with different journeys in mind meet on a train to France. They spend a night of adventure, only to part ways the next morning. A decade later, they cross paths again in a book store in Shanghai. They’re both different people now, obviously, with so much life under their belts- success, loss, age. But the spark of the train still flickered between them. Did that mean the pair would live happily ever after or would they still have to struggle the curveballs thrown at them- Alzheimer’s, depression and utter fear of mortality?

i. The Train to France

The train was part of an old European railway network- one that spanned four countries, took three days, and moved like it was in no rush to arrive. Neither were the passengers. Most people opted for this train because it was slow and tranquil, because it was built for expansive journeys and for people that wanted a break, an escape from their lives.

Outside the window, the world blurred in gentle motion. Some places looked untouched with rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, sleepy cottages tucked into hillsides and rivers that stitched their way across valleys like threads of silver. Occasionally, the train slipped by cities, glass buildings flickering in the reflection of early afternoon sun or passed small towns where the houses were still painted in vibrant pinks and yellows and bougainvillea grew like wild weed. Sometimes, the train passed through forgotten stations where no one ever boarded and no one wanted to get off.

Inside the train, things were quiet. It wasn’t the quiet that hushed like peace but the kind that vibrated with restrained life. Babies cooed or cried in soft bursts, children were coaxed to sleep, tourists tried to speak over headphone wires to gesture at maps (that were far beyond folding back) with crooked fingers and somewhere in the coach, there was an old married couple who started off with affectionate intent but ended up in an argument their son was trying to fix. There was also an old man with wiry hair that was asleep, his walking stick clutched between his knees like a weapon- so one saw him eat or drink water or even wake up, but the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated his life.

There were families with matching suitcases, travel groups with heavy coats and light eyes and lovers who couldn’t stop touching each other and then there were people like Y/N who boarded in Istanbul alone and waited for their destination in France alone.

She sat by the window with a modest stack of books beside her- books she tended to read again and books she had never read before, waiting to be explored. She told herself that in the three day train ride, she would finish reading them- but honestly, she was far from it. Some were underlined and dog-eared, others held paper scraps as bookmarks that no longer made sense. It was easy to get distracted in that train, as surprising as it was. Watching the scenery would immediately have her hand itching towards her pen to fill her notebook- her notebook that now lay open in front of her, nearly every page covered in scattered handwriting and ink-smudged sketches of things she noticed. People, trees, buildings, the flow of the rivers. And not all the words in her notebook made sense. Some were quotes she found and forgot to cite, some were just scribbles that looked like Russian cursive- absentminded movements of a restless hand.

There was an empty coffee cup tipped slightly on its side, leaving a pale brown ring on the edge of a page. When she grew bored of writing or reading, Y/N dipped her fingertips into the puddled remains of it, painting quick strokes in the margins- little trees, the silhouette of a bird mid-flight, a sketch of a mountain that might have been a memory or a dream.

That was all she really did in the first two days of the trip- read, wrote, watched the world move backwards from the glass. Sometimes, she liked to pretend like she was leaving things behind to start a new life, to create a new identity as the eccentric traveler. But Y/N could never be that- she was too quiet, too grounded into her reality. And perhaps, that was where her loneliness stemmed from. She felt lonely- not in the heavy, aching sense that people seemed to love succumbing to. This was the loneliness she had grown immune to- a dull companion that hummed in the background but never really asked for attention. 

Now, at twenty-five, Y/N was content with it. She grew accustomed to the quiet. She liked that her days were filled with Greek and Latin literature and academia while her nights were stolen by books and philosophical texts to analyse. She liked that she needed no one- this was enough.

Outside, the sky had begun to change- the golden wash of the late afternoon slipped into a cooler blue, edges softened by lavender. Towns gave way to sharper silhouettes of buildings and the world wasn’t moving backwards anymore, slowly catching up to Y/N’s pace. The train began to slow down as it curved the edges of a waking city.

Y/N looked up as the wheels beneath her softened into a screeching halt. The platform signs were in German now. People were beginning to stir, stretch and gather their things- people who left were replaced by new passengers. Her fingers were still damp with coffee. She wiped them on the inside of her sleeve and closed her notebook with a sigh, head leaning against the window again.

Zurich.

She wasn’t getting off here, but the brief lull in motion always felt significant- like the story might shift if you paid close enough attention.

And it did.

Because somewhere amidst the movement of passengers, the hiss of doors, and the tired shuffle of new bodies settling into old seats, someone slipped into the space across from her. No suitcase, no coat- ust a tall cup of coffee, a phone, and a man with dark eyes and an expression that said very little.

He didn’t ask if the seat was taken- he didn’t need to. For the first time since Y/N got on the train, the seat across from her had been claimed. It was out of pure luck, she thought, that no one wanted to occupy it- there were either enough seats or not enough passengers. Perhaps, this time, it was that there were no more seats left to occupy but the seat in front of her.

The man just looked at her, nodded once like they were already acquainted and turned to face the window. And just like that, the table she had thought was hers alone- her sanctuary of scribbles and silence- was now shared. And Y/N, for the first time in two days, found herself watching something other than the world outside.

Y/N tried not to stare, she really did. 

But there was something curious about him- this stranger who came bearing nothing but a steaming drink and a phone he hadn’t looked at once since sitting down. He leaned back against the seat like he’d done this before, like he belonged to this train more than the tracks did. His eyes moved slowly across the scenery as if he were trying to memorize the shapes of things. He looked so fresh, so bright despite the scowl look of his resting face- sharp eyes and eyebrows, a clenched jaw.

He didn’t look out of place. But he definitely didn’t look like he was a local either. His hoodie, navy in color and looking stiff, gave it away- it was brand new, most likely bought in account for a trip.

She returned to her notebook, flipping to a clean page. The tips of her fingers were still stained with coffee. Without thinking, she began painting again- small birds, crooked rooftops, the tracks the very train moved on.

He noticed.

“You draw with coffee?” he asked, his voice low, lined with amusement.

Y/N blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her on this train. She glanced up. “Only when I run out of ink.” It felt new to even be talking. It felt like she hadn’t heard her own voice in eternity- she almost sounded foreign to herself.

He smiled at that, and it softened him. “Seems inefficient.”

“Only slightly,” she said. “But I like the color. Feels more honest than black ink.”

He nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. “That’s poetic.”

“I’m a writer,” she said, as if it explained everything.

“Ah,” he gestured to the pile of books beside her. “I figured you were either that or a librarian on the run.”

A small laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Depends. Did you commit a literary crime?”

She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her hand. “I guess I stole too many endings that weren’t mine.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of interest deeper than casual banter. “Then maybe we’re both criminals.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a writer too?”

He shook his head. “Architect. I steal pieces of cities and try to turn them into buildings.”

“That sounds noble,” she said, tilting her head. “Or maybe romantic.”

“It’s mostly just paperwork and disappointment,” he admitted. “But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to build something that stays.”

Y/N fell quiet at that, because she knew exactly what he meant.

“So,” he said, tapping his cup lightly against the table, “how does this work? Do we exchange names now, or do we pretend we’re ghosts passing through each other’s lives?”

She studied him a moment longer, then extended her hand across the table.

“Y/N.”

He took it, his grip warm and firm. “Sunghoon.”

And just like that, the train began to move again, slowly at first, then with a growing rhythm.

The scenery shifted once more. But the air between them was different now- thinner, sparking. Something had changed. Not loudly, not all at once. But enough for Y/N to realize that loneliness had finally taken a step back. And someone else had taken its seat.

The train hummed like a lullaby beneath their feet as Europe unfolded around them under moonlight. Seats hummed with quiet life, arranged in open clusters with personal tables- no compartments, no doors to close behind. Just people and stories and the soft flicker of overhead lights as the train curved gently around valleys and mountains alike. In the corner of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, listening to each other share life stories- two attractive strangers, staring into each other's eyes like this was permanent. 

Y/N told him about her degree in Greek literature and how her parents were against it when she first announced her decision. Their distaste towards her academic goal was understandable- what kind of living would their daughter make out of such a fickle degree? And truth be told, Y/N was struggling. After graduating, she barely made a living through small writing gigs and coffee shop jobs as a barista. Now, she was on the hunt for a story to hopefully write her first book- hence her lonesome presence on a three day train, from Istanbul to France. 

“Oh, you haven’t published yet?”

“That’s why I call myself a writer. Not an author yet,” she grinned, hiding her embarrassment. 

“There’s a difference?” Sunghoon’s brows raised.

“It’s clear how much you don’t read.”

Sunghoon listened with the kind of attention that didn't feel performative. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t press either. Just there… with his warm curiosity towards this new person he met.

And when Y/N finally asked him to speak about himself, he started ranting about his architecture career- twenty-seven years in the making, since the day he was born. Apparently, when he was born, his parents went to an astrologer who said that Sunghoon would grow up to be an architect. And the gola never changed, only manifested deeper into him as he grew up- from stacking legos that stood taller than his body as a kid to his professors adoring his models in college. 

“I just want to contribute to a skyline,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which city. Doesn’t even have to be famous. I just… I want people to look up and feel something.” His voice grew softer. “My boss doesn’t get it. He’s just… numbers and deadlines and grey rectangles.”

There was something oddly touching in that, a boyish idealism that had somehow survived into adulthood. He wasn’t jaded- not fully.

“Is he a brutalist?” Y/N asked.

“No, he’s just… boring. And brutalist architecture isn’t boring.”

He explained he’d been on a trip across Europe with his two best friends- a plan they’d made years ago, when life was still about university cafeterias and late-night dreams. But he’d broken off from the group for a detour to Zurich, to see his younger sister, now studying there. It had been a short, sweet visit. Familiar in the way only siblings could be- awkward hugs, sarcasm, shared complaints about their mother’s relentless texts. Now, he was rejoining his friends in Paris. “They’ve probably eaten their way through half the restaurants by now,” he grinned. “And argued over where to go next.”

“They’re all architects?”

“No, just me,” Sunghoon nodded, proudly. “But, one’s studying to be a lawyer. The other is gonna be an intern for surgery soon.”

Their conversation melted into the sound of the train wheels against the track. Their conversation didn’t feel like two strangers getting to know each other. It felt like slipping into a rhythm that had always existed, like picking up a thread from a story that had already begun. There were no awkward pauses, no searching for the right words- just an easy back-and-forth that felt strangely familiar. Like they were old friends who had somehow forgotten they were old friends. Like this was a reunion, not a first meeting.

At some point, he coaxed her up, dragging her down the aisle with a mischievous “You can’t sit still forever, writer girl.”

She resisted at first, rejecting his grip on her wrist with a hesitant gaze of her eyes. But he was too persistent- that sharp smile of his, was too persistent. And shyly, almost awkwardly, she stood up and followed him. And that would be the first time Y/N got up for reasons other than using the washroom or finding a meal to eat.

The train during the night was more alive than it was in the morning. That’s just the way it was with things like this- when a group of strangers came together to travel across borders. It was a silent promise of haven, of comfort. They walked past the soft flicker of reading lamps, the faint rustle of pages and whispered exchanges in many languages. They passed a woman knitting tiny socks with blue yarn, a man asleep with his head tipped back and opera music playing from his phone, a child pressing glow-in-the-dark stars against the window.

In the lounge coach, someone was playing the harmonica. The sound was low and imperfect, but so achingly human that it felt like a story in itself. 

“This is definitely something I want to write about.”

Sunghoon looked at her, confused. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, he was towering over her to get a glimpse of her hair that was hidden by her hair. But by her voice alone, he could hear the sparkle in her eyes.

“Yeah?” Sunghoon said. “What can you say? It’s just a guy playing a harmonica. Incorrectly, at that.”

“But do you hear the history in it?”

Somewhere near the middle of the train, tucked into a dimly lit dining car, was a makeshift poker table- though it wasn’t official, and the chips were mostly replaced by foreign coins, buttons, and old candy wrappers. A group of old men sat around it, the air thick with the scent of tobacco that no one was actually smoking, and laughter that came in easy bursts like waves hitting a dock. They sang as they played- old folk songs in accented English and native tongues, clapping along to choruses only they knew. One had a flute he’d chime in with between rounds; another drummed his fingers rhythmically on the edge of the table like it was a snare.

Sunghoon was the first to slow his steps, then Y/N. Something about the scene pulled them in- the warmth of it, the chaos, the openness of strangers too old to care who joined as long as they knew how to smile. The invitation came with a gesture- a crooking finger, a grin, a gap-toothed nod toward the table. They didn’t resist.

They slid into the seats like they’d always belonged there, excited smiles and palms rubbed together. A few coins from Y/N’s pocket, some spare notes from Sunghoon’s wallet- it wasn’t about winning. The old men were ruthless and charming, teasing them in thick accents, telling them the rules only after they'd broken them. Sunghoon forgot which suit beat what, and Y/N mistook her hand for something stronger than it was. They lost every round, but they laughed harder each time. It was never about the cards. It was about the way joy could travel across decades, across languages and lives, and land right there between two young people on a midnight train.

One of the men told a story about a girl he almost married in Portugal after two drinks too many, another about a time he danced barefoot in a rainstorm on the German border. One told the story of how he lost his arm during the war- Y/N and Sunghoon didn’t know which one, but were too scared to ask. Their words stitched across the table like quiltwork- melancholy in parts, hilarious in others, but always rich. Y/N listened with wide eyes, mentally bookmarking characters she hadn’t even written yet. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, one arm resting behind her, the other fiddling with a useless hand of cards. Every now and then, they’d glance at each other and grin- caught in a secret moment neither of them could explain.

By the end of it, they had lighter wallets and heavier hearts, full of names they’d forget by morning (Sunghoon would forget, not Y/N) and faces they’d remember forever. When the group eventually dispersed, the men wished them luck- at life, at love, at whatever came next. And then the dining car emptied slowly, leaving Y/N and Sunghoon alone at the table with empty glasses and leftover laughter.

For a long time, they just sat there. But Sunghoon dragged her up again, like he was impatient on what he would find next. 

They reached the back of the train. The stars were louder there, with no glass to filter them- sharp and endless, scattered above the moving world like they’d been nailed into the fabric of the night. The wind whipped fast and gentle all at once, lifting their hair in small chaotic dances- Sunghoon’s dark strands tousled back like the wind was styling him on purpose, while Y/N’s hair tangled and curled around her face, occasionally catching on her lips, on the collar of her coat, in the crook of Sunghoon’s arm when they stood too close.

The railings were rusted, chipping with time and weather, flecked with the stories of thousands of travelers before them. They leaned on it anyway- elbows pressed into the cool metal, fingers curling over the edge, palms warming the cold. It groaned slightly beneath them, like it remembered what it meant to hold someone’s weight.

The air smelled like the wild- earthy and crisp, threaded with something that felt like memory. Below them, the world blurred in soft motion- dark forests, sleeping towns, rivers that shimmered like liquid glass beneath the stars. Above them, constellations took their time- Orion with his quiet confidence, Cassiopeia lounging in her eternal curve. Neither Y/N nor Sunghoon said anything for a while. 

There was a stillness in that speed- a paradox only night trains seemed to understand. The kind where time slowed down just long enough to notice the way his knuckles grazed hers on the railing, or the way her eyes reflected stars like she’d been born from them.

And then Sunghoon said, quietly, like he was saying it to himself, “I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Y/N didn’t look at him, but she listened. You could tell she was listening by the way her breath caught a little, and how her fingers curled tighter around the metal bar.

“I’m twenty-seven. I know that’s not old,” he continued, “but it’s not exactly new either. And there’s this pressure- this... noise in my head that says I should’ve done something big by now. Left a mark, built something that outlasts me.”

The train curved then, slow and smooth, and the stars tilted slightly in the sky. Y/N still said nothing.

“I feel like no one gets it,” he added, half-laughing, but it was a bitter kind of sound. “I feel like no one understands why it’s so important to build something beautiful. All everyone seems to care about these days is money and loopholes.”

She looked at him then, finally. Just a glance, soft and brief.

He looked over at her. “But you get it, right?”

Y/N nodded, then turned back to the night. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” Her voice was quiet, not in a sad way but in the way Sunghoon understood that she was feeling it too- his plight. “When I say I want to write a book, I don’t mean just anything. I mean… I want to leave a mark, I want my work to be talked about. I want to be as great as Clarice Lispector or Kazuo Ishiguro.”

Sunghoon said nothing, mostly because he didn’t know the authors she’d just mentioned. He just watched her speak.

“But lately... I don’t know. I feel like I’m borrowing other people’s words. Like I haven’t lived enough to write anything worth reading.” Her fingers brushed the railing again. “My parents still think I should’ve picked something safer. Like business or economics or something. And maybe they’re right.”

“No, they’re not,” he said, too quickly. “You need to live to write. You can’t just… watch life through windows and call it enough.”

“I know,” Y/N’s eyes were welling with tears at that point. But she convinced herself that it was the wind hitting her eyes and not the weight against her heart. “I think I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Living,” she said, almost laughing. “Living, experiencing everything right- only to ultimately fail and write something unforgettable. It’s so stupid. Sometimes I feel like writing is so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Sunghoon shook his head. He stared straight ahead, crossing his arms on the railing. “You know how they say every artist hates their own work? I’m sure Louis Sullivan hated his first building. But it didn’t stop him from completing it.”

Y/N tilted her head, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. “Who’s Louis Sullivan?” she asked.

Sunghoon smiled faintly. “Architect. They call him the father of skyscrapers.” He hesitated, then added, “His buildings didn’t even get much attention when he was alive. It all came later. But still, he kept going. Even when it felt like no one cared.”

“I’m assuming with your career, you learnt a lot about architects,” she chuckled.

“I’ve got a whole archive of information,” he grinned proudly.

Y/N looked away again, the wind catching the edge of her jacket and lifting it gently behind her. The rusted railing creaked softly beneath their weight, but they didn’t move. There was something sacred about the discomfort- like they owed it to the moment to stay right where they were.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” she asked eventually. “Giving your life to something that might never be seen?”

“I’d like to think it’s better than not trying at all,” he said. “But sometimes, I don’t get it. When I saw my sister, she was thriving- university and all that. But I’m still figuring shit out. It’s like I always have been.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Y/N said. “I don’t think anyone really figures it out. Some of us are just better at pretending.”

He smiled. Not a big one, just enough.

“I used to sit on my roof as a kid,” he said. “Stare at the stars and make wishes even though I didn’t believe in them.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “What did you wish for?”

“A lot of things,” he shrugged. “Toys, lenient parents, a sibling… and I eventually got a sister. Then eventually, I stopped believing in it.”

She didn’t respond. Just leaned into the railing a little deeper. 

“The stars remind me of myths,” she said after a while. “The ones I studied. Greek tragedies, gods turning into animals, lovers becoming constellations just to be together.”

“You believe in that?” he asked.

She paused, then smiled. “No. But I like that someone once did.”

And in that space between them, something invisible and delicate bloomed. Not love, not yet. But something heavy and soft, rooted in the chest. The kind of connection that only happens at the back of a moving train, with stars sharp above and wind in your teeth, and a stranger who suddenly isn’t one anymore- something permanent, even if they were not.

Eventually, they made their way back through the softly dimmed train- past the poker table now quiet and empty, past sleeping passengers curled beneath jackets and scarves- to their seats. The overhead lights buzzed gently above, their little corner of the train wrapped in a hushed stillness.

Y/N pulled out a pen from her tote and tore a napkin into squares. “Tic-tac-toe?” she asked, already drawing the grid.

Sunghoon grinned. “Prepare to lose.”

She tore the corner of an old train pamphlet and started scribbling grids. Tic-tac-toe. Then hangman. Then the dumbest drawing contest either of them had ever participated in. She dared him to draw a duck and he came up with a lopsided blob with antennae. She laughed so hard her eyes watered. He laughed too, head tossed back, his knees pressed into the seat in front of him, body curled like it was trying to hold the joy in.

They spoke less as the hours dragged on. There was no need to fill the silence. The kind of quiet they shared wasn’t awkward- it was warm, stretched like a blanket over the two of them. They sipped from a tiny carton of orange juice they found buried in her tote and whispered about the most useless superpowers they’d want to have. (He said being able to always know which lane moved fastest in a grocery store. She said being able to taste colors.)

Eventually, her eyelids drooped. She laid her head on her folded arms, right there on the tiny table between them. Her hair spilled over like ink, her breathing evened out, and her mouth twitched slightly in sleep- like she was smiling at something in a dream she wouldn't remember.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

He watched her for a long while. Not in a creepy way. Just… in awe. At how still she was- how peaceful. There was something about the way the moonlight through the window painted across her face that made him feel like this moment was borrowed- like time had paused and he’d been given a glimpse into something sacred, like an old Victorian painting.

He turned to the window. The stars were fading now, washed thin by the first hints of dawn. He pressed his palm against the glass and felt the faint thrum of motion beneath it.

And he thought- about how fleeting everything felt lately. About how moments like this- ones that sneaked up on you and made you feel deeply human- never lasted long enough. He thought about the future, about buildings he hadn’t yet sketched, about lines and edges and spaces that could become something living. He thought about asking her for her number, how he’d even phrase it, how not to make it weird.

He thought about what kind of book she would write- maybe something strange and wandering, the kind of story that didn’t apologize for taking its time. He thought about how her characters would probably be like her: observant, quiet, a little brave without realizing it.

The train kept moving.

And then… morning came. It wasn’t loud- just a slow blooming of gold across the sky. The clouds turned soft and lilac at the edges, and the air began to shift. The train started to slow. The brakes hissed, metal groaned.

They were in Paris.

The station was already awake- blurred voices, hurried footsteps, the distant beep of announcements he couldn’t quite make out. But inside their little cabin, everything still felt untouched.

Sunghoon looked at Y/N. She was still sleeping, arm tucked under her head, breath warm against her sleeve.

And for a moment- just one- he didn’t want to wake her.

He let the idea wash over him like a wave. What if they stayed on? Just didn’t get off. Let the train roll again, take them to another city, maybe even another country- Vienna, Lyon, wherever. Just so he could sit beside her a little longer. Just so he could hold onto this stillness.

But reality was patient. And it always catches up.

So he reached out, gently pressing his fingers to her shoulder. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, almost apologetic. “We’re here.”

She stirred slowly, blinking against the light. “Huh?”

“Paris,” he said.

Her eyes widened. She sat up, sleep still clinging to her limbs, disoriented but already reaching beneath her seat for her suitcase. Her hair was tousled, face creased slightly from her nap, and she looked so real (he didn’t even know how to explain it, it was the fact that she wasn’t his imagination, that she was a person, had a life, outside of the night they had together) in that moment that Sunghoon’s chest ached.

He stood too, grabbing her bag and guiding her to the exit. The train doors hissed open with a kind of finality that neither of them were ready for.

They stepped onto the platform.

It was colder here than he expected- a sharp, Parisian morning air. It was the kind that carried the scent of fresh bread and motion. People hurried past them with cameras and coats and open maps, but the two of them just stood there- still holding their luggage, still close enough to touch but too far to say anything meaningful.

And then it hit her.

That this was it.

This was goodbye.

She looked at him, like, really looked. Not like someone she met on a train, not like a stranger. But like someone whose existence, however brief in her story, left a ripple.

“I guess this is…” she began, then trailed off.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon said, swallowing. His adams apple bounced. “It is.”

His attention, however, was ripped towards the opposite direction- Sunghoon heard them before he saw them.

“SUNGHOON! LET’S GO!”

Jake’s voice echoed across the platform, followed by Jay dramatically flailing his arms like he was about to take flight. “WE'RE GONNA GET CHARGED AN EXTRA HOUR FOR PARKING!”

They were standing near the exit, beside a wheezing rental car with an uneven paint job and too much luggage crammed into its trunk. They looked like they belonged in a different world, one that hadn’t just stood still all night; one that hadn’t just sat across from someone and quietly fallen into a version of affection that didn’t need time to grow- it bloomed instantly, and painfully.

Sunghoon looked at them.

Then… looked away.

He turned back to Y/N.

She was already pulling her suitcase handle upright, her face composed, wearing that brave expression that people wear when they know the goodbye will hurt but they’re choosing dignity over drama. Her eyes were a little puffy from sleep- or maybe it was emotion. He didn’t ask.- he would never know.

“Guess that’s your ride,” she said, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

He didn’t reply. He wanted to say something- anything- but every sentence that formed in his throat felt too small, too stupid or too late. His emotions didn’t make sense to him anymore. His heart skipping a beat at the way the sunlight hit her eyes didn’t make sense anymore.

Y/N took a small step forward and stuck her hand out between them. Her fingers were steady, her voice wasn’t.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said, smiling softly. “But for now… goodbye, Sunghoon.” It could’ve ended there. But she blinked- just once- and added, quieter: “Thank you for making the night a little less lonely.”

And just like that, he was ruined.

Sunghoon took her hand, firm, certain- like that moment deserved at least that much clarity. And maybe that was the saddest part of it all- how their story ended the same way it began: with a handshake.

Two people. One shared night. A lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.

He held on for a beat longer than he should have. Then he let go reluctantly. Then stepped back with a nod, his eyes memorizing the shape of her one last time. And without another word ((he didn’t even find it in him to reciprocate a goodbye), he turned and jogged toward his waiting friends, who were still dramatically yelling about the parking ticket.

Behind him, Y/N turned in the opposite direction, hoping to hail a taxi to her hotel.

She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

When Sunghoon finally caught up with them, breath uneven and head a little too full, Jay and Jake didn’t waste a second. They manhandled him into the backseat like he was carry-on luggage.

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Jake exaggerated from the passenger side, twisting halfway around to stare at him. “You better have a Nobel-worthy reason for making us risk another parking fine. How’s your sister, mate?”

Jay, hands on the wheel, sunglasses on even though it was barely sunrise, shot a look at Sunghoon through the rearview mirror.

“Fuck that,” he said. “Who was the girl?”

Sunghoon groaned, dropped his head back against the seat, crossed his arms over his chest like a sulky teenager. Suddenly, the night that had felt so luminous, so important, shrunk down into this weird, private ache. The kind that couldn’t be explained without sounding stupid. Because how do you tell your best friends that one night on a train with a stranger made you question everything you thought you wanted? Made you feel more than you had in months?

Sunghoon just stared out the window as the city passed in a blur and tried not to think about how fast it was all slipping away. Jake and Jay didn’t wait for an answer. Of course not- they were already in full chaos mode, cooking up scenarios like they were writing for a shitty soap-opera.

“You sat beside her?”

“Made a new friend?”

“Fucked the new friend, perhaps?” Jake added with a dramatic gasp, clapping once. “Train version of the mile-high club, huh?”

“In the bathroom?” Jay asked, feigning shock. “Dude, gross. Those toilets flush like portals to hell.”

“Oh, wait-” Jake snapped his fingers, “you kissed her. That’s it. You kissed her and then cried about it while looking out the window like you’re in a sad indie film.”

Sunghoon inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “You guys,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “are disgusting.”

Jake and Jay erupted into laughter.

“Which means,” Jay said smugly, tapping the steering wheel, “something definitely happened.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He just leaned his head against the window, the cold glass pressing into his skin. The city of Paris unfolded outside, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Not the cafés, or the early risers with fresh bread tucked under their arms, or the old men reading newspapers on benches.

He was still on the train. Still in that quiet, starlit space. Still listening to her say thank you for making the night a little less lonely.

ii. Ten Years Too Lonely

When Y/N was young, her parents used to tell her about how they met. Her bedtime stories weren’t made up of dragons or fairies, but of reckless youth, of laughter echoing in tiny bars that no longer existed, of impossible nights that somehow still lived on in memory. Her parents had lived like people in novels- messy, brave, complicated. They told her stories filled with bad decisions that made great memories, spontaneous road trips, heartbreaks that healed over time, and a small group of friends who stayed, who always stayed.

Those friends were still around- her honorary uncles and aunts. They showed up for the big moments: the day she was born, the major birthdays, and all her graduations. They were the ones who took her out for her first legal drink, who called her kiddo even when she was twenty, who looked at her like she belonged. And maybe it was only around them that she ever felt like she did. Like she was part of something bigger, warmer, something permanent.

But outside those rare, glowing reunions, Y/N felt like a ghost of a person. Like she hadn’t been fully written yet. Like her edges were blurry, her voice a little too quiet, her presence too easy to miss. She used to think that one day, she’d grow into herself. That she’d wake up and suddenly feel whole. But the days kept ending and nothing changed.

She’d always been unlucky with friendships. People liked her, sure- they said she was nice, called her sweet. But no one stayed. No one ever fought to keep her close. She was the kind of person you texted when you were bored, not when your world was falling apart. She was always the one listening, nodding, comforting. Rarely the one being held. She didn’t know what she did wrong- maybe she didn’t shine enough. Maybe she was just forgettable. She tried to tell herself that wasn’t true, that she mattered, that someone would one day see her the way she longed to be seen. But most days, the silence was louder than any hope she tried to build.

Relationships? Those were worse. Crushes that never looked her way, dates that fizzled before they even began, almost-loves that ended in vague texts and unreturned calls. She couldn’t even be mad at them. She understood. Why would anyone stay with someone who didn’t really stand out? She wasn’t the bold, flirty girl with a spark in her eyes. She wasn’t magnetic, or mysterious, or even particularly witty. She was just… there, easy to walk away from.

And that was the thing that hurt the most- the thought that people would forget her. That she could pass through someone’s life and leave no mark at all. That years from now, someone she once shared a laugh with wouldn’t even remember her name. That she was the kind of person you had to try to remember. Not because she was unpleasant. But because she was just so easy to overlook.

She hated that. She hated how much it bothered her. She hated that she wanted to be seen so badly, wanted to matter to someone- anyone- just for a little while. And more than anything, she hated that she’d let life pass her by. That she hadn’t been brave enough to chase the moments she dreamed about. The semester abroad she kept telling herself she’d apply to. The marine research internship near the beach she’d bookmarked five times but never actually submitted an application for. The universities she never left her hometown to attend. She watched opportunities drift by like trains she couldn’t get herself to board.

And every time she missed one, she told herself it was fine. That there would be another. That she was just waiting for the right time. But deep down, she knew. She knew she wasn’t waiting. She was hiding. From the possibility of failing. From the pain of not being enough. From the crushing weight of trying her best and still falling short.

But the thing is… her parents had always known that Y/N would make a life for herself. From the day she was born to the day she graduated and began the daunting task of job hunting, they’d looked at her with a kind of certainty that Y/N never really understood. “It’s just that your life hasn’t begun yet,” they would repeat to her like a prophecy.

And for a long time, she believed them. Or at least she tried to. She clung to the hope that one day, her plight would mean something, that she'd wake up and suddenly become the person she was always supposed to be. But that hope wore thin. Especially in the years that followed graduation- years where nothing really happened. Where she lived at home again, working part-time jobs she never talked about at family dinners, feeling more and more like she was treading water in a pool where everyone else was learning how to swim laps.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore- the guilt of still living under her parents' roof, the quiet shame of watching life pass by like a train she kept missing. So, in a burst of desperation or courage or maybe both, she booked a trip to Europe with the savings she’d been hoarding for no particular reason. She drained her bank account in one impulsive night of scrolling and airfare. And just like that, she was gone.

And suddenly- suddenly- her degree in Greek Literature didn’t feel so useless anymore. Not when she was exploring a three-day train with a stranger. Not when she was wandering through the streets of Athens, tracing the ruins her textbooks used to speak of in dusty academic tones. Not when she stood beneath the Parthenon at sunset with a backpack and a journal and no plans for the next day. And just like that, her life started to change.

In the month she spent abroad, she felt herself unfold. Like some slow, patient blooming. She talked to strangers without rehearsing the conversation beforehand. She danced at rooftop bars in Lisbon with people whose names she barely caught. She took a spontaneous night bus to Prague with a pair of Finnish siblings she met in a museum café. She broke down crying in a quiet alley in Florence and was comforted by a woman named Elif from Istanbul, who shared her gelato and told her heartbreak was a sign of living. In Barcelona, she accidentally joined a group of traveling circus performers for three days because they mistook her for someone else and she was too embarrassed to correct them- until she wasn’t. She even kissed someone under a broken street lamp in Amsterdam, someone whose name she still remembers but whose face is already fading in her mind.

There were so many stories. Wild, unthinkable, movie-scene type stories. But perhaps the most unbelievable part was how alive she felt. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a background character. She didn’t feel like someone waiting for something to happen to her. She was the happening.

She met people. She lived with them. She cooked pasta in tiny hostel kitchens, shared beds with near strangers, drank cheap wine in public parks, danced barefoot, and got lost more times than she could count. She met Luca, a Sicilian med student who taught her how to flirt in Italian; Josie, a Canadian street artist who carried a notebook filled with secrets from people she met; and Santiago, a chef from Buenos Aires who taught her to make empanadas while talking about love like it was a religion.

They were fleeting people. But they mattered.

And she kept in touch with most of them- at least for a while. They exchanged numbers, promised to visit, sent postcards and songs and memes across time zones. Luca sent her a blurry photo of his med school graduation. Josie invited her to a pop-up art show in Toronto that she couldn’t attend. Santiago messaged her every few months just to ask how she was, calling her mi poeta.

But life moved on. As it always does.

Y/N came back home, and things had changed, but she wasn’t quite sure if she had. She floated through a string of jobs- proofreading textbooks, writing content for lifestyle blogs, tutoring high school students in Greek mythology. Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt like hers. Until one day, almost on a dare to herself, she sat down and started writing again- not for money, not for work, but for herself.

The book came quietly. No agents, no fanfare. A small indie publisher picked it up. And somehow, her first novel resonated with enough people to warrant a tiny book signing tour. She visited three cities. Five bookstores. Signed a hundred copies with her slightly messy, unsure signature.

And still… She felt alone.

As the years passed, the messages from her travel friends became less frequent. The jokes grew stale, the memories stopped coming up in conversation and eventually, keeping in touch became just liking each other’s Instagram posts or sending the occasional emoji reply to a story. 

When she moved to Shanghai to teach English at a small local university, she barely told anyone. She packed her life into two suitcases, boarded the flight alone, and arrived in a city where no one knew her name. The loneliness there was quieter, less sharp. It didn’t ache the way it used to. Because in times like this, feeling lonely was inevitable and she didn’t beat herself up for it. Because this was going to be her new life, her new norm.

She taught classes, went to the market, and drank tea by her apartment window. Life was simple. She liked it. And she realised how her age was catching up to her, that she was yearning for the peaceful moments in her life rather than late night travel trips.

And yet, some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d scroll through old photos- grainy hostel selfies, street corners, sunset skies she had once sworn she’d never forget. She would look at those faces and wonder if any of them remembered her too, if she’d been as temporary to them as they were eternal to her.

Because the truth about Y/N was that no matter how much she saw, how many stories she collected, or how far she ran, she still came out of it alone. Not broken, not bitter- just… still waiting. Still wondering if her life had really begun yet, or if she was still standing on the edge of something bigger, too afraid to take the leap.

Though some nights, the memories haunted her, most days, Y/N kept moving. She walked the same narrow streets from her apartment to the university, nodded politely at the same old man who sold dough strips by the metro station, and let her world stay predictable and repetitive.

But it was on a rainy Sunday- one of those Shanghai afternoons where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet concrete and jasmine- that things would change again.

She’d been wandering aimlessly, an umbrella tucked under her arm, letting the drizzle kiss her skin as she browsed street vendors and quiet alleys she hadn’t taken the time to explore before. She wasn’t even looking for anything in particular when she ducked into the tiny bookstore nestled between a tea shop and a dry cleaner, a place so unobtrusive she’d passed it a dozen times and never noticed it.

Inside, the lighting was dim and golden, the smell of old paper and incense wrapping around her like a blanket. There was jazz playing faintly from a record player near the counter. A cat slept on a stool in the poetry aisle. And for the first time in weeks, she exhaled without even realizing she’d been holding her breath.

She wandered through the shelves slowly, fingers brushing over cracked spines and titles in Mandarin, English, French. It reminded her of a place she visited in Lisbon, one she never thought she’d think of again.

She turned the corner of the aisle, absently reaching for a poetry collection when her eyes landed on him.

At first, she only saw the profile- the clean lines of his face, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead- and for a heartbeat, her mind couldn’t quite place it. Her body stilled before her brain caught up.

Then he turned slightly, lifting his head toward the Popular Picks display by the counter, a stack of three books balanced in his arms, one tucked awkwardly beneath his chin.

And she knew. She just did.

The recognition crashed into her like a wave she hadn’t braced for.

Sunghoon.

Just like that, the bookstore shifted from quiet nostalgia to something surreal. Her fingertips curled slightly around the spine of the book she was holding, as if steadying herself. Her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. And suddenly,she was naive and twenty-five again, sitting in a train with a stranger to entertain.

And as if he felt her gaze, Sunghoon looked up- eyes landing on hers instantly.

The air between them was still. The jazz in the background faded. So did the cat, the incense, the muffled rain tapping at the windows.

He blinked, almost like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upward- not quite a smile yet, just the beginning of one.

They just stared at each other for a second too long. Not out of awkwardness- but because neither of them wanted to be the first to break whatever this was.

Then Sunghoon shifted, took one step forward.

And that was her cue.

Y/N slipped her book back onto the shelf and walked toward him, steps careful, like she was still half-convinced he might disappear if she moved too fast.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she expected. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

Sunghoon let out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh caught in his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

They both smiled- wide and full this time- the tension breaking like light through overcast skies.

Y/N blinked, still grounding herself in the impossible fact that it was him. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

Sunghoon gave a soft breath of disbelief, almost a laugh, like he wasn’t quite sure how this moment existed. “I live here now… I’ve been living here for three years.”

Y/N gave a half-smile. “Five years for me.”

And that was the moment it hit him. Five years. They’d been orbiting the same city, breathing the same air, living maybe a handful of metro stops apart- and somehow, they never crossed paths until now. It felt like too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Like the universe had deliberately waited, held its breath, timed this to some impossible rhythm only it understood.

“I teach at the public university,” she offered before he could ask. “English. But I publish sometimes as well.”

Of course it was her. The name had been bothering him ever since he picked up that book, strung together in a delicate serif font on the spine- a first name and a last name that brushed up against something familiar in his memory, but not enough to sound the alarms. He’d held it in his hands, flipped through the pages, even lingered on the blurb wondering why it made his chest ache a little. But he hadn’t made the connection. Not until she was standing in front of him, telling him, almost offhandedly, that she wrote now- had published a few books. And then it hit him like cold water: that book. The one he’d nearly bought before settling on something else. He almost felt guilty now, absurdly so, for not choosing hers. As if picking another novel over hers had been some kind of betrayal- to her, to that night, to the unspoken space they’d both carried all these years.

He nodded slowly, his chest tightening. “Still an architect,” he said, then glanced at her with something just shy of a smile. “I think you’d be proud of me.”

It was a soft, unassuming statement, but it hung between them heavily. He was thinking of that night- the train, the way her words had stayed with him long after the lights of the station faded. Ten years ago. Ten full years. He didn’t know if she remembered.

But Y/N’s expression shifted in that subtle way that told him she did. Of course she did.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Yeah,” he looked down for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I’m glad you finally published.”

And he meant it. Beneath the sincerity sat his quiet guilt- one he wasn’t going to admit just yet. He hadn’t searched for her name. Not once. Not online, not on bookshelves. And now that he knew, now that he held the knowledge of what she'd gone on to do, it felt like an ache. Because he had thought of her- more often than he let himself admit. He’d bring her up sometimes when he was drunk, recalling that weird night on the train, the girl who talked about words like they were living things. But he hadn’t done anything more. 

And now here she was.

“This feels insane,” he murmured, voice softening.

He was staring at her- not just with disbelief, but with the kind of quiet reverence reserved for things once lost and now unexpectedly found. And as he stood there, barely hearing the rustle of pages or the distant hum of jazz, a thought rose, unbidden and almost embarrassing in its honesty- this was the girl who had changed him.

In one night- a single stretch of hours between train stations and tangled conversations- she had shifted something fundamental inside him. He’d started reading not long after that. Nothing big at first- just a book she’d mentioned, something he'd scribbled down on a receipt in his wallet. But it became a habit, then a hunger. Because of her. Because of how she spoke about stories, about words like they were holy. Because of how she saw the world- like it was both tragic and beautiful and worth telling anyway.

And now, a decade later, here she was. Not a memory, not a story he told his friends after two beers. But real and alive, standing in front of him again- older, softer in some ways, sharper in others. Still her, always her.

And all he could think was: I can’t believe it’s you.

Sunghoon arrived at the café early. Of course he did. He always did that when he was nervous- pretending it was about punctuality, about professionalism, about making a good impression. But really, it was about control, about giving himself a moment to settle the way his heart had been stammering in his chest for days.

Since that day in the bookstore, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her- Y/N- her voice, her eyes, the way the rain had traced soft lines down the bookstore’s fogged windows while they talked. He hadn’t said it out loud, but as soon as they’d agreed to meet again, he’d gone home and done something impulsive- something a younger Sunghoon might’ve laughed at. He bought all of her books. Every single one. Three novels, each with a cover so delicate and so deliberate, he almost didn’t want to crack the spines.

But he did. In fact, he devoured them. He read like he was chasing something. Like he was trying to catch up on a decade of her life that he hadn’t been a part of.

Her writing stunned him. It was raw and strange and poetic and painfully observant. But it wasn’t just that. It was familiar. Not in the stories themselves- they were nothing like him, nothing like the night they’d shared- but in the details, in the quiet gestures of a supporting character, or the rhythm of someone’s speech, or the offhand way a man in his late twenties scratched the back of his neck when he was uncomfortable.

That was him. That was 27-year-old Sunghoon. He remembered doing that on the train, mid-conversation, when she’d asked him about the kind of buildings he wanted to design someday. There was a character in her first book who did the same thing- and that character had a way of seeing cities like they were made of feelings, not steel. It was him, even if it wasn’t.

He hadn’t known she’d remembered him. Not like that. He’d told himself it was just one night. A good night. But fleeting. Something the world would blur out with time. And yet… she had remembered. She made it permanent on ink- she eternalized him.

And here he was- in Shanghai, of all places.

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. He’d said yes to the opportunity three years ago- an architecture firm in Seoul was invited to pitch a design for a mixed-use skyscraper, and he’d poured himself into it with the hunger of a man who needed to be consumed by something. It was his vision that won. A sinuous, glass-and-steel tower that mimicked the ripple of the Huangpu River, with an atrium shaped like a lantern- part office space, part museum, part observation deck, a living homage to old Shanghai meeting the new. 

The project had saved him. Or maybe it had given him something to hold onto after everything else fell apart.

Nora.

Even now, her name carried the weight of a thousand sharp edges- soft at first, then all at once like glass. He met her at a work party, back when his firm was still small and barely making a name for itself. It had been hosted in a high-rise lounge, the kind where conversations floated over clinking glasses and low jazz murmured beneath everything. He remembered spotting Nora by the bar, laughing with a group of journalists, her voice rising and falling like it belonged to the room. She was magnetic- self-assured in a way that didn’t demand attention but still received it, effortlessly. She had this grin, this unmistakable fire behind her eyes, and when she asked what he did, she looked at him like she actually cared about the answer.

They started seeing each other after that night- cautiously, at first. She was always busy, always moving between studios and press conferences and flights to cover some political chaos. But she made time. For him, she made time. She’d wait for him at his office sometimes with takeout, wearing heels and an oversized coat, telling him that he worked too much and kissed too little.

They dated for two years. Two golden years that felt too good to be real. There were lazy Sundays with her head on his chest, whispered fights over whose turn it was to do the laundry, travel plans never taken, and endless conversations about buildings and breaking news and what it meant to chase something until you caught it.

He proposed on a rainy night in Busan, when they’d gone for a vacation and spent the evening ice skating in a mall. She was trying to keep up with him, giggling while finding her balance. And just like that, he glided towards her on one knee and revealed the ring and he just… said it. Marry me. And she had said yes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They were married for four years. Four whole years of learning each other in all the quiet, invisible ways- the morning rituals, the favorite side of the bed, the type of silence that felt warm instead of cold. He’d never known that kind of peace. Even with her career constantly pulling her toward chaos, even when they were barely passing each other at home- it still felt like they were orbiting something steady. 

And then, one morning, she left for work like she always did. Hair still damp from the shower, still brushing lip balm onto her mouth as she stepped into her heels, grinning at him like she had some scandalous news she couldn’t wait to share after her segment.

She never made it to the station.

The accident happened in a flash. A truck ran a red light on the Olympic-daero. Witnesses said the rain had made it hard to see. She was gone before the ambulance even arrived, but they tried. Jake tried.

He remembered Jake’s call- the way his voice cracked over the line. "Come to the hospital. Now."

Sunghoon remembered sprinting through corridors, his hands cold, his lungs burning, shirt and tie astray with wide eyes and matted hair. And then- Jake, his closest friend and one of Seoul’s top trauma surgeons, standing outside the trauma unit, drenched in blood that wasn’t his, eyes hollow, surgical mask hanging off one ear. No words- just a slow, agonizing shake of the head.

Sunghoon collapsed.

The days after were a blur of numbness, sirens and screaming silence. There was no funeral that could contain that kind of grief, no eulogy that could articulate how deeply broken the world had become in just one moment. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t look at the chair she used to sit in. Her mug sat untouched for months. He buried himself in work until even the blueprints started to blur, until the only thing that snapped him back was his other best friend, Jay- who took one look at him and told him to press charges.

The man who caused the accident had been drunk. Slightly below the legal limit, but enough to impair judgment. Jay, relentless in a courtroom, helped Sunghoon file lawsuits that dragged on for nearly two years. They won. But it didn’t bring her back- nothing would, nothing did.

And then came the offer, an international firm asking him the chance to design a tower in Shanghai- something iconic, something bold. He said yes without thinking. He needed to go, to leave, to start over, to breathe somewhere else.

And now here he was, four years later. Sitting in a sunlit café in Shanghai, about to see the only other person who had ever made him feel like the future might be a story worth reading.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to tell her all of it- the job offer, the building, the wife, the accident, the ache. But he knew one thing: telling her all of this, over coffee, across a tiny round table in a quiet café… it felt oneiric. Like time had folded in on itself and handed him a second chance he hadn’t dared hope for.

Y/N listened like she always had- with stillness, with presence, with that rare ability to make silence feel like safety. When he spoke about the building, her face lifted, just slightly. Her eyes softened, like she was genuinely happy for him- not surprised, not performative- just quietly proud. 

But when he said Nora’s name, something shifted. The subtle tension in her brow, the way her fingers paused mid-motion on the coffee cup’s handle, the sudden stillness in her breathing- it all changed. She didn’t interrupt nor did she didn’t look away. She just let it wash over her, the grief, the enormity of it. Her eyes, when they met his again, held something solemn and full- not sympathy, not pity, but that unspoken understanding of loss. And for a moment, Sunghoon wondered if that’s what had drawn them together again- not fate, not coincidence, but the quiet ache of having both learned how to live after breaking.

“I lost someone, too,” she nodded. “My uncle- well, technically, one of my parents’ best friends. But we were close. He was my godfather.”

Then she told him, how her godfather had taken his own life just months before she made the move to Shanghai. Y/N had been in the middle of her own upheaval, getting ready for the transition that would take her to this city, to this life. But before she could even leave, she had to contend with the shock of losing him in the most horrific way. His death was nothing like the natural rhythm of loss that people often prepare for. No, this was the kind of pain that tore through the fabric of life with no warning, no sense. She never had the chance to say goodbye, never had the chance to make sense of it- her parents never let her read the suicide note.

Y/N’s aunt had found him, face-down in the bathtub, the water around him turning crimson. The image of it must have haunted her even now. Sunghoon could imagine the cold shock that must have flooded her godmother’s body as she found him there- her best friend, her partner in life, lifeless in a way that made the world seem unreal. The knife had slipped from his hand, the weight of it barely more than a detail in the aftermath. But the emptiness in his eyes, that was what stayed with her. 

It didn’t make sense, the way Y/N described it, the way the world just seemed to stop making sense after that. Her godfather had always been a constant, someone everyone relied on, someone who had always been there. And yet, just like that, he was gone, leaving behind an ocean of unanswered questions. His kids, her honorary cousins, had been the most affected. They had been too young to grasp the weight of what had happened, but in their confusion, they’d come to resent him. They couldn’t understand why he had chosen this moment, why he had left them without a second thought. It was that kind of loss that tore at the edges of families, that strained relationships with no answers to make it right.

Y/N’s parents had struggled too. In the wake of his death, they didn’t know what to do. They didn’t know how to explain it or how to handle the grief that had flooded their lives. So, in an attempt to do something, they set up a fund in his name. The money went to children in need, a small part of it allocated to his family to keep them afloat, to provide for them until they could get back on their feet. But in truth, nothing really ever settled. The ache never fully left, and the questions remained unanswered.

Y/N never spoke of the details, the parts of it that were too horrific to describe, the part of the story that would stay locked away, untold. But Sunghoon could feel the weight of it all. The pain, the loss, the confusion. The fragility of life, of the people we think will always be there, and how suddenly that certainty could be ripped away. 

Both of them had experienced it- the kind of loss that reshaped everything, that left scars that didn’t heal. It marked them, carried their loss, holding it within them, even now. 

"Okay, so... all of that," she started, hesitating before looking for something to shift the conversation. "Tell me more about your building. How far along is it… considering," She trailed off, smiling a little. "I’d love to hear more about it."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and swiping to the photos he’d been saving. The sleek, minimalistic sketches of the building, fuzzy early shots of its half-constructed frame, and the sweeping views from the construction site filled the screen. He held the phone up for her to see, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched her reaction.

"It... it’s still a work in progress. Probably gonna take a couple more years- there were a lot of legal constraints to worry about in the beginning," he admitted. "The final designs are much more refined, but this is the stage we’re at right now,” he scrolled through the images, showing her various angles of the building, the steel beams twisting upward like a forest of metal. "It’s supposed to be a mixed-use space- office floors at the top, public space at the bottom, some retail. It’s going to contribute to the skyline, be one of those landmarks that people would look at and think, 'Yeah, that's part of the city now.'"

Y/N leaned forward slightly, peering at the screen. She nodded appreciatively, her eyes scanning the images with curiosity. "It looks amazing," she said, her voice a little lighter now. "I’m proud of you, Sunghoon."

She was proud of him- not just for the building, but because this was the man he’d dreamed of becoming, the path he’d mapped out for himself on that train ten years ago, now finally real and unfolding in front of her.

Sunghoon grinned, but there was something in his eyes- an edge of quiet pride. 

Sunghoon’s voice broke through the gentle quiet that had settled over their table. “How have you been, Y/N?” he asked, not like a casual question, but something deeper. Something closer to how did the world shape you, after we parted ways? “How was Europe… after that train ride?”

Y/N smiled, and it was the kind of smile stitched with memory. She set her coffee down and reached for her phone, unlocking it with ease, swiping through the familiar glow of her gallery. “Messy,” she said, almost laughing. “But good.”

She turned the screen toward him, letting the photos tell the story. Blurry hostel mirrors, cobbled streets washed in soft morning light, a half-eaten croissant on a balcony in Lisbon, a tiny annotated map with a coffee stain in the corner, a carousel in Florence, a dog she didn’t know the name of but still remembered.

“This one,” she said, pausing on a photo of her standing by a stone archway in Athens, sunlight catching her cheek, “was taken the day I finally got the courage to walk up to a stranger and ask for directions.”

Sunghoon leaned in, quietly taking it all in- not just the images, but her voice, the tone of it, how alive she’d become in those moments. He watched the way her thumb lingered over some pictures longer than others, how her smile flickered when she reached one taken in the rain. He didn���t ask what it meant. He just listened.

“It was everything I hoped it would be,” she said. “And nothing like I imagined.”

And Sunghoon nodded, because he understood that too well. Maybe not for the same reasons as her, but he understood it, at least, to an extent. 

She went on, showing him more- strangers who became friends, books scribbled with notes in the margins, sunsets over rooftops that looked like paintings. There was something sacred in how she shared it, like she was letting him hold a decade of her life in the palm of his hand, one swipe at a time.

Most people, when they finally receive the thing they long for, the thing they had built up in their heads, carried in the quiet pockets of their hearts- don’t really know how to sit with it.

At first, it felt surreal, like handling porcelain so fine you were afraid it might break just by looking at it wrong. They moved carefully around the edges of it, half-believing, half-doubting, waiting for the catch, the sudden hand that would snatch it all away. And then, slowly, imperceptibly, it shifted. The dream stopped feeling like a dream. It became ordinary. The extraordinary blurred into everyday life the way sunrise blends into morning- so gradual you didn’t even realize it was happening until you looked up and found yourself living inside what you once thought was impossible.

Because when something becomes real- when you brush your teeth beside the person you once thought was lost to time, when you argue about laundry or grocery lists, when you kiss them goodnight without even thinking about it- that’s when you know it’s yours.

Not a moment snatched from fate. Not a miracle about to be undone.

Just yours.

That’s what it was like for Y/N and Sunghoon.

They didn’t crash into each other the way they had once imagined, all desperate declarations and sweeping promises. No, they folded into each other the way dusk folds into night- quietly, inevitably, without needing anyone to announce it had happened.

Their days together began quietly. The café became a second home- tucked between two stone buildings in YuYuan Garden, its windows fogged with steam and stories. They always met at the same table near the back, beside the bookshelf that tilted slightly to the left. When Sunghoon wasn’t at site meetings and Y/N wasn’t buried under red-marked essays, they sat across from each other. Sometimes they spoke, other times they didn’t have to.

Sunghoon would talk about things like glass density and foundational anchoring- things Y/N barely understood but always found beautiful in the way he described them. And she, in return, would read out loud lines from her students’ essays, shaking her head in disbelief, saying, “even I wouldn’t have thought of something so beautiful.”

Eventually, coffee dates gave way to quiet afternoons in the city. The café wasn’t enough anymore. It was Sunghoon who suggested they meet somewhere else. “Just a change of pace,” he said, “we don’t have to talk,” he said it like he always did- casually, softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever fragile thread was stretching between them.

Their first outing was to the art museum. A safe place, one where quiet was expected. They walked side by side through galleries washed in cold white light, pausing before each painting with the solemnity of churchgoers. Y/N liked watching Sunghoon look at art- the way he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. She wondered if he’d always observed the world like that.

Then, from there, the places they’d visit became less quiet, but somehow even more intimate- an afternoon at the aquarium, a stroll through the zoo, then a trip to Shanghai’s architectural icons- the Pearl Tower, the Shanghai Tower, and finally the World Financial Center.

When Sunghoon pointed up at the tower’s iconic trapezoidal aperture and told her, with absolute conviction, “A plane could fly through that,” Y/N laughed and promptly named it the keychain tower because, well, it did look like a keychain. He didn't even argue. He just smiled like someone who had been waiting a long time to be teased like that.

Eventually, their meetings moved indoors.

Y/N invited him to dinner one night. She made a strange mix of Italian and Chinese dishes- spaghetti with a recipe learned from an old Roman chef who once told her that Italians lived without regret through their pasta, and mala tofu with stir-fried bok choy, a dish she had perfected alone in her Shanghai kitchen which they had with a small bowl of sticky rice.

They ate slowly, in no rush, their conversation trailing between bites. Sunghoon leaned his forearms on the table as she told him stories about the Roman chef who had taken her under his wing for a week after she accidentally helped him carry groceries through cobbled streets. He laughed harder than he had in weeks, his mouth full of overcooked noodles and his heart unexpectedly light.

After dinner, they opened a bottle of red wine Y/N had been saving for a "meaningful occasion"- the label long peeled off, the cork slightly stubborn. They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, wine glasses in hand. She asked him about his time in university, about what he had been like before architecture turned into a career and not just a dream. He asked her about the books she didn’t publish, the ones she kept hidden in folders titled things like maybe one day and this one’s a mess. She didn’t deny it- just sipped her wine and smirked into the glass.

Later, Y/N reached behind the couch and pulled out an old, mismatched box of Jenga, the kind where a few pieces had pencil doodles and one was mysteriously chipped at the corner. “No pressure,” she said. “But I haven’t lost a game since college.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes. “You wrote your thesis on Greek tragedy, and now you’re challenging me at Jenga?”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “I’m well-versed in watching things fall apart.”

They played three rounds. She won two. The third collapsed in a drunken fit of laughter when Sunghoon accidentally sneezed and nudged the table, knocking the whole tower down.

It was one of those nights- quiet, unassuming, the kind you don’t realize is special until much later. Nothing big happened- there were no confessions, no kisses. But the air between them had changed by the time they stood at the door. There was something gentler in the way she leaned against the frame, something softer in the way he adjusted his coat before stepping into the cold.

He didn’t stay over.

He called a taxi, waited with his hands in his pockets, and when the headlights turned onto the street, he looked back at her- just once. She was still standing there, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. Not asking him to stay, not pushing him away. Just there, like always.

When Sunghoon invited her over for the first time, it wasn’t for dinner. It wasn’t even for coffee or idle conversation. He had something he wanted to show her- something that felt almost too private, too close to the part of himself he rarely let anyone touch.

The original blueprints.

He had spent years sketching versions of this building in the margins of notebooks, on napkins, on the backs of receipts. Rough ideas first, then refined ones- layer after layer of graphite and ink until they became something almost real. And now, sprawled across his living room floor, they looked delicate, almost fragile, like pieces that belonged in a museum archive.

Y/N knelt beside him without hesitation, legs folded underneath her, her hands moving carefully across the pages as if they were ancient ruins of history. She didn’t speak at first. She just traced the lines with the tip of her finger, pausing now and then to tilt her head, her brows knitting together in thoughtful concentration.

Sunghoon watched her more than he watched the drawings. The way her eyes scanned the layers of floor plans and elevation sketches, how her mouth twitched upward at the little handwritten notes he’d left for himself in the margins: rethink lobby entrance, sunlight angles too harsh?, find better material for glass- don't cheap out.

“This,” she finally said, looking up at him with something shining in her expression- not awe exactly, but something heavier, something fuller- “is incredible.”

They spent hours like that, sprawled across the floor, Y/N asking questions, Sunghoon explaining the angles of support beams and the challenges of balancing beauty with function. At some point, he realized he was rambling, getting too technical, but she never once looked bored. She just listened, the way she always had, like every word mattered.

At some point, night swallowed the city outside. The only light in the room came from a single dim lamp near the window, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. And when she finally left, long after midnight, he felt a strange ache in his chest- the kind that only comes when you realize you’ve just given someone a piece of yourself you can’t take back.

The next morning, he brought her to the construction site.

It wasn’t glamorous. The building was barely a skeleton of what it would become- exposed steel frames reaching skyward, the floors still raw and unfinished, the air thick with dust and the scent of wet concrete. Workers moved around them like ants, shouting instructions in Mandarin, the noise of drills and hammers clattering through the cool morning air.

He didn’t know why he brought her there. Maybe because part of him wanted her to see it- not the polished, finished dream, but the messy, imperfect beginning. Maybe because part of him wanted her to understand that this wasn’t just work. It was a piece of him, standing stubborn and half-built against the skyline.

She wore a bright yellow hard hat that was slightly too big, the strap loose against her chin, and an oversized reflective vest that swallowed her frame. She looked ridiculous, she looked adorable.

Sunghoon pulled out his phone and snapped a picture without thinking.

In the photo, she was smiling- not a big, posed grin, but a small, shy one, the kind of smile you give when you’re proud of something, even if it’s not yours. Behind her, the skeleton of the future loomed, all raw beams and silent promises.

He would keep that photo tucked away for years. Through the good days and the unbearable ones. Through everything that would come after.

Their friendship blurred, slowly. It didn’t surprise either of them. Somewhere, in the back of their minds, they had always known it wouldn’t stay platonic forever. From the moment they met on the train ten years ago, there had been something- not chemistry, not even longing. Just... inevitability.

It was the way their silences folded easily into each other. The way their glances lingered a beat too long, not searching, just... settling. It wasn’t some great romance that unfolded with fireworks and declarations. It was subtler than that. Quieter, like the way you reach for a light switch in the dark- it was instinctive, without needing to think.

There was no single moment when the line between them vanished. It just stopped mattering. It was in the way Sunghoon started buying her favorite kind of breakfast without asking. In how Y/N started showing up at the café with a book tucked under her arm, one she thought he might like even though he rarely read. It was her making him lunch boxes when he needed to go to the construction site. It was in the pauses between conversations- the way they both leaned in just a little, without meaning to.

They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t really need to. There was no confession, no careful declaration of feelings. It was all already there, hanging between them in the air, in every shared look, in the quiet comfort of knowing that somehow, inexplicably, you had ended up in the same place as the one person who once felt like a fleeting moment.

It wasn’t falling, it was remembering.

Remembering that even if they’d only spent a single night together on a train a decade ago, it had never truly ended when she said goodbye. That night had only paused and carried itself across years, across cities, across grief and growth- just to arrive here. And now, sitting across from each other again, it finally resumed. Like picking up a song mid-verse. Like they were simply continuing something that had never really finished.

Sunghoon told his friends about her not long after. It was during one of their three way calls that occurred once a few months, when they could accommodate the time difference and their busy schedules. And when Sunghoon told them that he was seeing someone, that it was getting serious, Jake and Jay hollered for him like they were in a football locker room. Despite their age and the sophistication that was expected by their professions, when they were around each other, they were still the weird trio from university that seemingly did everything together.

“It’s the girl from the train,” Sunghoon said. “Y/N, the girl from the train.”

And the call reached a ceasing silence. It stayed like that for a second, so quiet that Sunghoon couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He pulled his brows together in confusion. “Hello?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake finally said. “What are you saying?”

In all the nights Jay and Jake had stayed up with a drunk Sunghoon- back when they were younger, when heartbreak still looked like bruises instead of scars- they listened to him whine about a girl he met on a train. Mystery Train Girl, they called her, even though Sunghoon had told them her real name a dozen times. It became a running joke between the three of them, a sort of coping mechanism, maybe. Naming her made her feel less dangerous, less real- just another lost figure from a hazy, romanticized past.

But it wasn’t really a joke, not when Sunghoon would sometimes, in the thick of too much whiskey, talk about her like she had been a fixed point in his life. Like somehow, even though they’d only spent a single night together, she had left fingerprints on his ribs.

The stories didn’t stop even when Sunghoon met Nora- even when he fell in love again, even when he married.

They didn’t come often- only sometimes, in the quiet hours between drinks, when Nora was asleep and the weight of old memories pressed too heavily against his chest. But when they did, the fact that he still spoke about Y/N at all said more than Sunghoon probably meant it to. Jake and Jay never pointed it out. Some things didn’t need pointing out.

After Nora died, Sunghoon stopped speaking about love altogether.

He didn’t date, he didn’t flirt, he didn’t even look at anyone the same way anymore. After Nora died, the idea of opening himself up again felt unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love- he did. He had lived it, fully, with Nora. She had been his real love story, the one he thought would carry him to the end of his days. And losing her had carved something hollow inside him, something too fragile to risk breaking again. It wasn’t about moving on and it wasn’t about forgetting. It was fear- plain and sharp- the fear that if he let himself love again, he would have to survive losing it again too. And he wasn’t sure he could.

It wasn’t until Sunghoon first relocated to Shanghai- when his career finally cracked open and handed him everything he had worked for- that the two friends acted on a thought they had laughed about for years. One night, after too many beers and too much unsaid worry, they pulled out Jake’s laptop and typed her name into the search bar.

And there she was.

Older, yes- different, a little. But still unmistakably the girl Sunghoon had described with a kind of reverence no drunkenness could dull. Her picture stared back at them- in a small university profile, smiling faintly, hair tucked behind her ear.

She had published three books by then. She taught English at a local university in Shanghai. She was real. And terrifyingly close.

Jake and Jay stared at the screen for a long time, the silence between them heavier than either of them expected. They could have told him. They could have shown him. But something about it felt wrong- like opening a door Sunghoon had already chosen to leave closed.

So they didn’t say anything. They closed the laptop, and the next morning, neither brought it up again. And if there was a trace of guilt that lingered between them when they saw Sunghoon staring too long out of windows, lost in thought, or smiling a little too sadly at passing strangers- well, they buried it. Along with the rest of the secrets you keep out of love.

“Mystery Train Girl?” Jay gasped and they could imagine that his eyes were widening. “You’re joking. Y/N?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, pressing his phone closer to his ear as he chuckled. “Can you believe it? I found her. Y/N- Mystery Train Girl.”

“That’s…” Jay trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“That’s incredible, Sunghoon,” Jake said, firmly, as if he was answering for both of them. “I’m happy for you, mate. Are you happy?”

“Unbelievably, so,” Sunghoon breathed, and they could hear the smile on his face- the smile that highlighted his pointy teeth and made his eyes squint.

Jay and Jake didn’t comment much after that, only listened as Sunghoon recalled the story of how they found each other again in a tiny book store. And while listening, they were bracing for the impact of Nora’s name falling out of his mouth- that maybe he would mention her again, maybe he would break down over his first love, his dead wife. But it never came. And it sounded like Sunghoon was happy again. And his two friends didn’t have to worry about him feeling alone in another country.

A month later, Jay announced he was taking a weekend trip to Shanghai. He said it was for business, something about meeting international colleagues. Sunghoon didn’t ask many questions and simply offered him the guest bedroom, knowing it would be Jay’s first time visiting the city. It was usually Sunghoon who made the trip back to Korea, although he preferred not to. The last time he had gone back was for Christmas Eve the year before. This year, he planned to stay in Shanghai and spend the holidays with Y/N.

Sunghoon picked him up from the airport. He had booked a driver to meet them; living in a foreign country didn’t leave him much reason to own a car, and most foreigners in Shanghai got by without one anyway.

When they finally reunited at arrivals, Jay hugged him like a brother lost to time, gripping him tightly and nuzzling his head into Sunghoon’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon laughed, patting his back with more affection than he realized he still carried.

On the drive back, as the city blurred past the window in streaks of neon and rain, Sunghoon casually mentioned that Y/N had prepared dinner for them. Jay blinked, the words settling slower than they should have. For a moment, he didn’t say anything- just stared out the window, watching the city streak by in blurs of gold and gray.

“Y/N,” he repeated eventually, like he was trying the name on his tongue, reminding himself it was real.

Sunghoon didn’t notice the way Jay’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag, or how his chest rose just a little sharper with the next breath. He just kept talking- about the dinner she was cooking, about how it wasn’t anything fancy, how she insisted it was "just empanadas" even though she spent all morning preparing it.

Jay nodded, smiling faintly, his throat too tight for much else. And inside, he told himself he wouldn’t ruin this. He wouldn’t say a word about the night he and Jake had found her online, sitting in some Seoul bar with Wi-Fi sticky and regret thicker. He wouldn’t tell Sunghoon that he had almost reached out once, almost booked a flight years earlier just to shove him toward her.

No.

This was Sunghoon’s story now. Finally, it was finding its way back.

Jay leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes briefly, letting the city rush by.

Maybe some things were meant to take the long way around.

Jay was normal again by the time they reached Sunghoon’s apartment. It didn’t take much- just a lot of conviction and slipping back into his usual cocky persona, the one he wore like a second skin. Most lawyers had it; Jay had perfected it. Still, as they crossed the threshold, something in him braced without meaning to. His eyes swept the room instinctively, looking for proof, for her. For a second, it felt absurd- this quiet desperation to confirm that she wasn’t just another ghost Sunghoon had built out of grief and old memories. That she was still real after all these years.

And there she was. Y/N. Sitting at the dinner table, mid-bite, blinking up at them with a startled, awkward little smile that somehow made Jay’s chest tighten.

“So you’re the girl Sunghoon’s been unbelievably happy with,” Jay said, smiling.

His voice was easy, his posture relaxed- all charm, all mischief- and he didn’t mean any harm by it. This was his way of showing acceptance- approval, gratitude.

Sunghoon groaned, already dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t need to know I talk about her to you.”

Jay stepped forward and pulled Y/N into a quick hug- a brief, casual squeeze that made them acquaintances, allies, something realer than strangers but not yet friends. More importantly, it let Jay swallow the last of his disbelief, let him anchor himself to the fact that this girl was real. That Sunghoon had found her again. He couldn’t wait to talk to Jake about this.

He pulled back with an easy grin. “Don’t worry, all good things,” he said.

“I sure hope so,” Y/N laughed, soft and easy, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

As she turned toward the kitchen to check on dinner, Sunghoon called over his shoulder, “By the way, Jay. When’s the business meeting or whatever?”

Jay flashed a mischievous grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Not really a business meeting,” Sunghoon immediately understood what Jay meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that line. He knew Jay well enough to know that when he said he needed a break, it wasn’t from work, but from the suffocating life at home. “Just needed to get away from the wife and kids for a while,” Jay continued, as if it was nothing more than a simple errand.

It wasn’t the fact that Jay was going out to a club, or that he’d been doing it for years now. What gnawed at Sunghoon wasn’t even the affairs. It was the contradiction that Jay had become. Jay, the man who could charm anyone, the man who always knew how to treat his friends with unwavering loyalty and kindness. Jay, who would never let his mother lift a finger, who’d drop everything for a friend in need, who was the first to volunteer to help anyone. He was the perfect son, the perfect friend. He was the kind of man you’d want your daughter to marry. And he was an amazing father to his kids, too. His son adored him; his daughter looked up to him with the kind of love only a child could give.

But as a husband? It was a different story.

Sunghoon had tried to make sense of it. He’d never been one to pry, but he’d known something was off for a while now. There were the fights, the tension that seemed to hang in the air when Jay spoke of Emma, his wife. The woman who, on the surface, was everything Jay needed- beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious. But beneath that exterior, there was something darker. Something... volatile. Emma was a storm, and Jay was constantly caught in the eye of it. She never seemed to be satisfied, always complaining, always accusing him of neglect. It wasn’t the life he had envisioned when they first married.

Sunghoon had learned the truth two years ago, though. It had been over the phone, after another one of Jay’s “business trips” that seemed to stretch on longer than necessary. Jay had been in Spain, hiding away from his reality. The phone call had come late at night, the words slurred, his voice raw with emotion and shame. Jay had admitted it then, between half-chuckles and half-sighs: his marriage wasn’t just falling apart- it had already shattered.

Jay had been cheating. Not just once, but over and over again. The guilt was written all over his face when he finally confessed, his eyes avoiding Sunghoon’s. It was an open secret now, something neither of them could pretend didn’t exist. 

But Jay asked one thing: that Sunghoon not tell Jake. Jake was too pure for this, too innocent to understand. Jay’s words stuck with Sunghoon, gnawing at him every time he saw his friend. Jake, who was the embodiment of what every relationship should strive for. He was the one who would never hurt anyone, let alone his wife, not intentionally.

Jake was probably the happiest in his marriage out of all three of them. He and his wife had built a life together, with shared goals, trust, and respect. He was everything Jay had once wanted to be, before everything fell apart. Jake wouldn’t get it. Jay knew it, Sunghoon knew it. If Jake found out, it would disgust him.

“Guys, dinner’s ready,” Y/N called from the kitchen, unbeknownst to the stare Sunghoon and Jay were sharing, her voice casual but a little shy at the edges.

The table wasn’t grand- just a small spread of empanadas glistening under the soft kitchen lights, bowls of salad thrown together with whatever they had left in the fridge, a bottle of cheap red wine breathing in the center. But it felt like a feast anyway because Jay was in Sunghoon’s city for the first time and it was celebration enough.

They gathered around with clattering feet. Jay joked that he hadn't had a home-cooked meal since his kids started insisting chicken nuggets were a food group, and Sunghoon rolled his eyes, already grabbing a plate like he belonged here, like they all did.

The conversation started simple- work, weather, flights, cities. Jay filled the gaps easily, weaving stories with the kind of natural charm only a seasoned lawyer could pull off. He talked about his firm back in Seoul, how his youngest daughter had tried to draw on his legal documents with crayons, how his son still teased him for losing an argument to a four-year-old. Y/N laughed, head tipped back slightly, that kind of laugh that warmed the room more than the radiator ever could.

Eventually, the stories shifted and, predictably, they turned toward Sunghoon.

Jay grinned around a mouthful of salad as he launched into tales Y/N had never heard- how Sunghoon, back in college, once pulled three consecutive all-nighters trying to finish a model for an architecture competition, only to sleep through the final submission. How he once broke his wrist during a drunken dare to skateboard down the steepest hill on campus, and still showed up to class the next day with his notes balanced on the cast. How he used to draw intricate skylines in the margins of every notebook, even in classes that had nothing to do with architecture.

And of course, Jay couldn’t resist mentioning the infamous Europe trip- the one that changed everything without them realizing it at the time. He talked about how Sunghoon had been so annoyingly hopeful during that summer, so convinced that life was about to open itself up to him in some grand, cinematic way. How he came back different after that trip- quieter, a little more weighted- but never explained why.

Y/N listened closely, soaking in every word.

There was something almost reverent in the way she paid attention- like she was piecing together the missing years of a story she had unknowingly starred in for far too long. She laughed at the right moments, gasped in mock horror when Jay described the skateboard incident, shook her head when he revealed how Sunghoon had once nearly gotten arrested in Barcelona for accidentally trespassing on a historical site he was “admiring too closely.”

Sunghoon mostly kept quiet, nursing his wine, his gaze flickering between his best friend and the woman sitting beside him. He didn’t mind being the subject tonight. If anything, he liked it- liked the way Y/N looked at him with that half-smiling curiosity, like every ridiculous thing Jay said only made him more real to her.

“You know, on that train?” Sunghoon started, looking between Jay and Y/N. “We played cards with this group of old men. And before leaving, they wished us all the best for the future and for love.”

“I remember that,” Y/N’s smile spread softly as she recollected the memory.

“Isn’t it insane? How things worked out.”

Eventually, the night wound down. The dishes were cleared, the wine finished, the laughter tapering into that familiar, comfortable tiredness that only comes after a good meal shared between people who no longer feel like strangers.

Y/N stood and grabbed her bag, pulling out her phone to book a cab. She moved easily, like she had done this a hundred times before. But Jay frowned, watching her from his place on the couch, a sliver of unease threading through his expression.

“How’s it alright,” he muttered under his breath “for a woman to travel alone this late?”

Before he could say more, Sunghoon cut in, already waving him off. “It's safe here,” he said simply. “Safer than Seoul, honestly. She’s done this a million times.”

Jay didn’t argue further. He just pressed his lips into a tight line, nodded once, and disappeared into the guest room, trust stitched into the quiet way he left the conversation.

Sunghoon pulled on his jacket and walked Y/N down to the road where her taxi was waiting, the night wrapped heavy and slow around them. The city had quieted into a low hum, the air thick with the smell of rain and petrol, streetlights buzzing overhead like tired lullabies. They didn’t speak as they walked. There was no need to fill the space between them; the silence had its own kind of gravity, pulling them closer with every step.

At the curb, they paused. Y/N fiddled with the strap of her bag, glancing at the taxi, then back at him. The cab’s engine purred in the background, patient. Sunghoon stood there, watching her, a hundred words building and crumbling behind his teeth. He didn’t want her to go, not again, not even for the night. Without giving himself the time to overthink it- without giving the fear room to grow- he leaned down and kissed her like he did most nights they were parting ways to go to their respective homes. It was a ritual, an agreement that this was how they chose to end their days, some sort of contact, some form of affection.

She smiled at him, softly, like how she always did, her doe eyes staring back at him. He was sleepy, she could tell by his droopy eyes and ruffled brows.

“Move in with me,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual for the weight of what he was asking.

“What?” she whispered, frowning slightly as if she hadn’t heard him right.

“Move in with me,” Sunghoon repeated, steadier this time. “You basically live here anyway. Half your stuff is already here- your books, your sweaters, your coffee cups...” He gave a small, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might as well make it official.”

For a long second, she just stood there, caught between him and the waiting cab, the night buzzing softly around them. And then, slowly, impossibly, she smiled and kissed his cheek, her free hand softly cradling his face. She didn’t explicitly say yes, she didn’t have to. She just climbed into the cab with a lingering glance over her shoulder, the answer shining in her eyes before she even closed the door.

And as the taxi pulled away into the night, Sunghoon stood there for a moment longer, jacket hanging open, hands shoved into his pockets, feeling like maybe- finally- he had stopped running.

They found an apartment tucked between Y/N’s university and Sunghoon’s office- a green building at the edge of a sleepy, semi-gated community, where the sidewalks were cracked but clean, and trees arched overhead like old, patient guardians, their branches laced together like clasped hands. Stray cats wandered the streets freely, their coats dusty and proud, weaving between parked bicycles and the crooked legs of plastic chairs.

The building itself was four stories high, its walls covered in creeping ivy that turned gold in the autumn, burgundy in the winter. The paint was chipped in places. The elevator creaked every time it climbed past the second floor. But it was homey in a way most new constructions weren’t- a place that had been lived in, softened at the edges by years of small, ordinary lives.

Their unit was on the third floor, just high enough to catch the breeze but low enough to hear the neighbor’s piano practice in the evenings. The windows were tall and stubborn to open, framed by old iron grilles that let the light scatter across the walls in slanted, golden bars. The living room was small but bright, with just enough space for a second hand couch they picked out together and a low coffee table cluttered with books, half-finished crossword puzzles, and Sunghoon’s abandoned sketches.

The kitchen was recyangular, a single counter running along one wall, stained and scratched from a dozen past tenants. The stove clicked stubbornly before lighting. The fridge leaned slightly to the left. But still, it became a place where pasta boiled over and dumplings burned slightly on the bottom, where mugs clinked in the morning quiet, where grocery lists were scribbled on sticky notes and slapped onto the fridge door.

Their bedroom was tucked into the farthest corner, modest, almost shy. A narrow balcony stretched out from it, barely wide enough for two chairs and a crooked table where they sometimes sat on humid nights, sipping beer or eating cheap ice cream, watching the street lights flicker like tired fireflies.

Downstairs, the community buzzed with a life of its own. There was an old woman who sold baozi from a folding table near the gate every morning, always shouting friendly scolds when Sunghoon forgot his wallet. There was a florist who only opened his shop at odd hours and once gave Y/N a wilting rose for free, just because she said she liked the smell. There were children who played soccer in the narrow lanes, their laughter bouncing off the weathered stone walls, and a retired artist who painted landscapes on the sidewalk with chalk, only to watch them wash away with the next rain.

Inside, they built a life that settled into a rhythm almost without them realizing. Mornings meant fumbling around the kitchen together, half-asleep and heavy-limbed, passing mugs back and forth with clumsy hands and sleepy smiles. Sunghoon usually made the coffee- strong and bitter- while Y/N hovered near the stove, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way, stealing sips from his cup before her own was ready. Their jokes were softer in the mornings, murmured around yawns, laughter curling lazily into the sunlight pooling across the tiled floor.

Evenings were a little louder, a little messier. Dinner at the small wooden table by the window became a ritual neither of them ever bothered to question. Sometimes it was takeout- greasy dumplings or cold noodles in plastic boxes- and sometimes it was whatever Y/N could cobble together from the fridge after her classes: one-pot pastas, stir-fries that set off the smoke alarm more often than not. Afterward, they curled into each other on the sagging couch, the city flickering outside the window. Y/N would read aloud from whatever novel had captured her that week, her voice threading gently through the room, while Sunghoon rested his head against her shoulder, letting the sound of her fill in all the tired spaces inside him.

Sometimes it was him doing the talking instead- late-night ramblings about impossible project managers, bureaucratic nightmares, steel orders delayed yet again. He would pace the living room in frustration, tossing out architectural jargon, until Y/N tugged him back down beside her and told him, simply, stubbornly, that he was brilliant. And somehow, the knots inside his chest always loosened a little when she said it.

They argued, too- like all real couples did. Sometimes about big things, but mostly about nothing at all. Y/N wanted a pet- a dog, a cat, even a bunny, she said once, her face half-buried in a blanket, grinning. She wanted something living and soft and theirs. Sunghoon resisted, citing their long hours, their unpredictable travel, the fear of leaving something small and trusting behind. Neither of them ever won those arguments outright, but somehow they circled back to it again and again, a low-burning want that never fully left the room.

The balcony plants were another battleground. They had bought them in a fit of optimism one spring- small pots of basil, rosemary, a lemon tree that Y/N insisted would one day bear fruit- but between Sunghoon’s site visits and Y/N’s grading marathons, the poor things wilted and browned faster than they could save them. Every time a plant shriveled into nothing, they pointed fingers half-jokingly at each other, sparring over who was supposed to water them that week.

Some nights, they bickered over movies, scrolling endlessly through the options, each rejecting the other's picks with increasingly absurd excuses. In the end, they usually gave up and flipped to whatever Chinese drama happened to be airing on local TV- always badly acted, always wildly over-the-top, full of improbable plots about secret twin siblings and dramatic amnesia. They would sit side by side on the couch, trading sarcastic commentary, laughing until they couldn’t breathe, until the night felt stitched together with something stronger than just habit.

And just like that, three years had slipped by since they reunited in that quiet Shanghai bookshop, and two years since they moved into their creaky, stubborn apartment- the one with the ivy-covered walls, the third-floor balcony, the kitchen that never fully heated up in winter but somehow became the warmest place they knew. Their home had filled itself over time- birthdays celebrated with mismatched streamers taped hastily to the walls, cooking disasters they cleaned up side by side, little wins toasted with cheap wine until they laughed themselves breathless on the worn-out couch. The walls bore witness to it all- Y/N’s cluttered shelves of trinkets, Sunghoon’s architecture sketches pinned in loose, sprawling lines across the living room, the hum of music on lazy Sundays, the clink of coffee mugs in the mornings, and the quiet, sacred moments of intimacy that didn't need words.

And now, it was time to mark the next chapter. 

Sunghoon’s building- the one he had sketched and dreamed and fought for- was finally complete. His name was folded into the skyline of Shanghai, stitched into concrete and glass, visible only to those who knew where to look. He'd done it- he finally did it.

To celebrate, his company hosted a grand opening, a party far more extravagant than anything Sunghoon would have thrown for himself. It was held in the top floor of the building where the champagne flowed, velvet ropes cordoned off the important people, and unfamiliar faces mingled under bright lights. It was supposed to be about his achievement, his vision made real- but to Sunghoon, it felt heavier, more personal. It felt like surviving. It felt like standing on the other side of everything that should have broken him.

Jay and Jake flew in from Seoul for the event, carrying the kind of chaos and heart only old friends could bring. Jay, with his reckless grin and booming voice, immediately made enemies with the event staff over "no kids running" rules. And the tension between him and his wife didn’t go unnoted. Jake arrived with Minji and their two children, presenting Sunghoon with an aged bottle of whiskey so expensive he almost dropped it in shock. 

When asked what gift Jay had brought, he slapped Sunghoon hard on the back and joked, "Who do you think is gonna be your lawyer when the lawsuits come in?" But later, when the crowd thinned slightly, Jay leaned in and muttered that the real gift- a carved jade vase picked out for him and Y/N- was waiting in his hotel room, too fragile to be dragged through the crowd.

As Sunghoon was swept away by a crowd of people- clients, architects, and reporters, all eager to speak with him, interview him, and congratulate him on the success of his building- Y/N found herself momentarily adrift, the hum of conversations around her blending into a distant background. But before she could get lost in the noise of it all, Jay’s voice broke through, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Y/N,” he called with a warm smile, one that seemed to soften the usual edge in his eyes. “Come meet everyone.”

He introduced her first to Emma, who gave her a polite, though reserved, handshake. Emma’s eyes were kind, but there was something guarded about her smile, as if she were measuring Y/N before deciding how much to let in. Next, Jay introduced her to his children. His son, a bright-eyed eight-year-old, immediately started chatting about his favorite cartoons, while his daughter, a few years younger, shyly held out a hand for a quick shake before retreating to her mother’s side.

Y/N smiled warmly, watching the kids interact with Jake’s, whose boisterous laughter seemed to fill the air as they played together like long-lost friends.

And then, Jake’s family appeared, standing close behind them with easy smiles and a regal air about them, as if their wealth and poise were as much a part of their DNA as their names. Minji, Jake’s wife, stood confidently beside him, her hands full with the impeccable, expensive gift they had brought. She, too, offered Y/N a warm handshake and a glance of approval, one that spoke volumes about the quiet power she held within their circle.

“Your boyfriend’s quite the star tonight,” Jake grinned and raised his wine glass, scanning his eyes across the crowd.

Sunghoon stepped up to the mic, his hand briefly adjusting the collar of his shirt as the room fell silent. A soft clink of silver against glass echoed through the space, signaling the beginning of his speech. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze finding familiar faces among the sea of guests. He looked nervous, his friends could tell by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his squinted eyes. Y/N chuckled, clasping her hands together and coaxing him.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, his voice steady but filled with gratitude. "This building has been a lifelong dream of mine, something that’s been in the making for years. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid, when I was still playing with LEGO.”

The crowd lulled at him. 

"This moment wouldn’t be possible without the support of my family, my friends, and everyone who believed in me. I’m especially grateful to my parents, who have always been my foundation, and to my friends- Jay, Jake, and everyone who’s been by my side through thick and thin."

He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as it landed on Y/N. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"And to Y/N, my wonderful girlfriend who never stopped believing in me- for fifteen years, you’ve always been patient and supporting me. In your own, quiet ways." The room was quiet, everyone’s attention rapt, as Sunghoon continued. "This building- this achievement- it's as much as all of yours as it is mine. So, thank you, all of you, for helping me get here."

The crowd erupted in applause. 

He raised his glass slightly. "Here’s to many more moments like this."

The crowd cheered, and the applause filled the room, but Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on Y/N, his heart full.

The applause still echoed in the room, but Sunghoon barely noticed. His heart was pounding, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as his feet moved instinctively toward her. His eyes locked on Y/N, standing at the edge of the room, her smile brighter than he’d ever seen it before.

He could feel the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him- the pride of the night, the weight of the years of work, and the absolute certainty that in this moment, in this life, all that mattered was her. Everything else- every achievement, every challenge- had led to this.

Without thinking, he jogged towards her, ignored everyone that reached towards him, the excitement in his chest pushing him forward. He took her hands in his, the warmth of her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. The world felt distant, muted, as if the room had shrunk down to just the two of them, standing in a bubble of their own.

Y/N’s wide, surprised eyes met his, her lips curling into a smile as she looked up at him, unsure of what was coming. Sunghoon didn’t let the moment slip.

"Marry me," he said, his voice low but certain, no hesitation, no ring, no preparation. Just the raw sincerity of what he felt.

Y/N stared at him, stunned, the question hanging between them like a breath neither of them could take. For a second, the whole room seemed to still- the lights, the music, the people- all blurring into the background. All that was left was him, and her, and the weight of everything they had built without ever daring to name it.

"Sunghoon?" Her voice was soft, unsure, like she couldn’t quite believe what he was asking.

"Marry me, Y/N," he repeated, the words tumbling out with all the confidence he had in her, in them, in the life they’d built together. "Make me yours. Marry me,” he looked at her like she’d written his life, like she hung the stars that his building touched. His hair fell on his forehead, eyes sparkling under the white light of the room, his pointy teeth peeking under his lips.

The room continued to buzz around them, but all he could hear was the beating of his heart and the way her hands tightened in his. It was as if everything had led to this point- every smile they’d shared, every quiet moment, every fight, every laugh. It was all right here, and in that one moment, all of it felt like it was finally falling into place.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his face, taking in the rawness of his plea, her breath catching in her throat as her heart caught up with what he was saying. For a beat, it felt like the world had paused. The future, their future, stretched out ahead of them, and for the first time, it didn’t seem so uncertain.

“Yes,” she whispered, fighting the smile that inevitably spread across her face, her eyes beaming. “I’ll marry you, yes.”

That night, their apartment was filled with the kind of laughter that wrapped around the walls and stuck there, soaked into the wood and the floorboards and the worn fabric of the couch. Jay and Jake’s families crowded into the small living room, balancing wine glasses and plates of leftovers, their kids weaving between legs and couch cushions, building forts out of pillows and throwing giggling fits that made even the neighbors downstairs stomp once on their ceiling in protest.

The celebration wasn’t just for the building- although Jake made a big, showy toast about Sunghoon “finally putting something other than Legos together.” It wasn’t just for the engagement, either- although Jay yelled loud enough for the entire floor to hear when Y/N showed off the temporary ring Sunghoon had bought from a street vendor just to make it official. It was for everything- for the survival, the endurance, the blind faith it had taken to get here.

The whiskey Jake had brought from Korea was uncorked, its rich, smoky scent curling through the apartment, mixing with the smells of cheap takeout and someone's abandoned lavender hand lotion. They drank too much and laughed too hard and retold old stories, the ones that had been dragged out a hundred times before but still hit just as hard. They toasted to love, to family, to new beginnings that had been a long time coming.

At the center of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, pressed into each other on the couch, still a little dazed, still blinking like they couldn’t quite believe their luck. Sunghoon leaned into her, his forehead bumping against hers, their hands tangled loosely in the space between them. Y/N laughed at something Jay said across the room, the sound spilling over Sunghoon’s shoulder like warm water. He looked at her the way you look at something you know you’re going to spend the rest of your life memorizing.

The next morning arrived heavy and slow. The hall smelt of whiskey and cold takeout with sunlight slanting lazily across the messy apartment floor. Jay and Jake groaned their way out of the guest room, looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. The kids and the wives were still sleeping, Y/N still locked in the room with her head buried in pillows. While Sunghoon, somehow, had the audacity to be chipper, already showered and dressed, pacing the living room with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Let’s go," he said brightly, nudging Jake with his foot where he slumped on the couch.

"Go where?" Jake grunted, rubbing his face.

Sunghoon just grinned and said, "You’ll see."

Half an hour later, they were standing in front of a jewelry store in downtown Shanghai, still half-hungover, blinking against the polished glass and diamond shine like they’d stumbled into a parallel universe. Jake muttered something about needing sunglasses. Jay just stood there with his hands in his pockets, squinting at the window displays like they personally offended him.

When they went inside, it didn’t take long for chaos to start.

"I’m telling you, oval cut is the way to go," Jake said, leaning dramatically over the glass counter, pointing at a delicate, glittering ring.

Jay scoffed. "Oval is boring. Get her a princess cut. Classic. Clean. Also sounds badass- princess cut."

Jake rolled his eyes. "You're a lawyer, not a jeweler. Stay in your lane."

"And you’re a surgeon, not a stylist. What do you know about jewelry?"

“I know more about cuts than you!”

They kept going, arguing louder and louder, drawing a few raised eyebrows from the staff, while Sunghoon- unnoticed- had already chosen. The moment he saw it, he knew. Simple and elegant, a solitaire diamond, set low in a slender band of platinum. Not too flashy, not too plain.

Exactly Y/N- exactly her in every way that mattered.

Without saying a word, Sunghoon pulled out his card, signed the receipt, and slipped the velvet box into his jacket pocket. By the time Jake and Jay turned around, still bickering over cushion cuts versus marquise cuts, Sunghoon was already walking out the door.

"Wait- did you pick one?" Jay called after him, confused.

Sunghoon didn’t even slow down. He just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, "Already done. Keep arguing if you want, though. Maybe you can pick your own next time."

“Excuse me, next time?”Jake looked at Jay, comical confusion on his face. But they ignored him and dragged him to a restaurant for lunch.

iii. When The Lights Start to Flicker

They'd been married a little over a year now, still living in the same apartment. The place had become a reflection of them- a small, sunlit sanctuary amid the constant rush of Shanghai. Sunghoon had started designing a house for them to build one day, a place they could call their own. He envisioned a space with wide windows to catch the morning light, a garden with space for their future children to play, and maybe even a little patch of grass where they could set up a swing. The plan was to settle in Shanghai, to raise their family here, to grow old together and, eventually, die here. Shanghai had become their city, their home.

Above their bed hung their only wedding photo- a courthouse wedding they had to have in Hong Kong. They hadn’t had time to plan something big, but the simplicity of it made it feel real in a way nothing else could. Their faces were flushed from laughter, hair messily styled from the winds on the ferry, clothes wrinkled and etched, eyes bright and full of hope- a stark contrast to the quiet mornings that followed.

The jade vase Jay had gifted them for their wedding day now sat on their balcony, a tiny lemon tree growing from it, its leaves stubborn and green despite the occasional gusts of wind. It was one of those small symbols of their life together- not perfect, not always flourishing, but resilient. Framed pictures dotted the apartment- photos from holidays with their families, snapshots from trips they’d taken with Jake and Jay’s families, and spontaneous polaroids of the two of them in various places, their smiles as wide and unguarded as the moments in which they were taken. 

Jay and Emma were divorced now, but they still kept in touch, if only for the sake of the kids. Jake’s children were growing fast, entering middle school now, a milestone Sunghoon couldn’t quite wrap his head around, hearing them yell “Samchon Sunghoon” over the phone all the time. Sometimes, they’d talk about their plans for the future- whether it was dinners at the new restaurant in Shanghai or weekend trips to the coast- always something to look forward to, always an excuse to keep moving forward, to keep adding to the timeline of their life.

Life seemed good. No- life was good. Better than Sunghoon had ever dared hope for. In the mornings, Y/N would make coffee while he sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his sketches for the house, and they’d talk about their day- trivial things at first: what they’d have for dinner, what he should wear to the meeting later. Then, there were the deeper conversations, the ones where they talked about their future, the one they were building together, like they were planting seeds for something that would last a lifetime.

Evenings were quiet. After dinner, they’d curl up on the couch, wrapped in soft blankets, watching old movies or the latest series they had gotten hooked on. Y/N liked to talk about their plans as if they were already there- as if the house was already standing, the kids already laughing in the garden. It felt like a dream Sunghoon was terrified to wake up from. There were nights he lay awake beside her, her steady breathing grounding him, his mind racing with the fear that it could all be taken away with a single misstep, a wrong decision. He felt too lucky, too undeserving of all of this. He couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, if this was just a dream, one that he would wake up from at any moment- a dream that, apparently, was their life.

There were small moments, too- the way Y/N would smile when he’d finish a long day at work, the way she hummed a quiet tune while tending to the plants in their living room, the soft rustling of pages as she read before bed. Little things, but they were the rhythm of their life, the foundation of something they had both worked for and built from scratch.

Yeah. Life was great.

Until the night he came home and found her sobbing on the couch.

The sound cracked through the apartment like a whip, stopping him in his tracks. His bag slid forgotten from his shoulder as he rushed to her side, crouching in front of her, reaching out without even knowing what he would say. Y/N was folded into herself, shaking, the kind of sobs that came from somewhere deeper than just grief. It took long, fumbling minutes to piece the story together through her broken words.

“Do you remember my uncle John?” Y/N asked between sobs. “The one who…”

Killed himself?

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, his hand gripping hers and holding her against her chest. 

“His daughter,” she sobbed. “His daughter hung herself.”

Her cousin- the eldest daughter of her late uncle- was gone. A suicide, barely days away from earning her PhD. She had flown home under the pretense of rest and family- and instead had left a note explaining she had come to say goodbye.

Sunghoon’s arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her against him, shielding her from the world with nothing but his own helpless warmth. He listened as she cried out memories, old guilt, new grief, her voice cracking apart in ways he didn’t know how to fix. He stayed with her through the night, through the tremors of her heart breaking open again, whispering comfort into her hair even though he knew it couldn’t patch the hole now yawning wide inside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Y/N couldn’t sleep. She wandered the apartment like a ghost, curling into Sunghoon at odd hours, talking in tangled loops about death, about missing signs, about how unfair it all was. Sunghoon held her through it, steady as he could be, biting down his own helplessness because what else was there to do?

And then, one night, it shifted into something worse.

She sat on the couch again, curled up in her favorite worn sweatshirt, the fabric soaked with tears. But this time, when she spoke, the names were wrong. The story was wrong. She wasn’t talking about her cousin anymore- she was talking about her uncle. About the bathtub, the blood, the knife slipping from his hand. Events that had happened years ago, long before they met. Like all of that was happening now.

Sunghoon’s heart stopped cold.

He knelt in front of her, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face, his voice shaking as he tried to pull her back. “Y/N,” he said softly, urgently, "that was... years ago. Not now. Not this time. It's your cousin, remember?"

For a long moment, she just stared at him like she didn’t know where she was, like he was speaking a language she couldn’t quite catch. And then, slowly, she blinked, wiped her face with trembling fingers, and whispered, “Sunghoon? Right. Right… years ago.”

Sunghoon didn’t think much of it- he chalked it up to exhaustion. In all the time she spent crying and juggling work and keeping herself alive, it could easily have been her brain trying to keep up. The stress of grief, the late nights spent tossing and turning, and the constant pressure to appear okay- it all had to take its toll somewhere. He convinced himself it was just a phase, something temporary that would eventually pass. But deep down, there was a quiet, nagging feeling he couldn't quite shake.

Because one day, when she woke up beside him, Sunghoon felt it in the air before she even opened her eyes. She stared at him like she had never seen him before, like a stranger had slipped into their bed overnight. The seconds stretched and cracked, her gaze flickering with confusion, then panic. And in a heartbeat, she was scrambling out of bed, shouting “Bloody Mary!” like some kind of primal instinct had taken hold of her.

“Who are you?” She demanded, voice breaking, hands shaking, frantic. “How did you get in here?”

Sunghoon’s heart sank, raw and painful, as he sat frozen for a moment, the silence between them suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He slowly got out of bed, each step toward her feeling like a weight around his chest, every word that left his mouth laced with fear.

“Y/N, it’s just me. It’s me- Sunghoon,” he whispered, his voice shaking, as if trying to pull her back from some invisible abyss. She froze, eyes wide, unblinking, but she wasn’t seeing him. Not really.

It took minutes- long, painful minutes- before her eyes cleared, and she blinked slowly, the pieces clicking back into place. She looked at him as if waking from a nightmare, and the moment she realized it, she crumpled into him, sobbing uncontrollably.

He didn’t leave her side that day. She didn’t go to work. She didn’t even get out of bed. Her body seemed to collapse in on itself, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her, and he held her tighter, as if that might make the pieces fit again.

There were other days, too, small moments that cut through him like a knife. She’d stand in front of the fridge, staring at it like she had no idea what it was for, no idea what she was looking for. He'd ask if she needed anything, and she’d shake her head with a small, distant smile, as if she were trying to remember the question.

And then there was the train.

The train ride that had started it all- the one that had sparked their first conversation, the first connection, the first laughter. Sunghoon would bring it up from time to time, a simple, warm memory to anchor them both. But Y/N would look at him, eyes soft and unfocused, and tilt her head.

“Train?” she’d ask, brow furrowing. “What train?”

He would try again, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Y/N, our train. Sixteen years ago, when we met. In Europe. You remember? We talked for hours.”

“Europe?” Her voice was small, uncertain, as if the word was a strange, unfamiliar sound in her mouth.

Sunghoon’s heart would crack a little more every time, and he’d blink back tears, trying to hold it together. She wasn’t her in those moments. The woman who had laughed with him for hours, who had stolen his heart on that train ride, seemed to slip farther away with each passing day.

He'd search her face for something- anything- that resembled the woman he knew. But all he’d find was a faint trace of recognition, a distant look in her eyes, as though she was staring at him from the other side of a foggy glass.

“I... I don’t remember, Sunghoon,” she’d say softly, a frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“How did we meet, Y/N? When was the first time we met?”

Y/N broke down in tears again because she, in fact, could not recall.

But then, the memory lapses seemed to fade. As she began to come to terms with her cousin’s death- after the funeral, after the guilt, after the crushing waves of grief- she seemed lighter, steadier. The moments of confusion slipped into the background, infrequent enough to feel like grief-induced fog rather than something concerning. And Sunghoon, so desperate to believe that everything was okay, let himself believe it too. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Jake, not Jay, not even her family. He pushed it away like a bad dream, convinced that maybe it had all just been stress, and that maybe, just maybe, they were fine again.

Until one day, when Y/N was on her way to the metro station for work and called him in full-blown panic. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered into the phone, breath sharp and uneven. “I don’t know where I’m going, Sunghoon. I don’t know why I left.”

He ran out of the apartment, sprinting down the streets near the station, his heart thudding so hard it made his ears ring. When he found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk by the flower vendor, her knees pulled to her chest, hands trembling. And when she looked up at him, her eyes flooded with relief. “Hoon,” she gasped, like she had been holding her breath the whole time. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms right there on the pavement. And at least she still remembered him. That was something- that was everything.

But the small incidents began piling up like dominoes. One evening after dinner with friends, she fumbled through her purse for the house keys, her anxiety rising with every second. “They're gone, I can’t find them, I must’ve lost them.” Her voice cracked with panic- until Sunghoon gently took her hand and unfolded her fingers to reveal the keys she’d been clutching all along. Another day, she left the stove on while boiling eggs and stepped out for groceries. The fire alarm screamed through the building, and Sunghoon came home to the smell of scorched metal and neighbors in the hallway, shaken.

Then there were the names- she’d start stories and stall mid-sentence, unable to remember who she was talking about. She began confusing days of the week, missed appointments she’d never forget before, and sometimes called objects by the wrong name- a toothbrush was a “face stick,” a clock was a “time circle.” She started repeating herself too- asking if they had milk three times in ten minutes. Sunghoon would answer each time like it was the first, but the silence that followed hurt worse than anything else.

Eventually, with a shaking hand and dread thick in his throat, Sunghoon called Jake.

“She’s forgetting things, Jake,” he said, voice low and broken. “Not just little things. Big things. She gets scared. She’s getting words wrong, she’s leaving the stove on. She called me from the metro station and didn’t know why she was there. And... it’s happening more and more often.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Jake’s voice came through, steady but grave. “Sunghoon… She's showing signs of dementia. It sounds like she’s on her way to Alzheimer’s. You need to find out if anyone in her family has a history of it. Now.”

Turns out, after a gentle, seemingly harmless conversation Sunghoon started one afternoon while folding laundry beside her- “Hey, do you know if anyone in your family ever had memory problems?”- he found out that Y/N’s maternal grandmother had died of Alzheimer’s. It happened in a way her family never really talked about it. It had been brushed off as “old age,” but the signs were there, Y/N’s mother admitted later. She had forgotten her children’s names in the final years. She couldn’t even recognize her husband.

And from then on, it was like the truth became impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s memory declined like the last embers of a dying fire- slow at first, barely visible, but then suddenly collapsing inwards. She’d forget what room she was walking into, or why she was holding a spoon in the bathroom. She began writing notes on post-its and sticking them everywhere- Keys are on the hook. Your uncle and cousin are dead. You’re married to Sunghoon. Sometimes, even she couldn't read her own handwriting.

She stopped cooking. She’d forget she had started, then come back hours later to find uncooked rice soaking or wilted vegetables on the counter. Sometimes she’d call Sunghoon in tears because she couldn’t find the phone she was calling from. Her mood began to swing without warning. Sweet one moment, then suddenly furious, accusing Sunghoon of hiding things, or worse- cheating on her.

She’d wake up in the middle of the night and scream because she didn’t recognize their bedroom. There were days she wouldn’t even let him touch her, claiming he was an impersonator. “Where’s my husband?” She’d cry. “Sunghoon would never keep me here.” And then, as if a switch had flipped, she’d melt into his arms and sob.

Eventually, she quit her job and stopped working on her next book. She couldn’t remember her passwords, couldn’t keep up with deadlines, and once left her office because she got scared that the people there were “pretending” to know her. Sunghoon stopped going into the studio too. He asked to work remotely, spending most of his time beside her, trying to anchor her to the present. But she started living almost entirely in the past.

The outbursts became violent. She once threw a mug across the kitchen. She started locking herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. Jake and Y/N’s family began to insist gently- and then firmly- that Sunghoon consider long-term care. That he couldn’t do this alone, that she was slipping away and needed help.

Sunghoon didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t imagine a day without her- her real, true self, even if she only appeared in flickers now. But after one especially bad night- Y/N screaming and crying, hitting herself, convinced her dead uncle was still alive and had just called her- he brought it up.

“I think maybe…” he whispered, kneeling beside her where she was curled up in the hallway, “maybe we should find a place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with people who know how to help you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You want to lock me up?” She spat. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No- no, baby, that’s not-”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” she shrieked. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere! You’re not taking me!”

They tried again later. Her mother came, and Jake, and even her old colleague from the university. But each time, Y/N fought like a wild animal. She screamed and sobbed and clung to Sunghoon like a drowning woman. And each time, they had to remind her- again and again- You’re in the future. You have dementia. You don’t remember because your brain is forgetting things. You have Alzheimer’s.

Some mornings, she’d dress up in old college hoodies and ask what time her environmental psychology class was. She’d talk about a boy named Henry- someone she dated when she was 19- and wonder why he hadn’t called. Once, she set the table for dinner and asked if her uncle was coming. Another time, she stood by the window for hours waiting for her cousin to come pick her up.

Worst of all were the moments when her eyes would light up, recognition blooming, and she'd talk to Sunghoon like she remembered everything- only to forget his name halfway through the conversation.

One afternoon, they were walking back from a small bakery, when she wandered toward a street vendor selling baozi. She smiled warmly at the woman and launched into fluent French. The seller blinked, confused, and Sunghoon gently placed a hand on Y/N’s back.

“She thinks she’s in Marseille,” he whispered, forcing a smile.

Y/N turned to him, delighted. “Can you believe this aunty sells baozi in France?”

Sunghoon didn’t correct her. He just nodded, voice tight, “Yeah, baby. That’s wild.”

Because sometimes, lying was the kindest thing he could do.

And then… Y/N wasn’t lucid anymore. Not even for a moment, not even in the in-betweens. The disease had taken everything- her memories, her language, her personality. It stripped her of everything that made her her- and what remained was just a flickering ghost, a body that moved and blinked and sometimes smiled at nothing. A shell. Breathing, yes, but not alive- not really.

Sunghoon wasn’t her husband anymore. He was a kind man who brought her food and gently wiped drool from her chin. A stranger who helped her get dressed when she stared blankly at her hands like they didn’t belong to her. A shadow in her life that didn’t mean anything to her anymore, though to him- God, to him- she was still everything.

He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly there with him.

Was it months ago? When they went to that new Chinese film- the one they’d talked about for weeks? He remembered holding her hand in the theatre, feeling the tremble in her fingers, how she laughed at a joke five seconds after everyone else. Or maybe it was more recent- last week, maybe? When he was cooking dinner, she wandered in, looked at him for a long, glassy-eyed second, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist. She just held him. No words, no explanation- just a small human miracle.

But that was gone now. Completely, utterly gone. 

She stared through windows like she was waiting for someone who would never arrive. She whispered to herself, nonsense words, phrases from decades ago. She forgot how to use the bathroom. Forgot how to chew. She didn’t recognize mirrors, or her own name.

And her eyes- those beautiful, sharp, sparkling eyes- were just fog now. Pale glass. Empty, like a house with all the lights turned off.

Sunghoon sat beside her every night and read the books they used to love. Even though she didn’t respond. Even though she didn’t blink. He combed her hair. He played her favorite music. He held her hand until she pulled away like he was nothing but static.

Jake flew in from China after a call with her doctors, something urgent in his voice. He couldn’t stand the silence on the other end of the updates anymore. Couldn’t stand the breaking in Sunghoon’s voice- the exhaustion, the hollowness. He met with every doctor, every specialist, brought files and reports and records. But they all said the same thing, their eyes filled with pity:

“She’s in the final stage.”

Jake stood in the cold hallway outside Y/N’s room that night, phone to his ear, as he talked to Jay back home. His voice was low, cracked.

“I don’t think Sunghoon can live through this,” Jake said. “Not this time. He loses Y/N, we lose him too.”

Jay didn’t respond for a long time. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper.

“There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s… is there?”

Jake’s silence was answer enough.

There was a long, bitter breath. The kind you let out when there’s nothing else to say.

“He’s dying in pieces,” Jake finally said. “Watching her fade day after day- he’s dying with her. But slower. Crueler.”

And it was true.

Sunghoon hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been eating right. His eyes were rimmed red all the time, the edges of his mouth permanently turned down like someone grieving something invisible. He sat beside Y/N’s bed for hours, watching her blink at the ceiling or hum some broken tune from childhood. He whispered her name so many times it stopped sounding like a real word.

And sometimes, just sometimes, she would glance his way. Not with recognition. Not with warmth. Just the barest flicker. A look that said: You seem kind. But not: You’re mine. You’re the man I loved. The life I chose.

That had died a long time ago.

“No, no, don’t touch me!” Y/N screamed, thrashing her arms violently, knocking over the bedside lamp.

“Y/N, please- please, it’s me,” Sunghoon pleaded, hands hovering midair, helpless. “It’s me. It’s Sunghoon.”

“Don’t say my name like you know me!” She howled, eyes wide and wild, spit flying from her lips. “Where’s my Uncle?! Where’s my cousin? What did you do to them?!”

“Y/N, they’re not-” He couldn’t even say it. Not dead. Not gone. Not again.

She stumbled back into the dresser, knocking down her perfume bottles. The crash made her scream louder. “You kidnapped me! You sick bastard, get away from me!”

His legs gave way and he knelt on the floor, arms limp. The weight in his chest felt like drowning, like suffocating underwater and knowing no air was coming.

His Y/N, who once kissed him under the rain in Prague. Who held his hand through every storm. Who made burnt toast every morning and danced barefoot in the kitchen when she thought he wasn’t looking.

That woman was gone. And this… this terrified creature screaming at shadows- was what remained.

He watched her curl into a ball near the window, sobbing into her knees, whispering names of people who hadn’t existed in years. Her cousin. Her uncle. All dead. Yet in her head, they were just in the next room.

His lungs burned. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

She’s dying.

Not fast, not clean. But slow and fucking torturous- like a sun going cold over weeks, months, years. He couldn’t even scream. The pain was too heavy for sound.

He crawled toward her, barely able to speak. “You’re safe, Y/N. You’re safe. I would never hurt you.”

She flinched from him like he was a monster.

And it broke him. God, it broke him in a way no words could hold.

He wanted to tear his skin off. Rip out his heart and offer it to her like: Here. Take it. If it means you remember me again for just one minute- take it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Even if you don’t know who I am anymore. Even if this- if this is all that’s left of us.”

She just kept sobbing.

And Sunghoon sat beside her like a ghost in his own home, rocking slightly, eyes glazed with tears that would never stop falling.

He was losing her. Just like before.

But this time… this time, it wasn’t death that took her.

It was forgetting.

And that was worse.

Because now, he had to wake up every single day… to watch the woman he loved disappear right in front of him.

Over and over again.

Until there was nothing left.

iv. The Bath Water Was Cold

Y/N was lucid.

For the first time in weeks- maybe months- her mind was still. No fog, no missing names, no confusion. Just unbearable, crystalline clarity.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, trembling, knowing that something was wrong. The moonlight streaked across the wooden floors like ghostlight, pale and haunting. The house was quiet. Too quiet, like it was already mourning her. Sunghoon was asleep beside her, his face serene like the past few years weren’t filled with the torture Y/N had brought upon him- she’d become a burden, she knew it.

The walls no longer combined into a collage of framed pictures, Sunghoon’s sketches and movie posters anymore- they were sticky notes, all small reminders of Y/N’s life and what it really was- the real version, not the jumbled memory version. The house was messy with ripped pillows, strewn blankets, a shattered mug in the corner of the kitchen, a broken window- she didn’t know what happened to cause it. But she knew it was probably because of her.

In the mirror, she saw herself.

Not the version Sunghoon kept insisting still existed- the brave, curious woman who once dove off boats and kissed him under stars. Not the woman who used to teach English, who quoted Greek philosophy, who went on a spontaneous Europe trip alone. No. This version was frail, hollowed, yes sunken, lips pale, skin dull. She looked like someone halfway to the other side already.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink, nails digging into the ceramic. She thought of her cousin, of her uncle, of the smell of her old childhood home, of France, of baozi, of the train ride with Sunghoon, of the moment she fell in love with him, of the night he asked her to marry him. But she couldn’t remember what had been happening for the past couple of years- she didn’t remember how Sunghoon was killing himself to take care of her, she didn’t remember the pain her condition brought upon her family- she just knew, like it was some sort of gut feeling.

She thought of what would happen tomorrow when she woke up. The blank stares, the panic, the shaking, the way Sunghoon’s voice cracked every time he had to explain who he was again. Like carving a wound into his chest, again and again, daily.

She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t be a monster in his story and he couldn't be the martyr to her story. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she ran a bath. Not hot. Not warm. Cold- the kind of cold where you hissed at the contact of water. And she wanted to feel it- wanted it to shock her back into herself, wanted the bite of it to remind her that she was alive- right now.

She stepped in slowly, like stepping into a grave. The porcelain shivered beneath her as she slid down, letting her head rest back.

And then, she slipped under.

No gasping. No flailing. Just… silence.

The last thought that crossed her mind was of Sunghoon’s face when she first kissed him. How his eyes fluttered shut, how gentle he was, how scared he was to fall in love. And how he did it anyway.

I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.

And just like that, Y/N was alone- ceasing to exist. The shadow she thought she’d gotten rid of had returned in a form much more permanent, much more numbing.

Sunghoon woke up to cold sheets.

That was the first sign. Y/N was always up early, but she always tucked herself back in, wrapped herself around him like ivy. The second sign was the silence. No kitchen clatter, no soft footsteps, no humming of French lullabies. The third sign was the open bathroom door.

“Y/N?” he called softly, walking barefoot across the wood.

Nothing.

He stepped into the bathroom and saw her.

At first, he didn’t understand. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Then it hit him like a train. Her body, limp in the tub. Water still, blue, like glass around her. Her face turned slightly to the side, lips pale, eyes closed. So still, too still.

“No,” he breathed, and the world cracked.

He fell to his knees, the sound that escaped him not even human. It was raw, unhinged, guttural. He plunged his arms into the water, ice biting his skin, and pulled her out with all the strength he had left. Her body was heavier than he remembered. Deadweight. Dead. Dead. He screamed her name, pressed his ear to her chest, shook her, slapped her face gently, kissed her cold lips, sobbed into her skin.

“Come on,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, wake up, Y/N. Please. Baby. Just one more time.”

He tried CPR. He screamed until his throat bled. He called the ambulance. He called the police. He called Jake. He called her mother. Called his mother. He called anyone and everyone. But she was already gone- had been for hours.

He lay on the bathroom floor with her cradled against him, soaking wet, rocking back and forth like a man possessed. When the paramedics arrived, they had to pry her from his arms. He fought them. He kicked and screamed. He cursed God. He cursed the mirror. He cursed himself for not waking up earlier. For not sleeping with one eye open. For not knowing.

Jake arrived just as they were wheeling her body out. He caught sight of Sunghoon- barefoot, drenched, shaking like a leaf, bloodshot eyes, face a ruin of grief.

“I should’ve known,” Sunghoon rasped, collapsing into Jake’s arms.

Jake couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just held him as Sunghoon shattered.

In the days that followed, Sunghoon stopped eating. Not out of protest, not out of some conscious decision to spiral- but because food simply didn’t make sense anymore. The smell of it nauseated him. His stomach didn’t growl; his body didn’t ask. It was like it too had given up, echoing his refusal to accept the world without her in it. He didn't move from their bedroom, except to use the bathroom or stare blankly out of the balcony where the lemon tree still stood tall in the jade vase Jay had gifted them, now with one yellowing leaf curling at its edge. The rest of the apartment felt like an unfamiliar museum of their life together- every framed photo now a relic, every memory preserved in glass. He sat curled up on her side of the bed for hours at a time, her old scarf clutched between his hands, threadbare and faded but still faintly warm with her scent. He would press it to his face, over and over, inhaling until his chest hurt- like if he could just breathe deep enough, she’d come back to him. But with each passing hour, the scent faded, and so did his hope.

The funeral happened without him. He couldn’t bear it- the thought of standing before a coffin and admitting aloud that it contained her. That the girl who once ran barefoot through summer rain with him, who cried watching terrible documentaries, who held his face and told him she would love him forever- was now a cold, still body in a box. He didn’t want the last time he saw her to be like that. He wanted to remember her in motion- laughing, crying, living. So when her parents and Jake pleaded with him to come, when Jay sent messages begging him to say goodbye properly, all he could do was shake his head and whisper, “I already did.”

People came and went- friends from university, colleagues from work. Emma and Minji came by with a bouquet and left it in silence. Jake and Jay stayed. They cooked, cleaned, and took calls when Sunghoon couldn’t answer them. They spoke in hushed tones with her family, organized papers, and cleared out her drawer of medications. Once, Jake heard Sunghoon crying softly in the kitchen, trying not to be heard, and for a split second, he wanted to go to him, to lean on someone. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Because the only person he had ever learned to lean on was gone. And in her place was just this howling emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He whispered into the silence at night, curling into himself on the cold mattress. “I love you. Come back.” He said it like a prayer, like a mantra, like a spell. Over and over. Sometimes it was a whisper, sometimes it was a scream into the hollow dark. But she never did. There was no sign. No dream, no flicker in the corner of the room that maybe, just maybe, she was still around. The scarf didn’t smell like her anymore. The lemon tree began to wilt. And one afternoon, he caught a glimpse of their wedding photo, and it felt like looking at strangers- a man and a woman in love, two people he no longer recognized. Because who was he now? What was left of her, other than ashes in an urn and silence in the house they were supposed to grow old in?

The bathwater was cold. He remembered the moment he found her like it was still unfolding in slow motion- the door ajar, the silence unnatural, the steam long gone, and her body submerged- pale, still, floating like she belonged to another world. He remembered the sound of his own scream. The way he’d collapsed to his knees and tried to lift her out- how heavy she was, like her spirit had left her behind, leaving only a shell. He remembered slipping in the water and choking on sobs, calling her name, begging, pleading, wailing until the neighbors banged on the door and Jake had to pry him away from her lifeless body.

She was gone. No coma. No miracle. No bargaining with God. No gentle goodbye. Just gone. And he had no one but himself to blame. 

And now all he had was this echoing ache, a grief too big to fit inside his ribs. He wished she had left a note. Something-  anything- to make sense of why she chose to leave like that. But maybe she didn’t need to explain. Maybe knowing her mind was unraveling was enough explanation. Maybe she didn’t want him to have to see her forget again. Maybe she thought she was saving him.

How ironic- how utterly, grotesquely hilarious- that the universe seemed to have written his life as a tragedy with no intermission. He had lost his first wife in the kind of grief that rots you quietly, only to stumble into Y/N’s love like it was salvation. But now she was gone too, and in her place was nothing. No redemption, no closure- just silence and rot. He had lost his first wife to find Y/N. He had lost Y/N to lose himself. It was as if love had only ever existed to teach him the shape of absence; as if love was nothing but a punishment wearing a beautiful face.

v. Epilogue: The Lightswitch 

When Sunghoon told people that he’d been married twice- that had been widowed twice, people looked at him with disbelief. As if someone with such an attractive face and impeccable talent as an architect could not possibly receive such punishment from the universe. And usually, it was the young women that reacted this way, the ones who had daddy issues and looked at him like he could fix them for the night. And to these girls, his loss and grief and brooding past was more attractive.

Sunghoon was old now. In another world, he would have been a grandfather by now- if life went according to his plan, if no one had passed away and if no one walked away like idiots and luck was on his side. And with age- since a young age, actually- Sunghoon had attended a plethora of funerals. He knew funerals the way he knew an old friend- always there in the back of his mind, stored with random information, but not knowing where to let that information go.

The first funeral he attended was when he was a kid. It was his grandfather’s funeral. And after his, more of his grandparents passed away and his life circled around grieving parents, white flowers hung around framed pictures of the deceased and rituals that he didn't understand the need for performance but since his parents dragged him to it, he had no choice. The funeral he attended as an adult- the first true loss he faced- was of his first wife’s. He was the one that organized her funeral- through tears and pain and weight he couldn’t carry himself but did anyway. Because as a husband, he was responsible for it. And because he respected her too much and loved her too much.

And the funeral after that? It was of his second wife’s- Y/N’s. And he didn’t exactly attend the funeral, nor did he play a part in organizing it. His friends and Y/N’s parents had taken full responsibility, letting Sunghoon grieve over the love of his life- because she truly was, Y/N. The girl he met on a train, the girl he reunited with in a random coffee shop in a random city and the girl who let him rediscover himself. And she was gone too fast, too soon. Sometimes he'd wonder how many good years they had together- four years? Maybe five? Before her cousin had passed away- he still remembered the date.

There was a piece of her in everything he did- his building in Shanghai, the rest of the buildings he’d ever design, the clothes he bought for himself now (he’d only buy clothes in colors Y/N liked) and the food he cooked for himself. Usually it was her spaghetti recipe or her mala tofu recipe. And everytime he cooked one of Y/N’s recipes, he’d cry while eating the food. 

Sunghoon even wrote a book, in the memory of Y/N. He’d dedicated it to her and also his first wife, his friends, and his family. The book was a collection of short stories that revolved around two characters- two characters who met in a train and chose to adventure through life together, who explored themes of love, grief and all the other complicated emotions Sunghoon never got to confront until writing that book. And when publishing it (with the help of Jay’s connections), he’d included his favourite picture of Y/N in the back page- it was of her standing in front of the skeleton of his Shanghai building wearing a bright yellow hard hat and ridiculously large reflective vest. He even had that picture framed on his desk.

The funerals that would follow felt more natural that the previous two. His parents passed away with old age, his dog (who he adopted a few months after Y/N’s death) passed away due to cancer and more older people he knew- Jake’s parents, Jay’s parents, Y/N’s parents… one by one, they all passed away. But Sunghoon wondered why he was still alive. He wondered why the universe had taken away everyone from him but refused to take him instead. 

Sometime after Y/N’s passing, he moved back to Korea. And he lived with Jay for the time being- both bachelors (but Jay had his kids over a lot), both focusing on their careers and both holding onto each other for support. Some nights, they went to Jake’s house where they would play with his kids and eat the dinner Minji cooked. And other nights, they would both be buried in their work, not a word exchanged between them. 

He didn’t intend on visiting Shanghai, not even to see his building. He was too afraid, too weak to look at the building and not remember the glow on Y/N’s face when he asked her to marry him. It was too personal, too obvious. Sometimes, a picture of his building would show up on the paper or on social media would bring an ache to his chest. And he tried moving on, to replace the memories, but somehow, everything that was his had also been hers. 

Eventually, living in Korea felt like a burden, too. And so he relocated to Paris, where he got a job with double the pay and where his company provided him with accommodation in a fancy apartment. He went to France because it was the country Y/N spoke about the most during her last few days- always recalling the Eiffel tower, always spewing in the little French she knew and always calling baozi baguettes. When he reminisced, Sunghoon was able to chuckle at those moments now.

Her death still defined him- it still defined how he lived his life and the choices he made, like he was running again. But it wasn’t negative anymore. Sunghoon was able to live on and he was able to do it contently. When asked if he was happy, he didn’t really know what to say. Or, to be precise, he never understood the question. Because during moments where he was watching some of his and Y/N’s favourite shows, when he was reading one of her favourite books, when he was working and designing buildings and houses that he knew were going to be used and when he found himself laughing in certain fleeting moments, he thought he was happy. There would be a spark, a heat, in his chest that came from the brief thawing of his heart.

But then, there were the nights Sunghoon would stare at one of herold pictures and feel his chest clench- like, physically feel his heart contract. There were the nights when he would look at himself in the mirror, old now with a slight stubble and a permanent weight in his brows, and wonder where his life was leading to, what he was planning on doing next. There were nights where he would come home to an empty house and realise that he was… empty. Truly, empty.

To his friends, Jake and Jay, he was hanging onto life. He was living his life, day by day, working and eating French food and going to operas and plays with his colleagues and drinking expensive French wine. And it wasn’t a bad life, not at all. Most people would dream to have his life. But Sunghoon dreamed of sharing this life with Y/N. Because, somehow, he knew she was the only person who could appreciate it like he did- he knew only she could brighten his days filled with wine and food and art.

He wouldn’t call himself suicidal, but Sunghoon had thought about it a few times- during lonely nights where the cold wrapped him and he wished it was water instead, or during days he had to cook meals for himself and he wished the knife was slicing through his wrists instead of fresh tomatoes. They were intrusive thoughts, really- thoughts that emerged when he was tired and exhausted. 

To save himself from his thoughts, Sunghoon adopted a bunny. A grey, fluffy thing that hopped around his apartment and followed his feet, batted her ears and nibbled on carrots when he gave them to her. She also liked napping near his jade vase that stood in his balcony- the one that Jay gifted them all those years ago- which now potted a mint tree instead of a lemon tree. She was quiet, gave him company and made him smile with how dumb she was sometimes- knocking over pencils, jumping on counters to reach him and wiggling her tail to get his attention. In many ways, the bunny reminded him of Y/N- that she was quiet but always around him, always filling his space when he didn’t know he needed it. 

Y/N did used to say she wanted a bunny- especially during the first few years of their marriage. She wanted all sorts of animals- cats, dogs, bunnies, hamsters, birds, fish. Sunghoon had always refused- not because he hated animals but because he feared he had no time to care for one. He’d already gotten a dog, one that eventually died due to cancer. So the next best thing was this bunny, who he named after Y/N’s favourite color- Red.

She used to say red was her favourite color because Sunghoon’s favourite sweater was red in color. And also because the train they had met in, the one in Europe, was also painted in red. She used to tell him that a lot- well, until her dementia kicked in and she forgot she even had a favourite color. 

It was Sunghoon and his pet bunny against the world. It was odd, telling his colleagues and friends that he adopted one- a man so old who should have been worried more about taxes and acquiring property was more concerned over pets. But Sunghoon didn’t mind it. He liked that a pet was all he had to worry about- a pet that reminded him of her. And he’d send folders and folders of pictures of Red to Jake and Jay and they’d always make fun of him, but eventually admitted that they loved the bunny too.

Jake and his family even took a trip to Paris once and the kids got to play with Red. They loved feeding her and by the time they left, Red was a bit chubby and overweight for her size. 

When Jay finally visited him in Paris, they had spent a weekend exploring parts of the town Sunghoon didn’t have the heart to go alone. He finally got to eat at restaurants and cafes that seemed too posh to dine alone in and he finally went to museums that were the hotspot for tourists. 

And sometimes, during times like this when he was reminded that he had a support system who were willing to travel across borders to come see him, he didn’t feel as lonely anymore. He didn’t feel the need to feel sad, to feed into his depressive cycle, to wonder what would happen next. Because Sunghoon had lived- he’d lived enough to make himself proud, to make Y/N proud. And he’d lived enough to honour his first marriage- the fact that he didn’t give up then. 

Sunghoon, until his last breath, lived for the girl who gave him a second chance, in remembrance of the girl who taught him how to hope again. Because it wasn’t the end of the world- not yet. And it wouldn’t be for a long time. And he realised that even though Y/N might have been the lightswitch, Sunghoon had been his own bulb the whole time.

END CREDITS

It was one of those slow, golden evenings in Shanghai, the kind that curled into your bones and made you believe that maybe- just maybe- life could stay gentle forever. The sky blushed a deep rose, and the warm autumn breeze carried the scent of sweet osmanthus from the trees below. On the balcony of their little third-floor apartment, Y/N and Sunghoon sat cross-legged, sharing ice cream mooncakes from an artisan cafe, laughing at each other’s messy eating habits.

Y/N had a smear of ice cream sauce on her cheek, and when Sunghoon pointed it out, she’d stuck her tongue out at him in defiance. He leaned over to kiss it away instead of wiping it, and she’d giggled like she was twenty and in love for the first time.

Inside, the record player spun something old and scratchy- an Ella Fitzgerald vinyl she insisted she didn’t buy just for the aesthetic. The music floated around them like a lullaby, soft and warm. They hummed along, pretending to know the lyrics, pretending the world wasn’t hurling toward something unknowable.

But outside, the real magic was happening.

It was the Mid-Autumn Festival. Lanterns, thousands of them, were drifting up into the night sky, glowing softly like heartbeats in the dark. From their rooftop, they had a perfect view. Lights rising like dreams, weightless, fearless. The entire city felt like it had collectively exhaled.

Y/N, eyes wide and glittering, rummaged under the deck chair and pulled out a little paper lantern of their own. It was handmade- clumsily folded, leaning slightly to the left, the soft red tissue already creased from too many attempts. She held it out to him with both hands like it was sacred.

“Write something,” she said, handing him a pen.

Sunghoon quirked an eyebrow. “What are we, teenagers?”

“Obviously,” she replied, grinning. “But it has to be a secret. Fold it up, tuck it inside the lantern, and then we’ll let it go.”

He hesitated- but the look in her eyes disarmed him. That look always did.

So they wrote.

Y/N sat quietly for a long time, chewing her lip, as if she were trying to write something that might change the trajectory of the universe. When she was done, she folded the paper twice, kissed it once, and slid it into the lantern.

Sunghoon finished his in half the time but held onto the paper longer, staring down at the ink as if the words might disappear if he blinked too long. Then he, too, folded it gently and tucked it inside.

They lit the flame together. And as the lantern began to rise, fragile and glowing, Y/N turned to him, her voice softer than the wind. “Let’s promise each other something.”

He looked at her, not the lantern. Always her.

“What?”

“Let’s promise to grow old together. Really old. Wrinkled and annoying. Still dancing in the kitchen at 80, still calling each other stupid names. I want to be the weird couple yelling at pigeons in the park. You and me, always.”

He chuckled, a sound from deep in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, hand finding hers. “Promise.”

She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder like she’d done a thousand times before. “Even if I forget everything one day,” she whispered, almost too softly, “promise you’ll remind me.”

His heart ached without knowing why. He tucked his fingers into her hair, breathed her in.

“Every day,” he murmured. “I’ll remind you every damn day.”

The lantern floated higher, a red star against the indigo sky.

Later- too much later- he would find the tiny notes tucked inside the lantern box. Burnt at the edges from the heat of the flame but still legible.

Y/N’s said: “I hope I never forget how it feels to love you. But if I do- please love me loud enough that I remember.”

Sunghoon’s said: “Please let this last forever. Let time be kind to us. Let her be happy.”

They stood on the balcony long after the lantern disappeared from view, hands entwined, the city alive around them. Time, for once, pausing just long enough to let them exist in peace. And in that single, suspended moment, it felt like nothing could ever touch them. That their love, reckless and tender, would outrun everything. 

Even memory. Even death.

[houseofceline]

My Pretty Girl - T.N.

Steal My Girl

Pairing: Ravenclaw and sort of ditzy but talented Reader x Slytherin notorious playboy Theodore Nott

Warnings: None (yet ;))

Summary: Theo's friends get to meet you for the first time.

< 2

__________________

Perfect. 

You clapped your hands in satisfaction after taking a little study break to organize all your fabrics by color. The plan was originally to go to the dining hall to grab a quick snack, but your messy little studio set up in your dorm easily distracted you on the way out and made you change your plans. 

Your fingers flipped through the pages of your design sketchbook. A small smile formed on your face as you traced your sketches. 

Fashion. 

The only thing that you felt competent in. You didn’t have to try to make things look good. It was the only thing that came natural to you. You could plan an entire outfit for any occasion faster than you could even list the ingredients in a simple potion. You weren’t going to become a doctor like both of your parents, but you thought it’d be better to do something you’re good at rather than forcing yourself to study materials that you’ll never be able to understand. No matter how many times they tried to persuade, or threaten, you to change career paths, you never strayed far from your dreams. The dreams that kept you happy when you were scolded for wanting to stay home and draw instead of going with your father to work.

At least you will never have the chance to mess up a surgery. That would be worse than the invention of jeggings. 

The door swung open and your roommate walked in. You furrow your eyebrows upon her presence, wondering why she would be back so early from her date with Cedric. 

“How’d your date go?” You closed your design book and walked towards your bed before flopping onto it. 

So comfy. 

Cho sighed before rolling her eyes, “stupid last minute quidditch practice.” 

You giggled as your stomach growled. Maybe you should’ve gotten a snack before you decided to clean. 

“Dining hall?” Cho offered her arm out. 

You jumped up from your bed and happily skipped over to her and took her arm. 

“I’m famished,” You exclaimed in desperate need of having anything in your stomach after the oatmeal bowl for breakfast. 

“Me too, Cedric had promised me pastries from a bakery in Hogsmeade before I got canceled on,” Cho grumbled as the two of you walked in a pair towards the hall. 

Pastries. Croissants. Ugh you missed home. France has the best pastries. Now you were craving a chocolate croissant. Not that croissants are the only pastry in France. 

“Next ti- ow,” you rubbed your head after the harsh impact, stumbling a bit. 

“Watch where you’re going next time mate,” another boy came up and landed a harsh slap on his back. 

“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” The boy in front of you questioned frantically while trying to hide the fact that he was searching your head for any bruises. Theo might kill him if he made a bruise on his “pretty girl”. 

“I‘m okay,” you waved your hands in front of your face, kind of nervous that people were starting to look.

“Hello y/n,” The other boy came up and offered his hand out. 

You were confused on how he knew your name despite the fact that you didn’t know his, but still shook his hand. 

The boy chuckled at your confused looking expression. He could understand why Theo had called you pretty instead of his usual “she’s hot”s that the group would receive when talking about girls. 

“I’m Mattheo, Riddle,” he winked, “Nott’s friend. And this is Lorenzo.” 

You made an ‘ohh’ face in recognition but you remained surprised at the fact that you were even linked to him. 

Cho nudged your side. You looked over to her and was met with a raised eyebrow. You were as equally as confused as her. You and Theodore had only interacted once and it was during that one potions class, the day Cho had to skip due to sickness. You had no idea why his friends knew about you or were even talking to you.

But nonetheless you offered a warm smile towards the two boys, “nice to meet you.”  

“Nice to finally meet you too,” Lorenzo returned the gesture. You liked him, he seemed nice. 

Cho cleared her throat while clutching her stomach. You had forgotten what the two of you had even come to the hall for. 

“Well, enjoy your meal!” You waved them goodbye as Cho dragged you to the Ravenclaw filled tables and out of their sights. 

“Who are you losers bothering,” Theo scowled and smacked the two boys on the back. 

“We were just getting acquainted with our best mate’s girlfriend,” Mattheo teased as Theo raised his arm pretending to hit him, making Mattheo duck. 

“Girlfriend? Please, you and I both know I don’t do none of that,” Theo rolled his eyes and the trio walked over to their table. 

“Lucky her, you’re not exactly boyfriend material yourself,” Enzo replied as they took their seats grabbing their lunches before quidditch practice. The first game between Slytherin and Gryffindor was coming up, they needed all the fuel they could get before Malfoy made them run what felt like 100 laps during practice. 

“What are you talking about? I'm the epitome of it,” Theo replied confidently as he took a bite of his sandwich. Sandwich was a bit dry, Italians do it better.

“Right, someone bring Hannah over for questioning,” Mattheo laughed as Theo glared at him.

“We never dated, I don’t owe her anything.” 

____________________

“IT’S SO COLD!” You let out a high pitched scream as a huge gust of wind blew right into your face. You had a sweater that you knitted yourself on, paired with a skirt and black tights along with a designer scarf you had searched the whole country for. It was late October, but you hadn’t expected the weather to drop this low. Maybe you should’ve worn your winter coat or opted for a bigger scarf. Or maybe you shouldn’t have come at all. That was the original plan until Cho had managed to convince you to attend. You didn’t really understand quidditch. The whole game seemed complicated to you, plus the whole flying really high and the possibilities of students getting hurt didn’t sit well with your stomach. But you came regardless and it seemed to make Cho very happy. 

“I KNOW BUT WE HAVE SUCH GOOD SEATS!” Cho screamed over the loud clapping and cheering that signaled that the game was about to start. Loud screaming, another thing you weren’t a huge fan of. 

“HERE!” Cho screamed as she took her earmuffs off and placed them on your head. 

“YOU MIGHT NEED THEM MORE THAN I DO!” She yelled before turning her attention back to the game. 

One by one players in either red or green began to fly out. Everyone you were cheering as if it was a competition to see which side would be the loudest. 

“GO HARRY! YEAH!” You heard Cedric shout from the other side of Cho. 

You didn’t know any Gryffindors that well but since you were in a crowd of people all supporting that team, you didn’t want to stand out so you decided to clap along. 

You recognized a few Slytherin players, the faces of the two boys who you had bumped into a few days earlier were spotted flying on broomsticks. You secretly clapped for them as well. 

The mixture of red and green made your heart happy. Christmas. Your favorite holiday. Only two months to go! You couldn’t wait until you get to start putting together presents and drink peppermint mochas with your friends. It was all so exciting! 

Focus on the game! 

You scolded yourself. You look up and frown as you see players begin to grow aggressive. You frowned as a Gryffindor player tried to throw one of those flying balls at Lorenzo. 

You knew it was part of the game but the fact that someone had almost harmed the nice boy made you want to reach for your wand. 

“Yay go Enzo!” You cheered and clapped as you watched him dodge them with ease. A few Gryffindors side eyed you and gave you nasty stares but it was hard to pay them any mind with the distracting colors of ketchup and mustard wrapped around their necks. 

Theo wanted to thank Berkshire, he really did. He wanted to thank him for providing him the strength to throw bludgers at Gryffindors. What was he doing stealing your attention like that? Last time he checked Berkshire was busy trying to ask out a Slytherin a year younger than them. He needs to leave you alone, you were his friend first. Maybe he should throw a bludger and knock Berkshire off his broom. 

Would that be a Slytherin or Gryffindor point?

[aspenscore]

Author: Aspenscore

Title: A Mania Of Joels

Creative Commons License: A Mania Of Joels © 2025 by Aspenscore is licensed under CC BY 4.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Size: 384x512

(Really hoping the March 15 deadline includes March 15. I'm posting this before midnight on March 14 in my timezone, but it is already March 15 for Joel.)

Process TL;DR:

I've decided a group of Joels is called a mania.

My favourite part of Joel's season has been his many characters, as well as the Hermit Baths On Hermitcraft podcast, so I decided to combine those two things in this drawing.

This piece started as a bunch of sketches at work and took me about 20 hours to draw, plus an additional 8 hours fighting tech issues (including a crash that lost me the completed drawing (luckily I took this screenshot just before)).

Despite my struggles with that + screen rec software, there'll be a timelapse video of my drawing process coming soon on my channel!

Re: the title, I've decided a group of Joels is called a "mania" (like how a group of horses, for example, is a "herd").

One of my favourite things about Joel's season are all the fun intros and characters he's created, which inspired me to create something that showcases some of the main Joels we've met so far. I also really like the Hermit Baths On Hermitcraft (Another Podcast Hosted By A Straight White Male), so I figured the bathhouse would be the perfect place for a mania of Joels! I would've loved to include all the Joels, but by my count, there are at least 26 distinct Joels in this season so far, which is far too many Joels for me to fit in one image (and several of them are hard to distinguish based on appearance alone).

Since I could only include so many, I tried to choose Joels who are either recurring characters, or relevant to other things Joel has done in his videos. With that in mind, on this episode of Hermit Baths On Hermitcraft we've got Joel Who Asks You To Subscribe, News Reporter Joel, Bad Boy Joel (the statue counts as being in the season imo), Bartender (Horse Killer? :0) Joel, Officer Joel (RIP Detective Joel, would've loved to include him but it wouldn't be lore-accurate for him to be alive), Joel Who Totally Isn't Obsessed With Etho, Frogger Joel, Podcast Host Joel, and Singer Joel.

A few details I wanted to highlight:

News Reporter Joel always has a headline scroll bar with him. He doesn't know how or why. It's just there.

Joel Who Totally Isn't Obsessed With Etho not only has the Etho shirt on, but he's also in etho cosplay (headband) and has Etho face floaties (no idea where that came from but once I'd thought it I couldn't un-think it).

I'm most proud of Frogger Joel's outfit. He's got a froggy hat, frog crop top, lilypad shorts, and frog shoes with lilypad tops.

Singer Joel's kimono was originally going to have a pattern of symbols relating to Joel's season, but then I realized those wouldn't show up very well with the lowered resolution. The planned symbols included music discs, xp bottles, axolotls, slime balls, honeycomb, frogs, horses, glow squid, and glow berries.

Podcast Host Joel's abs are drawn on. Gem said it so it's canon.

Bartender Joel's vest is the same colour and pattern as that horse head...

And now for the process! I know a lot of you probably aren't that interested in it, but I spent a lot of time on this so I'd at least like to record my efforts.

This piece actually started on paper, because I work a lot and I knew I wouldn't have time to do the whole piece if I didn't at least do some advance planning during down time at my job. However, all I had at work was some scrap paper and a pencil (I couldn't even find an eraser the day I started this!), so I needed to find some way to get the aspect ratio correct without a ruler. While there were no rulers at work, I was able to find some mini origami paper, and since that's a perfect square, I was able to use it to replicate the sizing I'd chosen. I sketched out the general background layout, used two of those lines + the edge of another piece of paper to determine the vanishing point, then re-drew the rest of the background according to the point I'd determined. These techniques worked shockingly well, and when I scanned the drawing and checked my measurements in my drawing program, they were surprisingly accurate!

With the scan uploaded, along with a page of outfit design sketches I had also done at work, I ran into my next hurdle: screen recording software. To keep a long and agonizing story short, I draw on an old tablet that has very little storage, RAM, or processing power, so OBS + my drawing program were not an option. The drawing program itself doesn't have a timelapse feature either, so I had to go find another piece of software that would meet my needs. I even tried using my tablet as a third screen for my PC, which could absolutely handle the processing and storage needs of this project, but the latency was far too high for that to be a feasible option. Trying all of these options took at least 8 hours and at one point had the side effect of permanently messing up something on my main PC monitor that causes it to reset all its settings periodically (if anyone has any idea what's going on with that, I'd love to not have to re-do my settings every couple minutes or so).

My tablet's limited storage also resulted in me almost losing a portion of my footage, but you can rest assured that I've managed to save all of it, and if it's useable I will be editing it down into a timelapse + process video to upload to my channel! The video will probably include a lot of the information here, but hopefully it'll be a bit more interesting and engaging! (I was originally going to link the video here instead of writing all these paragraphs, but the drawing took so long I haven't had time to make the video).

Finally, after spending basically all of my free time at home during the past two weeks working on this drawing, I finished it just a couple hours ago.

I hit save.

And got an error message.

Storage issue.

Since the image resolution is intended to be reduced anyway (for minecraft painting, but also just how tumblr treats images), I grabbed a screenshot of the finished piece before my tablet crashed and rebooted. It saved some of my work, but not all of it, so this is now the only complete version of the piece in existence.

At the end of the day, I'm just glad I finished it on time and am happy with the final product. If you've read this far, thank you so much for your patience with my rambling, I hope you enjoy the final piece as much as I do. And thank you to Joel for creating such fun videos and awesome builds! I look forward to the rest of your first Hermitcraft season.

[evermarch]

one of the most heart-wrenching things about thg universe is that you feel the loss of who each character would be outside the circumstances of their birth almost as acutely as you feel the loss of the characters themselves.

sure, we know what lucy gray and her family would be doing in a different world; she’d be dancing and singing and making music which defines a cultural identity. but what about the others? would haymitch have been a hilarious, loving father with a family had he not been forced to survive 47 other children’s brutal deaths? would finnick have been a charismatic and beloved actor, bringing joy to immeasurable people on his own terms? would beetee and wiress have worked together to develop technology to make it easier to connect loved ones far and wide? what would reaper and annie have given to the world, or thresh, or rue, or even coral or cato or glimmer or clove?

if katniss wasn’t half-starving and forced to spend each day hunting to feed her family, would archery be her true passion? or if she’d been a well-sustained little girl with access to art supplies, would she have spent her time sketching captivating dresses? she picks up ropes and making fish hooks quickly—could her dexterity have lent itself to knitting, sewing, or crocheting with vibrant yarns and fabrics? there’s so much evidence that katniss finds clothing inspiring and empowering, even when she dismisses it as frivolous. she likes being pretty, she just hates the circumstances under which she’s made to look pretty. cinna shows her that beauty has its own power, and there are several moments in her interactions with cinna and his designs that make me wonder who she’d be if she had space for art and creativity in her life.

conversely, peeta has had art in his life since he was a small child, but for him, art has always been entangled with his trauma. he could bake and decorate well because he learned from his mother, a mother who beat him his whole life. but his talent grows, not only as a survival tool in the first games, but when he paints rue on the floor of the training center before the second games. his art becomes not only a symbol of his trauma, but a means of resistance and solidarity. in a world where peeta’s intrinsic kindness and loving heart had been nurtured and welcomed rather than abused, could he have been a painter, helping people find collective meaning in the simple realities of life?

could katniss and peeta have still found each other in another world, a world without the horrors they were raised with, and bonded over their love of art? could they have been each other’s muses?

maybe they find their way to share art, after the events of mockingjay, as part of their process of healing and falling in love with each other. when they’re finally safe and have been for a long time, maybe katniss fashions peeta an easel for him to paint in their living room. after months of watching him gaze out the window and paint the changing leaves, katniss takes to knitting on a rocking chair in the other corner of the living room to steady her restless hands. they work silently as the days go by, quietly exchanging the things they’ve made to give each other the reassurance and love neither could ever fully convey with words.

and maybe one day, when they learn there’s a baby on the way due in midwinter, katniss takes a page from peeta’s sketchpad and starts to plan a series of sweaters and hats and socks she can knit for the baby. and peeta goes to the little nursery upstairs and starts working on a mural, so the baby will have something beautiful to look at every day. they work together to design the perfect baby blanket for their child, to ensure they will always be wrapped in a layer of protection and love by their parents.

but even if they find creativity and beauty in their lives after the end of mockingjay, the art they make will simply never be what that art could have been had they not faced what they faced. art comes from suffering, yes, but the human condition has so much suffering as is, and we’d never know what kind of art they’d make if they hadn’t experienced trauma of a distinctly sadistic and inhuman nature. but maybe their children, raised in a better world with love and protection and safety and joy and creativity and expression, will be the ones to create the art peeta and katniss never could.

[paddockletters]

unseen | jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x reader  request: yes / Reader who was bullied when young and then jude and her go to her hometown and everyone feels out cause that freaking jude bellingham and they get like, impressed by reader success as an f1 engineer and that she bagged jude? Sorry its way too specific author’s note: Hope you liked it!... as I always say... english is not my first language so pardon me if there are mistakes —feel free to tell me— and my requests are open!👀

The memories of my school days never really left me. Every now and then, they’d come creeping back — a careless comment someone made, or the way people used to whisper when I walked past. I could still picture the sneers, the cold stares, and the cutting remarks. The bullying wasn’t always physical, but the emotional scars felt just as deep. Being the quiet girl who loved math, cars, and physics made me an easy target. I didn’t fit in with the other girls who were into makeup and parties. I was more interested in tweaking engines and dreaming of Formula 1. That difference marked me.

It all began in middle school when I started to realize just how out of place I was. My grades were high, my social skills not so much. Every time I raised my hand in class, there’d be snickers. Every time I’d walk down the hall with my oversized glasses, someone would mutter a snide remark. The bullying wasn’t brutal, but it was consistent, gnawing at me bit by bit. High school wasn’t much better. The teasing continued, though by then, I had learned to keep my head down and drown out the noise by focusing on my dream of working in Formula 1.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am — an engineer for one of the top F1 teams. The transformation was surreal. Sometimes, I still have to pinch myself. Who would’ve thought that the same girl who spent her lunch breaks in the library, sketching out car designs, would one day be standing in the pit lane at Monaco?

But something even crazier happened along the way — I met Jude Bellingham.

It wasn’t some grand, love-at-first-sight story. I wasn’t starstruck when I first saw him. In fact, I didn’t even know who he was. We met at a charity event, one aimed at inspiring young athletes and professionals from underprivileged backgrounds to chase their dreams. Jude was there as the football star, while I had been invited to speak about my journey into F1. He seemed genuinely interested during my talk, but we didn’t interact much that day. It wasn’t until I received a DM on Instagram a few days later that things really started.

“Hey, I loved your speech at the event. I’m Jude, by the way — football player. Would love to grab coffee sometime if you’re up for it.”

I remember staring at my phone, thinking it was a prank. A football star wanted to get coffee with me? It felt like a joke. But I responded, and we met. Coffee turned into long dinners, long dinners turned into walks in the park, and those walks turned into a relationship.

Jude wasn’t what I expected. Sure, he was famous, but he was also kind, funny, and remarkably down-to-earth. He never treated me like I was less important than him. If anything, he seemed fascinated by my work. He’d ask me endless questions about the F1 cars, the strategies, the engineering behind the speed. I’d tease him about football, asking if he really knew what went into designing the perfect car. We just clicked.

Still, going back to my hometown was something I hadn’t done in years. The memories were too bitter. But Jude wanted to go. He wanted to see where I grew up, to meet the people who had shaped me, for better or worse. So we planned a trip. I was nervous as hell, but Jude? He was excited.

The car ride to my hometown felt like an eternity. As Jude hummed along to the soft rhythm of the music playing through the speakers, my mind was far from the road. I hadn’t been back here in years, not since I’d left for university. The thought of returning had always been… daunting. I wasn’t ready to face the ghosts of the past. Or, more specifically, the people who had made my life a living hell when I was younger.

I glanced at Jude, who was focused on the road, one hand casually resting on the wheel, the other on my leg, giving me an occasional reassuring squeeze. His presence grounded me, but that nervous pit in my stomach kept growing the closer we got.

“You’re quiet,” he said, glancing at me.

I forced a smile. “Just... thinking.”

Jude raised an eyebrow, his tone soft as he asked, “About?”

“About how weird this is going to be. I haven’t been back here in years, Jude. People… they remember things. They remember who I was.”

“And who you were is exactly who I love. You know that, right?” he said, giving my thigh another squeeze.

I chuckled softly, leaning back into the seat, trying to push the anxiety down.

“I know. It’s just that, back then, I was the awkward girl who couldn’t fit in. Now I’m walking into town holding hands with Jude Bellingham. People are going to freak out.”

“They’ll freak out because you’re a freaking Formula 1 engineer, not because of me,” he said, grinning. “I bet half the people in town have posters of you in their garage next to their Ferrari die-casts or something.”

“Oh please,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “No one from my town cares about F1.”

“They should. You’re a genius.”

Jude’s words were always so simple, but they held so much weight. He had a way of making me feel seen, really seen, in a way no one else ever had. That’s what made everything with him feel so different. He wasn’t just the football star that millions of people idolized; he was my Jude, the one who asked me about race strategies and remembered the names of the engineers on my team.

We arrived at the town square just as the afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the small, familiar streets. The sight of it brought back a wave of memories — good and bad. It was strange how everything looked smaller now, less intimidating. The buildings I used to walk past with my head down, trying not to be noticed, now seemed so ordinary.

Jude parked the car, pulling his baseball cap down over his head as we stepped out. I could already see a few people glancing in our direction, their eyes widening with recognition. They weren’t just looking at him, though. They were looking at me.

“Hey, you okay?” Jude asked, stepping closer to me, his arm wrapping around my waist.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t entirely sure. “Yeah, it’s just… surreal.”

We started walking through the town square, hand in hand. I tried to ignore the stares, the whispers. But they were everywhere.

“Oh my god, is that… Jude Bellingham?”

“Wait, isn’t that the girl who used to go to school here? She’s, like, a big deal now, right?”

“I heard she works in Formula 1. How did she end up with him?”

I bit my lip, feeling the familiar wave of insecurity creeping in. But Jude seemed unfazed. If anything, he walked a little taller, as if daring anyone to say something negative. He pulled me in closer, planting a kiss on my temple as we crossed the square.

As we walked into the shopping center, we decided to stop by a café for a drink. I could already feel the buzz of recognition in the air as people realized who Jude was.

Jude sat across from me, casually sipping his drink as if we were anywhere else in the world. He had his cap pulled low over his face, trying to avoid drawing attention, but it was hard not to notice him. He was Jude Bellingham after all.

The stares had started the moment we walked into the square, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had this effortless calm about him, the way he handled attention, fame. Meanwhile, I was doing my best not to feel like I was under a spotlight, even though I knew people were whispering and pointing, probably trying to figure out why he was with me.

I caught a glance from a group of teenagers at the table across from us. They were huddled together, looking our way, giggling and whispering. I sighed, already feeling a bit on edge.

Jude noticed. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

I forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah, just... weird being back here.”

“I can imagine,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. His thumb brushed over my knuckles in that soothing way he always did. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

I took a deep breath, glancing around the café. “It’s fine. Just... a lot of memories, you know?”

He squeezed my hand, his gaze soft and understanding. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” I said, surprising myself. I had never really told him the full story before.

He knew bits and pieces, but I had kept most of it to myself. Maybe it was time to let him in.

I looked down at our intertwined hands, thinking back to those years.

“I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid,” I started, my voice quieter than I intended.

“I was the one they picked on. The ‘geeky’ one. I loved math, engineering, all the stuff no one else thought was cool. I spent more time in the library than anywhere else. They made fun of me for it—my glasses, my clothes, the fact that I never fit in.”

Jude’s expression softened. “Kids can be cruel.”

“They were,” I agreed, a bitter laugh escaping me. “It wasn’t just teasing though. It got pretty bad at times. I used to dread coming to school. Every day felt like walking into a battlefield. I just wanted to disappear, you know?”

Jude’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “I hate that you went through that.”

I shrugged, trying to play it off like it didn’t matter anymore.

“It’s in the past. I got out. I became an F1 engineer, so jokes on them, I guess.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to act like it doesn’t still hurt. It’s okay to feel that.”

I looked up at him, my throat tightening with the emotion I hadn’t realized was building up.

“It does, sometimes. I mean, I know I’ve made it, but coming back here... it just brings all that stuff up again.”

He stood up then, coming around the table to sit beside me. Without a word, he pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me protectively.

“You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he whispered into my hair. “You’re brilliant, and you’ve worked so hard to get where you are. They didn’t see that back then, but it doesn’t matter. I see it. The world sees it now.”

I leaned into him, letting his warmth and words wrap around me like a blanket.

We stayed like that for a few moments before pulling apart slightly, Jude resting his forehead against mine.

“You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone here,” he said softly. “You’re you, and that’s more than enough.”

I smiled, squeezing his hand. “Thank you. For always knowing what to say.”

Jude grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Well, you did bag me, so I’d say you’re doing something right.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s part of my charm,” he teased, flashing that trademark grin.

As we sat there, talking about everything and nothing, a few more people came up to us. A couple of them recognized me from school. I could see the surprise in their eyes, like they couldn’t believe the girl they used to tease was sitting here with a world-famous footballer.

“Hey, I remember you,” a girl of the group said, her voice laced with nostalgia. “You were in my physics class, right?”

I nodded, offering a polite smile. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Wow,” she said, glancing between me and Jude. “I heard you’re doing big things now. Formula 1, right?”

“Yeah, I’m an engineer for one of the teams.”

“That’s… amazing,” she said, looking genuinely impressed. “I always knew you were smart, but I didn’t realize… well, you know.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but Jude jumped in, his arm draping casually around my shoulders.

“She’s a genius. She’ll never admit it, but she’s probably the best engineer in F1 right now.”

I blushed, nudging him playfully. “Stop exaggerating.”

The girl chuckled awkwardly, clearly a bit starstruck by Jude’s presence. “Well, it’s great to see you doing so well. And… with him. That’s pretty cool.”

After she left, I turned to Jude, who was grinning like he’d just won the Champions League.

“What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jude grinned. “See? People notice. They’re impressed, as they should be.”

I rolled my eyes playfully. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning in to kiss my temple. “But I’m also right.”

As we walked through the shopping center, I could still feel people glancing our way, some whispering, others taking quick pictures on their phones. But for the first time, I didn’t feel like the awkward, out-of-place girl from school. I felt like someone who had earned her place in the world, someone who had worked hard and made it.

A few more people came up to Jude, asking for pictures or autographs, but he always made sure to include me in the conversation, making it clear that I wasn’t just the girl on his arm. I was someone in my own right.

At one point, a young girl, probably no older than ten, approached me shyly. She held a notebook in her hand, her eyes wide with admiration.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly, “are you the F1 engineer? The one who works with the cars?”

I blinked in surprise, glancing at Jude before nodding. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Her face lit up, and she held out her notebook. “Could I have your autograph? I want to be an engineer one day, just like you.”

My heart melted, and I took the notebook from her, scribbling my name with a quick message of encouragement. “You can be whatever you want to be,” I told her, handing it back. “Just keep working hard and never stop believing in yourself.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Thank you!”

As she ran off, I turned to Jude, who was watching me with a proud smile.

“See?” he said softly. “You’re a role model.”

I smiled, leaning into him. “I guess I am.”

As we walked, Jude nudged me with his elbow.

“You handled that like a pro.”

“I don’t know how you do it all the time,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

He laughed. “You get used to it.”

Jude looked over at me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

I glanced up at him, my heart swelling with affection. “For what?”

“For being you. For everything you’ve accomplished. And for putting up with me,” he teased, nudging me playfully.

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. “It’s not always easy, but I manage.”

As we left the shopping center and headed back to the car, I realized something important. This place might have been where my story started, but it didn’t define me anymore. I had moved on, grown, become someone I was proud of. And with Jude by my side, I knew I could face whatever came next, even if it meant coming back to the place I once tried so hard to leave behind.

[munsonsmixtapes]

Paint Me

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!inexperienced!American!reader

cw: MDNI (18+) Benedict receives a handjob, suggestive language, reader has a complicated relationship with her family, reader has a nightmare and has a panic attack

word count: 6k

part one part three part four part five part six part seven

Tag list: @allyjoe755 @syraxnyra @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @pumkiinpasties @werewolf-witchboy

February 12, 1817

You never thought that living in a bigger house would actually have been worse than your small one. Your mother had gotten meaner and your sister had been named the diamond of the season so she was even more confident than usual because she was the center of attention. Because that was exactly what she needed. More attention. You had attended multiple balls over the past few weeks and Kate had stuck to you like glue, helping you through everything, giving you pointers and even having you meet men to dance with.

You reminded her so much of Edwina that she felt the need to help you realize your full potential. Telling you that even though you were supposed to be seeking a husband that you didn’t have to have one of that was not what you wished. It was frowned upon, but she felt the need to support you in whatever you wanted to do since none of your family seemed to do so.

You entered the ball with your mother, father, and sister and Kate made a beeline for you, curtsying to all of you and you couldn’t help but notice the tension between her and your mother. Unbeknownst to you, they had been butting heads as far as your potential husband had been concerned. Kate had insisted that you didn’t have to marry and your mother wouldn’t have it. She needed you to be married off so she never had to speak to you again.

To keep the peace, you pulled Kate along to get some lemonade. She handed you a cup and you sipped on the drink, eyeing her, wondering what was going on in her head. But she wouldn’t tell you. She already knew that you relationship with your mother had been rocky so she decided to keep what had been said to her behind closed doors a secret to prevent the tension from getting worse.

You looked around the room and spotted Benedict by the wall, scribbling in what looked like a small notebook. You were surprised to see him since he hadn’t been at any of the other balls since the one where you had danced together. You wondered if he would have danced with you again if you had asked. Or maybe he had been avoiding you. That would have made sense. It seemed that everyone always did that.

Benedict continued his sketch, waving off everyone who had tried to speak to him. He was obviously busy. The lighting was perfect where he was standing and he was able to get the details perfect. It was a rough sketch, but once he put it on canvas, it was going to easily be his best work.

“What are you working on, brother?” Benedict shut the book quickly as Anthony approached and he shoved the book in his pocket so it was out of sight. There was no way he was letting his brother see what he had been drawing. That was between him and God.

“Nothing,” the younger brother shrugged. “Just a little something to keep my mind occupied.”

“Right,” Anthony nodded. He knew his brother was private when it came to his unfinished work, but it almost seemed like Benedict didn’t want him to see the sketch at all. Something was very strange but he wasn’t going to press. “Are you going to be a wallflower all night or are you going to dance?”

“We both know the answer to that,” Benedict gave Anthony’s shoulder a pat.

Anthony stepped closer, resting a hand on Benedict’s shoulder as he brought his lips round his ear so no one else could hear.

“You are nothing but an embarrassment to this family,” he said, his words sounding like poison in Benedict’s ear. “This whole “rake” business needs to be put to rest. You are about to be thirty and haven’t even pursued a single woman or done anything with your life besides your artwork. You promised mother you would find a wife this season only to be running around with whores, completely abandoning your duties to this family.”

Benedict gulped as his brother spoke. Fear coursing through him. He was very well aware that Anthony was not opposed to a duel and could have easily put him in a hospital just from one punch. His threats were not empty and he was afraid of getting hit, his prized possession being ruined and he could no longer mess around like he had been.

“Stop with the silliness and find a wife or I swear everyone will know just how disgusting you are and you will be left with nothing. You will die alone and I will make sure that no one will show up to your funeral. Are we understood, brother?” With that, Anthony turned on his heel and went to look for his wife, feeling a weight life off him now that he had told Benedict what he had truly thought about him.

“Lady Danbury, this is y/n l/n,” Kate introduced you to the host of the evening to which you curtseyed gracefully.

“It is lovely to meet you, Miss l/n,” Lady Danbury nodded. “Viscountess Bridgerton has told me nothing but good things. She says you’re quite the artist.”

“Well-” you tried to deny it, but Kate cut you off.

“Oh, she is, Lady Danbury,” Kate told her. “She could easily make a living off of her work.” You didn’t think that was true in the slightest, but you were going to let her brag about you anyway.

“Are any of your pieces in the gallery tomorrow?” You had wanted to, but by the time you had heard about it, submissions were closed, which was really disappointing because you knew the exact one you were going to submit.

“I’m afraid not," you pursed your lips. "By the time I arrived, it was too late to submit.”

“That is too bad," Lady Danbury replied with a shake of her head. "I must host a gallery of my own to see your work.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary, Lady Danbury," you let out a nervous laugh. "I’m afraid you’d be sorely disappointed.” You thought that to be true. you were always your harshest critic and always thought that compliments aimed towards you or your work were just people being nice, never quite believing the words no matter how true they were."

“I’m sure that’s not true. You must show me some time. I'd love to see it all." You knew you weren't going to win, so you decided to give in to appease the woman. You didn't want to upset the host, after all.

"Of course," you nodded and watched Lady Danbury's face light up as she caught sight over someone who was behind you. You turned around only to be met by a man you hadn't seen before. He had curly blonde hair and the prettiest hazel eyes that you had ever seen. What was a pretty man like him doing approaching you? He was the kind of man that Lilith would have ended up with.

"Nicholas Fitzwilliam," he introduced himself with a bow. "I saw you across the room and felt like I owed the prettiest woman in the room a dance."

"Oh-"

Your mouth went dry as his eyes looked into yours, a warm smile making its way upon his pretty, pink lips. You turned to Kate and Lady Danbury as if to ask for permission and they waved you off, encouraging you to dance with the stranger.

Nicholas offered his hand to you and you wordlessly took it, letting him lead you out onto the floor. The dance started not long after you got into your spots and you immediately recognized as the quadrille which you knew involved moving about the floor and joining hands with people who weren't your original partner.

As soon as Benedict saw you accept that dick's invitation to dance, he knew he had to find a partner and quick. He didn't know what he was doing, but what he did know was that he wasn't going to leave you out on the floor alone. He was just making sure that you were following the steps correctly, that was all.

He approached the first woman he could find and dragged her onto the dance floor as the music started. He watched you move about the room seeing that fucker making you laugh made him feel something he had never felt before when it came to other women: jealousy.

The man whispered something into your ear as the two of you spun around and seeing you throw your head back in a loud laugh was enough to make Benedict see red. He could hear his dance partner say something as the two of them spun around, but he couldn’t hear her. In fact, he didn’t give a single fuck. All of his focus was on you.

You were nervous to dance at first, but as Nicholas guided you through it, you realized just how much fun it was and he was even cracking jokes to make you feel better. If all of the men were guaranteed to be like him, maybe finding a husband wouldn’t have been so bad.

You slowly got to Benedict and the two of you joined hands as you made your spin and he wanted to know what your hands felt like without the gloves. If they were soft or rough. It didn't really matter, though. He just wanted them wrapped around his neck, choking him until he was gasping for air. He still wasn't able to shake his absolutely filthy thoughts about you. And now that you were right in front of him and that he could see the tops of your breasts, all he could think about was how much he wanted them in his mouth, licking and sucking on your nipples until your back arched in pleasure, screaming his name as your reached your orgasm.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, pulling him out of his thoughts and he looked down at you, his signature smirk making it's way upon his pretty pink lips. You had never had a thought like it before, but you found yourself wanting to know what they felt like. If they were as soft as they looked.

"What do you mean?" Benedict knew exactly what you meant, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to hear you tell him that you missed him.

"You haven't been at the last three balls so I was surprised to see you here." He thought it was adorable that you had noticed that he wasn't there and

"Oh, so you noticed I was missing?" He put on a cocky smirk. He had you right where he wanted you.

"It was difficult not to when Anthony was complaining about it every time." You were mumbling your words, but Benedict was still able to hear you. The smirk faded and he didn't like the way his cock twitched at the fact that you didn't seem to notice that he hadn't been around until his brother mentioned it. You didn't seem to give a single fuck about him, but by the end of the season, he was going to make you care.

With that, you separated then joined your original partners and Benedict was still watching you, feeling jealousy rise as the man whispered in your ear again, making you giggle. He didn't know why he cared. He wasn't going to court nor marry you and clearly this man was a better fit for you. And maybe Anthony was right, all Benedict was was a rake and that's all he knew how to be. He wasn't fit to be a husband and he was just going to have to accept that.

He was going to give up all of his fantasies about you just so you could end up with a man who actually cared about you. That was what you deserved. Not someone who was only interested in having his way with you only to never want to see you again. He was perfectly fine with letting you slip through his fingers if it meant you were going end up with the right person.

The dance came to a close and Nicholas led you back over to Kate and Lady Danbury, his hand still holding yours as you stood there making conversation with the three of them. He then turned to you and bowed and for whatever reason, you didn't want to see him go. You had such a nice time with him and almost wanted to ask him to dance again, but you couldn't get yourself to. You didn't have the confidence. Lilith would have, though. She would have and Nicholas certainly would have said yes. But you weren't Lilith. You weren't your sister and you never would be and you just wished that people would realized that you were your own person.

"It was an absolute pleasure, Miss l/n," he said and you smiled in response, feeling your heart swell because someone was dancing with you because they wanted to, not because of your mother forcing them.

"The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Fitzwilliam," you curtsied, a small smile making its way upon your face. He took your hand and pressed lips to the fabric covering it, his eyes never leaving yours as he did so.

"No, really, the pleasure is all mine." He emphasized the last two words and your cheeks heated as he let your hand slipped out of yours before turning on his heel to cross the room.

As soon as he was gone, you turned back to Kate and Lady Danbury in a giggly mess. They both smiled at you, seeing you so lively and animated warming their hearts. In the few weeks Kate had known you and with all of the balls, she'd seen you at, she had never seen you so smitten after a dance and wondered if Nicholas could be the one. Maybe, just maybe there was an engagement in your future.

Nicholas crossed the floor and stood next to your mother, putting his hands behind his back as she leaned towards him to whisper to him. they were trying their best to be discreet, knowing that if you caught them, the whole operation would be over.

"Is it done?" Vivian asked, her eyes not leaving you as she spoke. If you weren’t going to find a husband, she was just going to have to do the job for you. She couldn’t risk you being a spinster and living with her and your father for the rest of her life.

"It is," Nicholas nodded, his eyes on you as well. He didn't feel good for lying to you, but the money was going to make it worth it. He was going to use it to buy a nice art piece that he had been eyeing for a while. It would look so lovely in his study, hanging among the other artwork he had purchased over the years. And he had you to thank for it. You were the perfect, unsuspecting target.

Benedict left as soon as Nicholas left you and had every intention of getting out his anger. Maybe not in the healthiest way, but he was going to be gone as soon as he was done with whatever woman on his list was available.

He knocked on the door and leaned himself against the doorframe, an attempt to make himself attractive, but something was off. His need suddenly went away and he was having flashbacks to the ball. Everything was swirling around his head and he felt an ache coming on.

Stop with the silliness and find a wife or I swear everyone will know just how disgusting you are and you will be left with nothing. You will die alone and I will make sure that no one will show up to your funeral.

Maybe Anthony was right. Maybe he should have stopped literally fucking around and started a family. Maybe he should have gone home. But not tonight. Tonight, he was going to be taken care of and not by his own hands.

The door opened and he was pulled inside, the woman that he couldn’t remember the name of grabbing hold of his coat. The door slammed behind him and she shoved him against it. Her lips went to his neck and she gave it a rough suck while her hands went to unbutton his breeches. She pulled them down only to be met with Benedict’s very limp cock. They both looked down at it and Benedict felt his cheeks blush in embarrassment as this was never something that had happened to him.

“Don’t worry, I can help with that.” The woman-Caroline, maybe?-spit into her hand and grabbed hold of his dick, giving it a few slow pumps. When that didn't work, she moved faster, pumping as hard as she possible could and Benedict was panicking because receiving a handjob always did the trick. And now that it wasn't working, he was worried.

"I don't know what's going on Benedict, but you need to leave now." They couldn't exactly sleep together if he couldn't get it up. And it was all thanks to his oldest brother. Benedict pulled up his breeches and let out a loud sigh before turning to the door. He gave her one last look then opened the door and slammed it shut before heading down the road. He couldn't go home. Not with his brother there. There was somewhere else he'd rather be anyway.

Benedict got to the studio, but not after having a few drinks. His night had gone to shit and if he couldn't remedy it with sex, alcohol was surely going to do the drink. Not only had his brother called him out on his bullshit, but then he watched the woman that he liked dance with someone else who was confirmed to be a terrible person, and now he couldn't even cope with it all the way he wanted to.

He stumbled into the studio where he usually spent his late nights, but no one was there. This was usually when everyone was so lively and now there wasn't a single soul. Something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. He approached the room he usually worked in to work on his piece, but when he entered it, the piece was uncovered and there was already someone in the room. He slowly opened the door all the way and the creaking of it made the stranger turn around so Benedict could see his face. No fucking way. Standing there in his studio, holding the sheet that covered his painting was Nicholas fucking Fitzwilliam.

The carriage rolled up to your house and you stepped onto the concrete, feeling lighter than ever. As your family was leaving, Nicholas had told you that he'd see you the next day and you were nothing but elated at that fact. You couldn't believe it. It had only been a few weeks and you already had a suitor. And he was nice and not to mention, very easy on the eyes. According to what he had told you at the ball, he didn't have much, but that was perfectly okay to you. He'd give you a great life and that was all you could ask for.

You went up the steps and for once, your mother's and sister's words couldn't get to you. Because they didn't matter. All your life, you had been second to Lilith and now you finally had something she hadn't and you could tell that she was furious. She stomped up the stairs behind you and you tried to fight back your smile at the sour look that had been in her face since you had told her the good news.

You went to your room and heard her stomp to her own before slamming the door. You got ready for bed with the widest smile on your face and got into your bed dreaming about nothing but rings and weddings and your possible children. The future was very bright and you had somehow beat the diamond of the season to getting a suitor. And maybe if you played your cards right, an engagement would follow soon after.

"What are you doing here?" Benedict asked, making such tight fists by his side that he could feel his nails digging into his skin, but that was the least of his worries. He really needed to get rid of the pest that was taking over his room.

"Oh, are you the artist?" Nicholas asked, reaching for the canvas, but Benedict was quick to stop, him, standing in between his body and the canvas. There was no way he was letting that little worm anywhere near his artwork.

"I am. And I'm going to ask again, what are you doing here?" There was a fire burning inside him and this time, he wasn't going to put out the flames.

"Well, I was going to ask you if I could buy this lovely piece from you." He'd get the painting from Benedict's cold, dead hands. No way he’d ever sell anything to that pig.

Benedict snatched the covering from Nicholas and draped it back over the painting before crossing his arms over his chest so he wouldn't do something he'd regret.

“It’s not finished and not for sale. And even if it was, I most certainly wouldn’t sell it to you.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why not?” Nicholas had no idea what was going on. He just wanted to get what he had had his eyes on for months when he had passed that very room seeing Benedict work on it.

“Because again, it's not finished and even if it was, I still wouldn't sell it to you." Clearly there was something he was missing and he wasn't sure what it was.

"Why?" Nicholas was starting to get angry and a smug smirk was making its way upon Benedict's face. What did he know and what was he going to do about it? He didn't think he was the type to get into a fight, but he really knew nothing about him so he was to tread lightly.

"I know your secret.” Nicholas felt his blood run cold at the words. He had many secrets but he knew exactly the one to which Benedict was referring and he had half a mind to make a run for it.

“Secret?” He supposed that the best way to get out of it was to feign innocence. He wouldn’t be caught if he didn’t admit to it.

“Your little deal with Vivian. I heard you on the way out of the ball tonight." Oh, this was the big secret. Maybe running was still on the table.

"What do you want?" There was only one thing Benedict wanted and Nicholas had it.

"I want you stay away from y/n." Benedict jabbed his finger into the man’s chest.

"Or what?" Nicholas pushed his hand away but Benedict only stepped closer.

"You don't want to know what." His threat was empty, but maybe it wouldn’t have been if Nicholas tried anything.

"Are you gonna tell her?" No. He thought it would have been even more painful for Nicholas to tell you himself.

"I might if you don't." He wouldn’t, but Nicholas was looking nervous so Benedict had him right where he wanted him.

“I see,” Nicholas let out a laugh. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not.” That was not an emotion that Benedict felt. He was never jealous and especially not because of you. He just felt like you deserved to know the truth, that’s all.

“You are,” Nicholas smirked. “I saw it in your face when you mentioned he. There was a fire there. Well guess what? You can have her. I don’t want her. I was just going to marry her, use her for her body and then leave.” Benedict didn’t need to hear anymore. He was seeing more red than he ever had before.

Without another thought, he punched Nicholas square in the nose, causing him to hunch over in pain but not before he got his own punch in. Benedict threw another punch and while Nicholas was hunched over once again, Benedict pushed him to the floor, loving to see the man’s pretty face look so bloody and broken.

“If you so much as lay a finger on her, I promise that things will be much worse than this.” With that, Benedict wiped the blood from his nose and fled the room, finally heading home to get some much needed rest and maybe some help from a doctor.

February 13, 1817

You woke up the next morning with the brightest smile on your face as your lady’s maid helped you get ready for the day. Nothing could ruin your mood. Not even your mother. Because someone had finally showed romantic interest in you and no one, not even your mother or Lilith could bring you down.

You descended the stairs and headed towards the dining room to have some breakfast when you heard voices coming from the study. You slowly opened the door that was cracked and saw Nicholas inside arguing with your mother. You gasped not only at the fact that he was there but also because of the dried blood coming from his nose.

What was he doing there and why was he arguing with your mother? Clearly there was something that you were missing and you didn’t like all of the possibilities that your mind was coming up with. It was always your own worst enemy.

Maybe it wasn’t what you thought it was. Maybe he was there to see you and was just waiting for you to finish breakfast first. Suitors did that all the time, right? There definitely wasn’t anything suspicious going on between him and your mother.

“What happened?” Your mother asked in a tone that you thought has only been reserved for you.

“I don’t know, Vivian,” Nicholas replied, looking like he was seconds away from pulling his hair out. He looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep and the blood around his nose made him look even worse. “All I know is that I was trying to buy a piece from him and then he punched me.”

“And that was before he threatened you?”

“Yes! He told me that if I so much as laid a finger on y/n that he’d kill me! I know I agreed to court your daughter, but no amount of money is worth this,” he referred to his nose and headed for the door where you were standing.

You pressed yourself against the opposite wall of where he was exiting and felt tears prick your eyes as your world came crashing down. So all of that the night before was all because of your mother? All for money? You supposed that it made sense as to why someone as beautiful as him would approach you.

As soon as Nicholas was out of sight, you made a beeline for the stairs, heading to your room so you could cry alone. You felt so stupid. Your own mother had betrayed you in a way that you hadn’t even thought she was capable of. And for whatever reason, you felt like your sister was also behind it.

You headed to your room and slammed the door before letting out a loud scream before throwing yourself into your bed to have a good cry. All of the years you had suppressed your emotions were all catching up to you and you began to sob into your pillows.

You really thought that your father would have come to your rescue, but just like always, he’d rather stand by your mother when she was participating in all of the wrongdoing. He seemed so distant from you lately that it was almost as if he wasn’t even there at all. And maybe it would have been better if he wasn’t. At least then, he would just be gone instead of sitting on the sidelines, doing absolutely nothing.

You cried yourself to sleep, trying to fight off your nightmare. There was a red filter over it and the audio was distorted. Your mother, father, sister, and Nicholas were all laughing at you, pointing fingers and telling you just what they thought about you, holding absolutely nothing back as they did so.

It all felt so real that you had to wake up and shake it all off. You sat up in your bed and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. Just then, your lady’s maid entered the room to get you ready for the gallery. Had you really slept all day? And no one had even thought to come and wake you up? You supposed that showed you just how little your family actually thought about you.

“Esther?” You asked the woman who had laid your dress for the night out onto your bed.

“Yes miss?” She asked, pausing her duty to give you her full attention.

“Would we be able to try something different?” You could see her eyes light up at your suggestion and she immediately pulled you to your vanity, pulling out all of your makeup to get to work.

“I know just the thing,” she smiled as she dipped into some eyeshadow and applied it to your eyes.

—

You told your mother that you weren’t feeling well enough to go to the gallery and to your surprise, she didn’t put up a fight and left the house without a word. As soon as your family was gone, you threw off the blanket to reveal your dress that was absolutely nothing like you. It was black and dark purple and you had a choker to match that had an amethyst gem in the very center of it.

Esther had done your makeup dark, but tastefully with diffused black eyeshadow and a bright pink blush on your cheeks. When you looked in the mirror, you had looked nothing like yourself just like you had wanted to. You thanked her and fled the house to the carriage that had been left behind.

You entered the gallery by yourself and as soon as eyes were laid on you, whispers were spread around just like you had wanted. You were not dressed appropriately for the occasion and for once, you couldn’t have cared less.

You fiddled with your necklace as what you were doing had set in. You had only put on the dress with the intention to anger your mother and clearly it had worked with the way she was eyeing you. But that wasn’t your focus at the moment. You were just interested in seeing all of the art pieces. Upsetting your mother was just a little bonus.

Benedict let out a gasp as he caught sight of you. You were one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen and now he was beginning to think that his fight with Nicholas was all worth it. He at least hoped that his threat has sent the man running.

After you made your grand entrance, you continued to fiddle with your necklace as the whispers got more intense. You had been so focused on upsetting your mother that you hadn’t thought about the fact that other people would probably be upset as well.

You felt yourself begin to panic as the whispers seemed to get louder and you could feel your heartbeat quickening and breathing was getting harder to you. You had had many panic attacks in your life to know that this was one and needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

Just as you were about to leave, you were approached by Lady Danbury. If it has been anyone else, you would have politely declined, but she had a lot of influence and you felt like you could have used that to your advantage. So, you took a deep breath and put on your fakest smile as she got to you.

“Lady Danbury!” You greeted, smiling brightly and she smiled in return.

“Miss l/n. So lovely to see you again.” Out of all of the people there, why was she talking to you? There were so many others who were of higher status or at least had more to say than you did. And you really weren’t in the mood to be cordial at the moment. You had too much on your mind.

“And you as well, ma’am,” you curtsied. You wanted to impress the woman. She was good friends with The Queen, after all and knowing someone who had an in with her could have opened so many doors for you.

“Have you had a chance to look around the gallery?” You had too much on your mind to put your focus on something like that even though you had been so excited to

“No, not yet.”

“Perfect, you shall join me.” Join her? As in walk around the room with her?

“Lady Danbury-” You tried your best to get out of it, but she cut you off before you could make an excuse.

“That wasn’t a question. Now come along dear. I want to hear your thoughts.” She linked her arm around yours and let you lead her around the room, stopping at every individual piece, wanting to know your honest opinion. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that she just wanted to hear you talk badly about someone. To get the quiet girl out of her comfort zone.

But she wasn’t going to win this round. It turned out that every single piece so far was lovely. They were all so detailed and told the most beautiful stories. You were in awe of every single one and still wished you had the time to submit your own, wondering what people had thought about it.

You stopped once you got to the last piece and that one didn’t wow you like the others. Something was wrong, almost as if it had been incomplete. All of the colors melted together in a brown, muddy mess and you were having a hard time keeping your eyes on it.

“Well?” Lady Danbury asked and you were hesitant to tell her the truth, but you were becoming a ticking time bomb, ready to explode any second. Everything with your family and Nicholas was all piling on you and you couldn’t take a single second of it.

“The colors are too muddy,” you mumbled and the woman was having a hard time hearing you.

“I’m sorry, dear, could you repeat that?” She asked and that absolutely broke you. You were about to tear into whoever the artist was and for once, you didn’t have a single care.

“I said the colors are too muddy!” You replied, maybe a little too loud, but you hardly cared. You just needed her to know what you really thought. That was the kind of person you were now. Someone who said exactly how they felt, not caring whether it hurt their feelings or not. You didn’t have it in you to please anymore. What good had it done you, anyway?

“The artist obviously didn’t wait long enough between layers for the paint to dry. Oils are still wet after many hours. Before adding more layers you have to wait for them to fully dry. It’s an amateur mistake for some ‘professional’ artist to make.”

Lady Danbury had to admit that she was enjoying seeing that side of you and hoped you’d bring it out more often. As much as she liked how reserved you were, she believed that you were allowed a moment to break free of it every once in a while. It looked tiring having to behave like that all the time.

“That’s a very interesting, Miss, l/n,” she replied then turned to who you assumed was the artist of the piece you had just ripped to shreds with your words. “Mr Bridgerton why didn’t you wait long enough for each layer?”

Bridgerton? So that meant-no. Just your fucking luck. You turned around and sure enough, there Benedict was, looking as beautiful as ever. You noticed that he has a bruise around his eye and wondered what it was from and how you could have tended to it and made him feel better. It looked like it hurt and you almost wanted to ask if it did and if you could have kissed it better.

“If I’m being honest, Lady Danbury, I was nearly late submitting my piece for the gallery, so I needed to cut some corners. But you are correct, Miss (l/n), it is a very amateur mistake of me.” With that, Benedict turned on his heel and exited the gallery, leaving you with nothing but guilt as you watched him walk away.

Benedict had stared at that painting for hours after he had finished and hadn’t even noticed the imperfections you had pointed out until you had said the words. And he hadn’t even been upset about it either. It had been an amateur mistake to make and now he was wondering why he was even accepted into the gallery in the first place.

And now he was wondering where you got all that knowledge from because clearly you knew your stuff. Were you an artist as well? You must have been since you seemed to know so much.

And that was when it all clicked. The critique, Anthony saying that you were a family friend from the past. Of course! Now he remembered. He could clearly see the two of you drawing each other in the study of the Bridgerton home and him sneaking you into one of the studios he went to one night where the two of you laughed and painted for hours which had eventually turned into a paint fight that the two of you had gotten into a lot of trouble for.

So he wasn’t an ass, he just genuinely hadn’t remembered you. But why? Was his mind trying to protect him from something painful? It must have been considering how quick you had been to forget him after not having seen him for a few weeks. He had hoped that the memory would come to him soon so it would stop bugging him. Maybe he’d ask you why his memory of you was fuzzy. Maybe he’d just talk to you because he wanted to. With Nicholas out of the way, he certainly had the opportunity. And maybe he’d actually listen to his brother and finally find a wife.

[we-were-beautiful]

Unraveled Ends Chapter 2

Pre chapter Shenanigans 

a/n: Sooooo long time no post but I'm here now and that's what matters. Writers block hit me like a brick wall after my last piece that I did for the riders quadrant fic exchange back in July, that piece was only supposed to be 3k in words but ended up around 7.8k. I had been working on this chapter at the same time and had roughly 2k words but after I got through the edits on the gift fic couldn't seem to string together a coherent sentence much less moving the plot forward. all my photos for the moodboard/aesthetic come from pinterest. Last bit of info is that we did pick up two beta readers for this story( but I am always open for more if people want to hop in). So big Thanks to @loving-and-dreaming and @curse-bearing-hips for reviewing this chapter. That said we are all still human so there is more than likely some mistakes. And a huge thanks to @whisplion for inspiring me to write this fic. Hope y’all enjoy  

Summary: A tailor in the heart of Velaris finds herself mated to the two most powerful fae in Prythian. Unfortunately for her the mating bond only snapped for her, leaving her to question on how to move forward. Should she wait for her mates to feel the bond or should she go ahead and reject it and live with the gaping hole in her heart  

Poly!Feysand x Reader 

Warnings: None but there is angst

WC:3.1k

The next few weeks are nothing short of hell. I didn’t know pretending like nothing is wrong would be as exhausting as it has been. It was a never ending cycle of waking up, getting ready, going to work, and coming home. At work I was dancing a fine line of hiding everything from my seamstresses and sister and failing miserably. The only small mercy that I have had was that I haven’t had to see my mates. Thank the mother for that; I don’t know how I would have reacted to seeing them so soon after the bond had snapped. Not seeing them however did nothing to dampen the feelings that the two of them would throw down the bond unknowingly. Deep down  I know that they didn’t mean to send those memories and feelings to me, but on a good day it makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t know why it has gotten worse. I was fine for a year of burying the feelings that I have for the two down.

They were so happy together, and I don’t have a place in their perfect lifestyle. I thought that I had seen them around town a lot when they were just my customers but now it felt like every time I turned around they were there. It has increased since they came in to get their outfits for Starfall designed. I swear I ran into Rhys yesterday when I went to get lunch for myself. I ran into Feyre the other night while I was getting the groceries for my sisters and me. The two of them had actually approached me a week ago while I was at the park with my baby sister. They had little Nyx with them then and it felt like someone had taken a hold of my heart and started squeezing. The babe was adorable at two years of age. He's starting to reign terror on his parents who had apparently decided he needed to run off his energy at the park. The two of them are far more friendly with people than I would have liked, but mostly that friendliness was targeted towards me. As they joined me on the bench sandwiching me between them. They ended up chatting my ear off for the better part of an hour. There brushes of hands against my body that were too well placed to be incidental. It felt like a vice clamping down around my heart as I left the park with my sister to head home. Feyre had wanted me to stay a bit longer so that she could continue talking to me about my sketches. 

The physical interactions with them weren't the worst thing though. It was the images and emotions that the two had unknowingly sent down the bond. It wasn’t unusual to get a flash of lust from one of them at any given time of the day. It was inconvenient to just get hit with the overwhelming need for someone when I’m with clients. Late at night though I get the images. Of my mates tangled up in pleasure. Sometimes it was flashes of Feyre's face screwed up in pleasure; other of Rhys’s eyes alight with lust and desire. Those nights sleep was hard to come by. A few of those nights I found myself back in the shop working on my clients orders, anything to keep my mind from lingering on the two people that didn’t know I was bound to them.  I was surprised to be receiving so much from them down the bond given that both of them are powerful Demati. I figured that they would be skilled at keeping to themselves. 

Last night was one of those sleepless nights. It was a damn near endless barrage of want and need coming from both of them. If I hadn’t known that their mating bond had been accepted between them I would have assumed that they had accepted it last night. I left a note for my middle sister in the kitchen before heading to the shop in the dead of night. Being the night court, plenty of people were milling about the streets and shops in the palace of thread and jewels. Thankfully it isn’t one of the nights we keep the shop open for those who live under the stars, I could work in peace and not be bothered by anyone. No customers, no seamstresses, no nosy sisters, and most importantly no over friendly mates or their friends. 

It was wonderful to sit in the shop and do what I love with my shadows dancing around me. The shadows had been my friends since I was a very small faeling. They were more shy when I was out in public but when it is just me they come to life and sing. I had only seen two other people like me. One was my maternal grandfather who was from a court that had long since been lost; and the other was Azriel. Grandfather was able to teach me how to control the shadows and use them to my advantage. But he also told me to keep the gift to myself. Shadowsingers had long been coveted by the courts to be used as spies; and he and my parents were worried that the former High Lord would have conscripted me into his spy network if it was ever found out. I had successfully kept it a secret for nearly 400 years. Though times like this, when the shop is closed and I have the room to myself, I let them loose. A soft smile grows on my face as I watch the playful shadows dance about the room. A few of them try to be helpful by handing me tools and instruments that I need as I work on Feyre’s Starfall gown. 

Feyre’s dress had been coming along beautifully. She had come in for a fitting last week where we were checking the fit on the mock up. The High Lady had all but begged to have a similar fabric to my own. We had more of the fabric left; thank gods for that; the last thing I wanted to do was take a trip to the Autumn court to source more. I lose track of time working on the dress; so much so that I didn’t realize the sun had risen until I heard the lock on the door turn. 

“Sis, are you still here?” Genevieve calls out. Of course she came here. “I saw your note on the counter this morning. I dropped Itty bitty off at school and brought breakfast.” 

I sigh and set my things down to make my way out of the work room. Genevieve stands in the room looking so much like our mother; hair tied up in a worn red scarf, a dark red linen shirt and comfortable leather trousers. Ready for a day at the blacksmith. In her hands she balances a bag of what I assume is the breakfast and two cups in the other. 

“Your shadows are so helpful I’m jealous.” She passes me one of the cups and I take a sniff and immediately am greeted by the comforting scent of coffee “ Were you here all night again?” 

It's not hard to hear the concern in her voice as she takes a once over of me. 

“Yes” I responded, taking a sip of the delicious coffee that she had brought. 

“Ok what is going on with you.” She cocks her head to the side “It seems like you have been stressed this past year. Well more so than normal. This is starting to get worrisome. The number of times you have left the house in the middle of the night and worked through to morning is ridiculous.”

“What’s going on? I know it's not money since I help with the books and we have two sources of income coming in.” She takes a breath. “You can talk to me Sis.” 

“Let's go into the office. The ladies should be coming in soon.” I led her into my office not wanting to state what was going on when one of my employees could walk in. Once we are in the office I gesture for her to take a seat in front of my desk. I take a seat and my chair, bones creaking as I sit on the soft leather. She fixes me with a look telling me to start talking. 

“So I met my mates.” I sigh running a hand through my hair 

“You met your mate. That's good news right.” She starts rifling through the bag of food 

“Mates. Two of them.” She stops looking up at me 

“Two. Is that possible?” Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. 

“It is.” I lean back in my chair. “Incredibly rare but possible.” 

“So let me repeat my earlier question. That’s good news right?” 

“It’s complicated.” I bite my lower lip “The two of them are already mated. Sealed the bond and everything. But the bond only snapped for me.” 

“They don’t know.” Her voice drops in concern 

“No,they don’t.” 

“So what is stressing you out about it? You wouldn’t be leaving the house in the middle of the night over nothing?” 

“They are sending things down the bond. Images, emotions; it’s driving me crazy Gen.” 

“Shit, well can you block them out.” Mom had taught the two of us how to shield from Demati when we were younger. 

“I’ve tried; it only is able to dull it.” I fidget in my seat.  “It also doesn’t help that I keep seeing the two of them every time I go out into the city.” 

“Oh..” She hesitates “Do you mind if I ask who it is.?”  I quickly sent a few shadows out to make sure that the shop was still empty and that there were no busy bodies lurking around the shop. 

“It's the High Lord and Lady.” This was the first time I had ever said those words out loud. I guess I had thought that if I didn’t say it then I could pretend it wasn’t real and that it didn’t bother me. Gen lets out a low whistle.

“That does complicate things. I was going to tell you to grow a pair and tell them but fuck. The High Lord and Lady that… that makes things way more complex.” 

“You see why I am stressed now.” I can feel the ugly emotions filling my chest.

“Yeah, you are in the world's shittiest situation.” She lets out a sigh “It's not like you can go up to them and say hey I am your mate. Fuck I am sorry Sis.” 

I let out a wet laugh, a few tears escaped my eyes and rolled down my cheeks “ There’s nothing for you to apologize for. I just got dealt a shitty hand by the mother.” 

“Are you going to…” She trails off. I know what she was going to say though. It wasn’t something that was talked about often and not in polite company. Rejecting the bond. 

“It’s an option, and I am considering it. I want to ask a few friends of mine in Day about it first though. Since it hasn’t snapped for them they shouldn’t notice but I would like some confirmation first.” It helped that I had friends in other courts that I could gather information from; and there was no better place for information than  the Day Court.

“I will support whatever decision you make. You deserve to be happy Sis, and if your happiness is achieved by breaking the bond then do it.” 

The conversation between us dies after that as she passes me a blueberry muffin from the bag. Seems she stopped by our favorite bakery before heading over here. Time seems to fly too quickly and all too soon Gen has to leave for work leaving me here by myself. Although I’m not on my own for too much longer as my employees start trickling in.

The day seems to stretch on and on as clients make their way into the shop for fittings or to pick up their orders. The dull chatter of my employees and the various customers buzzes in my ears as I methodically pull a small needle through water-like silk. It's hard to make out any distinguishable conversation from behind my office door. Today seems like one of those days when time is just suspended and I can work in peace. There is a quiet content hum from my mates bond; one of the few times that I haven't felt heightened emotions from either of them. 

A soft knock shatters the silence of the office, effectively breaking the spell of tranquility that had fallen over me 

“Come in.” My voice cracks just a bit from not using it. The door squeaks open as a familiar head of midnight hair pokes in. Violet eyes twinkle in amusement as a smile grows across his stupidly handsome face. 

“Sweetheart!” The door swings open the rest of the way as Rhysand swaggers his way into my office like he owns it. I am quick to stand from my desk. 

“High lord.” I give him a polite curtsy, slamming my mental shields up before meeting his gaze

“How many times do I have to tell you it's Rhys?” He laughs before taking a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of my desk. “ So are you ready for my fitting or should I come back later.”  

Shit… Shit shit shit. I had completely forgotten that he was on my books for his second fitting today. It wasn’t like I was completely unprepared. No his suit was ready for the fitting but I was nowhere near mentally prepared for a fitting and not having slept the night before was going to be the actual death of me. 

“No, you are fine.” I move from behind the desk “Let me go grab your suit and we will get you out of here in no time.” 

“No need to rush, I quite enjoy your company.” I cannot afford to focus on my racing heart right now. I need to get him out of this shop as quickly as possible. I move through the back of the shop with practiced ease quickly locating the High Lord’s suit hanging neatly next to the High Lady’s gown. The two pieces were works of art in themselves that compliment each other. The suit as dark as the night sky embossed fabric giving the illusion of swirling depths. The dress flowed off the hanger like liquid moonlight, the delicate silk the identical twin to my own gown. Small gems sewn into the bodice catch and reflect the light like the stars that will make their journey across the sky on Starfall. For as much as I don’t want to care about the two, these pieces tell a different story. If I wasn’t just a little bit attached to the two of them I would have passed the designs along to another dressmaker and been done with it; but now I painstakingly designed and sewn these garments for my mates. I let out a small sigh before reaching up to grab the suite. Once I get back to my office I am quick to pass the suit off to Rhys directing him to the small changing area at the back of the office. I quickly begin to route around my desk for my supplies.  

An hour, all I have to do is make it an hour and then I will be free of Rhysand for the time being. It feels like forever before he walks out from behind the curtain. It is only years of working with Rhysand that keeps me from gasping out. If the suit was beautiful on the hanger and dress form it is absolutely stunning on the male it was made for. Rhys makes his way over to the platform and mirror in the office stepping up before moving to fuss with the cuffs. 

“This is a beautiful suit Sweetheart.” He moves to pick off the smallest piece of lint on the  collar. I move to stand behind him to begin the process of adjusting the way the suit sits on Rhysand.

We continued the song and dance that we had done for many years to get the suit to fit him perfectly. I can't help the small ache in my chest as I circle around him placing pins and chalk lines where minute alterations need to be made. Rhys is beaming the whole time chatting away like we hadn’t seen each other just the other day. I can feel the long day in my bones, my hands ache from the countless hours of work. My fingertips are raw from the amount of times I have jammed pins and needles into them. While I try to appropriately match Rhys energy, it's easy to tell that he isn’t buying the act. 

“You seem tired.” He arches a brow at me as I move to pin the hem of his pants. 

“My mates kept me up last night.” A mischievous glint grows in his violet eyes.

“Oh. They kept you up .” He teased but hidden in the back of his teasing tone seemed to be a bit of jealousy… possessiveness. 

“Yeah the two of them kept sending all of their emotions down the bond last night.” I sigh looking up at him from my spot on the floor 

“Two mates…” He stumbles with his words. He hasn’t done that since he was a teen and I was helping my father with his fitting “The mother has blessed you.” 

“Blessed or cursed.” I put the pins down. 

“Cursed.” He questions

“The bond only snapped for me.” A small sad smile grows on my face.  My mental shields are intact and stronger than ever and it's not like I can tell Rhys that he and Feyre are my mates. 

“Have you told them?” He questions, holding a hand out to help me from the floor 

“No. The two of them have already sealed the bond and have started their own perfect little family.” It feels like an Illyrian has punched me in the gut as I make this confession to him “I don’t want to ruin that for them.” 

“So what are you planning to do?” He tilts his head looking at me in sympathy “ Because you seem to have wilted these past few months. 

“I have a few things I am thinking about doing. I want to seek out a few friends in Day first before committing to it.”

“Committing to what Sweetheart?” he gazes at me with concern 

“Breaking the bond.” And as those words leave my lips you can see the color drain from his face.

Tag list: @rachelnicolee @goldenmagnolias @jesssicapanigua @sweetorangeblossom @cat-or-kitten @alowint @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @coldpeachkitten @esposadomd @araneea92 @saltedcoffeescotch @persephonesalvatore

[omaano]

SW Hades AU February Update

Some links and previous updates: May - June - July - August - September - October/November - December - January - everything else in this AU

I was honestly worried that I won't have anything to share as a February update (and wouldn't that be a new low for me, wow) because even despite the very generous help from @queenjiru I still cannot wrangle Sabine into a proper sketch. But then the new Hades 2 update came out ! And the art to go with it - Ares looming over Melinoe with his bloody hand staining her shoulder like that just took a hold of me body and soul, and so I have something to present to you all:

A redraw of that image with pre-Sarlacc Boba and a smol and angy Omega!

And some progress details and ramblings under the cut, as it is tradition for these update posts ->

First things first and for the sake of transparency the original image here:

You can see that it is very much just a redraw. I felt very exhausted this month, and all I wanted was something simple and straightforward. Plus the original composition was so perfect, it was a huge reason why I wanted to redraw it so bad. I'm not even going to try to deny that Ares is one of my favourites (I've never truly grown out of that edgy teen I had been way too many years ago), and the fact that in my Hades (the first) game based AU project Boba is cast for Ares - if you really want to categorize the Star Wars characters in some manner - it really was just perfect.

Ares just looked too perfect, and I'd been itching to redraw Boba in this style in another version of him, and I really just had to!

At first blush I wasn't 100% sure how I wanted to go about this redraw, so I sketched out the initial composition, and Omega with her energy bow. I wanted both Boba and Omega to be different from their original first designs, and since Omega leaned more into her teenage TBB s3 self, I wanted to draw her more like she was in s2. Season 1 Omega would have been too tiny, oh god.

And Boba... well. You might find a note in the mess above that I want to do something with his hair to make him look at least a little less like Ares (because even their face structure could match up, ohmygod I'm in distress!) but uh. It didn't really pass muster. I just love this hairstyle for a younger, pre-Sarlacc Boba too much TT^TT So I had to swallow my pride and accept that this will indeed be very much a simple redraw, nothing fancy to see or do here...

I also didn't like how hunched and balled up Omega's pose was in the initial sketch. It made her look too scared and way too vulnerable - so I had to swallow some more of that pride and non-existent ambition yet again, and accept that the way through was to stick a lot closer with Melinoe's original pose.

And because I somehow still proved to be a far more prideful person than previously thought I still made a few alternate sketches with different weapons for Omega. If it was a game, she would likely have all of them, but for the "cover" she was still stuck with Din's spear. I'm pretty sure I even copy-pasted the updated spear from Din's character art so that the head is the right size and shape and all.

The only one I don't like all that much from this collection is the middle one where Omega is holding Crosshair's rifle. I quite like most of the others, but ultimately the spear won out. The original was too good of a composition, what can I say?

Yes, I also draw little red hearts in the corners of the winning thumbnails :P

I also like the landscape format of this composition. I couldn't make up my mind about whose hand I would want it to be to loom over them though so I didn't even try to push working out that concept.

And for the very end a wip closeup of Omega. She is small and lonely and angry (and she's just ran into the worst of her brothers, and the one that's least likely to help her, what will she do?) . She's got massive vambraces with a communicator, Hunter's knife strapped to her thigh, a short kama with pockets and CF 99's skull motifs on her. And the jewel she had on her forehead in season 1 around her neck.

I really love this drawing, but for the time being I have no idea how to move on from here. I very very badly wanted to show it off though (that's why I've been writing this post for a solid 2 weeks if not more lmao) so please enjoy! <3

Taglist of anyone who wants to be pinged once a month for these updates <3 If you want to be added to the list send me a message, or just reply to this post (a 👀 would do, nothing fancy required ;))

@elwinged @yeehawgeek @velsayshi @lionsaint @hastalavistabyebye

If you want to be taken off the list just message me and I’ll take you off, no hard feelings :)

[yaut-jaknowit]

I really love "The Wrong Secret to Hold". Can I request the yautja in that fic ? He and reader are just enjoying their day and reader is an artist and Ahtaal(?) is very intrigued of readers creativity.

An Artist's Touch

Character: Ahtaal (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Summary: As an artist, a talent not many Yautjas possess, you are seen commodity like no other. There are few humans on Yautja Prime. Let one's that are under the empress's protection. Being different, you strayed away from the palace with her permission to stay in a town far in the world. Ahtaal's town. He's intrigued to see someone make something out of nothing.

Author Note: This is what I wish my life to be. I want to be resting on Yautja Prime, sketch book in hand, and just enjoying the deadly nature. Gods, I wish!

Masterlist

Ao3

Underneath an awning that offered plenty of shade a pencil and sketch were hand. Despite the credits you hold, you’ve found a spot within a tribe that resides in temperate area on Yautja Prime. It’s small. Less than fifty Yautjas are strewn across the territory, But it was perfect for yourself along the clan. They accepted you due to your talent.

Creating art. Murals painted on walls in important Yautjas houses. Including the empress all the way in Kov. She tried to offer you all the riches to stay at her palace. But, your wanted to explore, see the planet from a deep, inside look. Being inside the empress’s palace, practically trapped, offered you none of that. A city filled with Yautjas. What you wanted to see was the outside world. How they hunt, how they think. It made the murals you created come to life.

A morning dew softened the air that would soon turn hot. This area was considered temperate to them. To a human, it was far too hot for you to stand directly in the sunlight. The suns themselves would turn your skin red in less than five minutes. A planet that wasn’t meant your kind. That didn’t stop you from being out in a designated spot that had been crafted just for you.

The thatch on top plenty thick to prevent a single strand of sunlight from slipping through. You were sitting on a plush bean bag like chair. It was soft and body conforming. The furs used to cover it came from a creature you couldn’t even try to say the name. But their fur was so soft, it felt like being on a cloud. You enjoyed the calmness that floated through the air. The sketch book and pencil in your hand is all you needed for the morning.

Nearly silent footfalls had you picking up your head and finding a familiar red figure walking into the shade. A bright smile graced your features. “Ahtaal,” you greeted. The strong male strolled up to the foot of the plush seat you’ve taken and gazed down at you. “What do I owe to be graced with your presence?”

After picking a tribe to live with, Ahtaal had made a blood oath to the empress to ensure your safety. Though humans and Yautjas are an uncommon sight to see, you were one of the very few to be allowed to live freely. There were no ifs, ands, or buts to your presences amongst the Yautjas. Your talented hands ensured you had a place. The empress gracing you sanctum anywhere on the planet. Here you choose to be, of all places. But the face of Ahtaal was one you’d never pass up on.

The lumbering giant squats down in front of you and peers over the edge of the book. “I see you working away on another project,” he explained, eyes curiously running over the sketch you’ve started. Another commission for an ancient somewhere on the planet. Maybe she was up north? You let the book fall flat on your lap. Your artwork wasn’t something you hid, let alone from him.

The sketch book is turned around to face Ahtaal. “Yep, someone up north I think commissioned me. Got some more credits in the pockets.” Even as someone protected by the empress, you still liked to work for your own money. There was plenty you had since you had little to spend it on. No clothes, food, shelter, or supplies. It was just there so when anyone commissioned you, they could pay for your work. Though, gifts were another way for them pay you. There are a few trinkets you enjoyed happily every since you got them.

Carefully, Ahtaal ran just the side of his sharp claw over the pages. He traced over some of the darker, more permanent lines that marked what you truly had in mind. A deep hum rumbled from his throat. The male focused on what you’ve created on paper. A talent he will never possess, no matter how many times you egg him in.

“What do they ask for?” he questioned and brought his bright eyes up to yours. The contrast was stark. Calm, soft verses fierce, predatory. He wished there was a way to capture the beautiful color of your irises and color it somewhere in his dwelling.

The way they brightened at the question. “That snarly beast that reminds me of a carnivore looking horse that lives near the north pole.” The hairs on your arm raised at the thought of the creature. It was beyond ugly and terrifying at the same time. It looked completely unnatural when you try to give it a logical look to it with earth creatures in mind.

Ahtaal snorted, mandibles twitching with a few slow nods. Then, his gaze drops back down to the sketch book. The pages were nearly full. A constant thing for yourself.

For such an advanced species… their entertainment was limited to mainly hunting. As a human that can’t participate in such a thing, you have limited ways of filling the time. You wield pencils, not swords.

“Is this your last sketch book?” Ahtaal was responsible for your wellbeing. That includes taking care of all needs and wants under the order of the empress. But, it wasn’t only just because he was under oath.

The hand on your book lifted off. A sharp, black ended talon tipped your chin back up to meet his intense stare. You licked at your suddenly dry lips and swallowed hard. You felt mushy. “I-uh…” you cleared your throat. “Uh, yeah, it is.” Your heart stuttered in your chest while gazing into his eyes. If only you could look into them all day.

“Then, I shall go get more when time permits. I cannot have my little ooman without paper to draw on,” he grunted. The back of his shiny claw was dragged across your jawline, all the way up to your ear. With a swipe, it left your skin. More goosebumps rose across the skin on your arms. “Will you survive until tomorrow for me to get more?”

Your throat was dry. His words had soared over your head. All you were able to focus on was his gentle, mind consuming touch. You melted.

When you found your voice, you speak in a tiny voice. “Yeah.” How could one person reduce you to a school girl in front of her crush? You gnawed on your bottom lip and pulled on the skin harshly. Blood painted your tastebuds.

Red finger grasped your chin and lightly jerked down on it. “Don’t,” he warned and stopped you from mutilating your lip again. You licked at the new wound, unable to look away from his eyes. Ahtaal swipes over the moisten skin with his thumb. You weren’t able to stop yourself from licking at the deadly, pointed claw that tipped the end of his finger.

All the muscles in his body tensed up in the same manner as your own. You couldn’t believe you had just done that. It had only been a thought. Yet, apparently, your body had a different thought of its own.

At first, your mouth opened and closed. Your brain couldn’t figure out a way to make up an excuse for the stupidity you had just pulled. “Shit, I-I didn’t… Fuck, why did I do that?” you whined to yourself and pulled away.

Except, Ahtaal tightened his grip on your chin and tugged you in closer. Your lips were parted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Stars sparkling in them. Something changed within his gaze. A darker, heavier tint to the usually light colored irises.

“You… play a dangerous game, little ooman,” he growled out and emphasized his point by tugging you an inch closer to him. The warmth of his breath fanned over your face. “And I don’t know if you know what you’re getting yourself into.” You wettened your lips again. A habit hard to break. His eyes darted down to watch the action then seemed to soften. Like a whine was on the tip of his tongue.

Everything he said… Your heart continued to thunder loudly in its cavern. You swallowed hard and raised a hand to just touch at the column of his throat. The scales soft under your touch. A vulnerable place for any creature. Ahtaal lets you freely run your finger pads from his jaw down the front to where his collarbones meet.

The texture of his scales weren’t like anything you’ve felt before. Tough in a fight. You let your dull nails to trace a pattern through the spaces of the scales. Your hand continuously moving even if the two of your don’t look away.

“And what if… I do know,” you whispered just loud enough for him to hear. The surrounding space didn’t need to listen in on your conversation. “What if I want to play this game?”

A deep bellow vibrated throughout his chest. The tone so low you felt it more than heard it. You whimpered. Goosebumps covered your forearms. His eyes darkened. “Are you sure? Are you willing to let me have that power?” To hand over your power to him is a huge sign of trust. Let alone to someone who wasn’t event he same species.

“Yes,” is all you needed to say. Ahtaal towered over you, body leaning over your curled up form. His hand had shifted down to your fragile throat. Just enough pressure, just a flick of wrist and you would be nothing but a memory. Your eyes drifted close. Everything you were doing made the Yautja go wild. Every sign of submission to him. You, someone of high talent, was allowing to take that power from you.

Ahtaal growled from the back of his throat. His thumb ran along the pulse point on your throat, feeling the way it rapidly fluttered just under the skin. “Such a delicate thing under my hand. You are letting me have this.” You only gave a subtle nod, not wanting to move too much. The moment was thick with tension yet soft like clouds. You didn’t want to break a thing.

“Oh little ooman,” he cooed in a husky voice. Your eyes gently open to find him still so close to you with a low whine. His hand drifted up to cup your cheek. The large, dark red male leaned in to press his forehead to yours. “Mine?”

More of a question rather than a statement.

A smile graced your features. “Yes.” An artist and their hunter.

He finds himself scooping you off of the lounge chair and up into his arms. A surprised yelp escapes you as you clung to his neck. The sketch book and pencil you once held fell to the ground with a subtle thump. Ahtaal takes your seat and sets you down in his lap. You glared at him with no real heat in your eyes then leaned over his knees to grab at your fallen supplies.

“Well, good sir, I could’ve moved all by myself you asked,” you huffed. One of your hands was able to pick up the items off of the ground. As you go to sit back up, Ahtaal hooks an arm around your midsection and pulls you flush with his chest. The things in your grasp nearly fall back to the ground. You whipped your head to the side and narrowed your eyes on him.

All he did was chuckle from deep within his chest. The tension in the air has passed now. The soft clouds were the only thing left in their wake.  

His arm flexed around your torso and kept your lower back snug to his stomach. You could only wiggle without a chance of escape. “Ahtaal, at least let me get into a more comfortable position then this.” Ahtaal listened to you. You gave him a pointed look before twisting into a position that you were able to still draw in.

Only your butt was planted firmly in his lap. You lounged sideways and used the side of the cushion to keep yourself slightly upright. Just enough to have the book on your lower thighs and draw. You peer up at Ahtaal with a pointed look that turned into a soft smile. The expression on his face was at ease, relaxed, and gentle with the sight of you.

Ahtaal placed a hand on your knee and rubbed his thumb against your skin. “How’s this?” he purred in a tone that made you want to smack him. Somehow, you refrained from fulling such a thought. Instead, you scoffed and started back on the project in hand. Ahtaal watched an artist at work, amazed the way you create something out of nothing.