kaori

she 20 || i like mentally ill men 🪦 🕊️

[lumeowre]

introduction

★ kaori she 20

★ multifandom writer (LADS, MysMes, and some animangas… maybe hehe)

★ requests: open!

★ account / writing rules

★ will try to post at least twice a week! (depends tho)

★ will crosspost on my ao3 sometimes too :D

[lumeowre]

Last Words of a Dying Star

synopsis: A cough left ignored. Nights spent alone. Sufferings forced to endure by yourself. You’re dating the Dr. Li, but what what happens if your boyfriend-of-a-doctor failed to foresee something serious?

disclaimer: this series will contain Angst/Comfort(?) (maybe… we will see), slow burn, Xavier mentioned, kind of an asshole Zayne (sorry), probably incorrect hospital stuffs, death, and very very detailed descriptions of health problems

The days after the rooftop date felt like the drifting sunlight—warm for a moment, then already slipping away into shadow.

You clung to every detail like a drowning person clutching driftwood. The string lights trembling in the wind. The way Zayne had looked at you under the stars, his voice low and certain when he said you were his priority. For the first time in months, the ache in your chest felt lighter, almost manageable. Maybe the long nights and late returns had finally reached their end. Maybe the distance that had grown between you was beginning to close.

When Xavier texted asking how you were, you suggested meeting at the cat café again. You wanted—needed—to narrate the dreamlike experience. To make the memory feel solid, real, something you could hold onto when the cough came back.

The same black cat claimed your lap the moment you sat down. You stroked its soft fur with fingers that trembled more than you wanted to admit. The café smelled of warm milk and faint vanilla, the low hum of purring cats filling the quiet spaces between conversations.

Xavier arrived a few minutes later. He slid into the seat across from you, white hair catching the soft afternoon light. His expression was calm, but there was a heaviness in his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time you met. He ordered your usual iced matcha latte without asking and pushed it toward you when it arrived.

You didn’t notice the worry at first. You were too full of the memory, too eager to share it.

“It was perfect, Xavier,” you began, voice soft but bright with leftover warmth. “He actually left the hospital on time for once. No last-minute calls, no emergency pages. We went to the rooftop restaurant—the one with the string lights overlooking the city. He remembered my favorite wine, the dry Riesling, and ordered the profiteroles without me saying anything. We talked for hours. Real talk. Not just stupid “how was your day,” he asked about my thesis, about the supernova project I’ve been stuck on. He listened like he used to, like I was the only thing in the room.”

You laughed quietly, cheeks warming at the memory.

“Then we walked to the observatory hill. The path was steeper than I remembered, but when I got tired halfway up, he just crouched down and said ‘come on.’ He carried me the rest of the way piggy-back. I felt like I was experiencing puppy-love again. We spread his coat on the grass and lay there looking at the stars. He pointed out Orion’s Belt—the one I mentioned to him when we were kids. He remembered. He actually remembered.”

Your fingers traced the rim of the latte glass.

“We took pictures together. One with the city lights below us, another where I kissed his cheek and he closed his eyes like he was at peace. The last one was both of us looking at the camera, foreheads touching. He told me to send them to him later. It felt… intimate. Like we were rebuilding something we’d almost lost.”

Xavier listened without interrupting. He was quieter than usual—no gentle teasing, no small smiles that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Just small nods, occasional soft hums of agreement. He reached over once to adjust the napkin under your glass when it started to slip, a small gesture to keep things neat, to keep you comfortable.

You kept talking, needing to pour it all out before the warmth faded.

“When we got home he held me like he was afraid I’d disappear. It’s been so long since it felt like we were actually a couple instead of two people sharing the same apartment and the same silences. He promised we’d have another proper winter date before Christmas. Just the two of us. No hospital, no late shifts… if he can help it. He said I’m his priority. His home.”

You took a sip of the latte. It tasted faintly metallic, but you ignored it.

“I think this is the turning point. All the waiting, all the nights I fell asleep alone—maybe it was worth it. Maybe… he finally sees how much I’ve been holding on.”

Xavier stayed silent for a long moment. His fingers tapped lightly against his own cup, a rare restless movement. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but subdued.

“Sounds like a really good night,” he said. “I’m glad you had that. You deserve nights where someone carries you up a hill and remembers the stars you taught him.”

He tried to smile—small, forced, but sincere. He pushed the plate of pastries he’d ordered towards you, the ones with extra cream that you liked.

“Eat something,” he said quietly. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

You took a bite, still riding the high of the memory. The sweetness sat heavy on your tongue.

“Thank you for listening,” you continued. “I know I’ve been dumping a lot on you lately. All the late nights, the canceled plans, the way I keep telling myself it’s fine. But last night felt different. Like the distance was finally closing. Like maybe I’m not just the person waiting at home anymore.”

Xavier nodded slowly. He reached out and gently brushed a stray cat hair from your sleeve, a small, careful gesture.

“I’m happy for you,” he said. His voice was soft, almost too soft. “Really. It’s good that he made time. That he carried you. That he remembered the stars.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “You looked excited when you walked in. It’s been a while since I saw that.”

You kept talking, the words spilling out faster now, as if saying them louder would make them permanent.

“He even silenced his phone when it buzzed during the date. For once, it wasn’t about the hospital. It was about us. I felt seen. Wanted. Like the girl he fell for years ago was still there.”

Xavier listened. He refilled your water glass when it got low. He made sure the cat stayed curled comfortably in your lap. He offered small, supportive comments, “That sounds romantic,” “I’m glad he remembered,” “You deserve to be treated like a princess,” but his usual easy warmth was muted. His eyes kept flicking to the way your hands trembled around the cup, to the faint blue shadows under your eyes, to the way your breathing had grown shallower without you realizing.

You didn’t see it. You were still glowing, still clinging to the fragile hope that the perfect night meant everything was finally turning around.

Then the cough came.

It started as a tickle in your throat. Then it built—sharp, violent, unstoppable. Your chest seized like a vice. You doubled over, hand clamped over your mouth. Something warm and metallic flooded your palm. When you pulled your hand away, bright red streaked your skin, dotted with delicate red petals, fragile as fresh red carnations.

Xavier’s face went white.

“Shit… okay, you need to go to the hospital. Now.”

You tried to protest, but the room spun violently. Your lungs burned like they were filling with wet concrete. Breathing became shallow, desperate gasps. The world narrowed to a tunnel of black.

The last thing you felt was Xavier’s arms catching you as everything folded inward and went dark.

The flashback came while you were unconscious in the ambulance, oxygen mask pressed tight to your face, sirens warped and distant.

You were twenty again. Second year of university, winter break. Zayne had surprised you with a tiny rented cottage near the snowy mountains—just the two of you, no pager, no textbooks, no distance.

The night sky had been impossibly clear, stars scattered like spilled sugar across black velvet.

You started the snowball fight—a loose handful of snow thrown at his back while he was inside making hot chocolate. He came out laughing, coat half-buttoned, and the war was on. Snow flew in wild, joyful arcs. You slipped on ice and went down in a drift, laughing until your sides hurt. He tackled you gently, both of you breathless and red-cheeked under the cold sky.

Afterwards, you sat wrapped together in one thick blanket by the bonfire he built. He handed you a mug of hot chocolate—extra marshmallows, exactly how you liked it. Steam curled upward like slow smoke.

You leaned against his chest, his arm circling your waist.

“The stars are brighter up here,” you murmured.

He kissed your temple. “You make everything brighter.”

“Ew, cheesy,”you giggled, then turned in his arms.

“Promise me we’ll always have nights like this. Even when you’re a famous surgeon and I’m staring at stars for a living.”

He looked at you with love prominent on his face, firelight dancing in his pale green eyes.

“I promise,” he said softly. “No matter how busy I get, I’ll always come back to you. You’re my priority. My home.”

You believed him with every piece of your heart.

The memory soon faded like how the bonfire smoke does—drifting upward, thinning, disappearing into the cold night air until only the faint scent of woodsmoke and chocolate lingered… then nothing at all.

You woke up in the ER to blinding lights and the steady beep of monitors.

A nasal cannula hissed oxygen into your nose. Your chest felt bruised from the inside. A pulmonologist explained “acute exacerbation of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis with atypical floral hemoptysis.” Scans showed progressive scarring in the lower lobes. They wanted admission for close monitoring.

You shook your head before they finished.

“No. Outpatient. Please.”

The doctor hesitated. “Your oxygen saturation dropped dangerously low. We need to watch you closely—”

“I have plans,” you whispered, voice raw. “Christmas. A date. I can’t stay here.”

Zayne arrived twenty minutes later—still in scrubs, mask hanging around his neck, hair damp with sweat. His face was pale with guilt when he saw you.

“I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, crossing to your side and taking your hand. “I was in surgery. They wouldn’t let me leave the OR.”

You squeezed his fingers. “It’s okay. I’m okay now.”

You weren’t.

Xavier stood by the door—arms crossed, silent, eyes burning with quiet fury.

The doctors stepped out to prepare discharge paperwork and prescriptions: portable oxygen concentrator, strong anti-fibrotics and steroids, strict rest, follow-up with the pulmonology team. Zayne and Xavier followed them into the hallway to handle the outpatient forms.

You lay there alone, staring at the ceiling, clinging to the memory of the bonfire and Zayne’s quiet promise.

In the hallway, voices rose—low at first, then sharper.

Xavier spoke first, tone tight with barely contained anger.

“This is on you. She’s been sick for weeks and you’ve been too busy with that other patients to even notice. ”

Zayne’s reply was cold as ice, “You think I don’t love her? You think I’m not tearing myself apart every time I walk through that door and see her trying to pretend she’s fine?”

“I know you love her, but you’re not there for her,” Xavier shot back, voice rising. “She told me herself, ‘He’s busy. Has lives to save.’ She’s been saying that for months while she’s slowly dying. She’s coughing up blood and goddamn flower petals and you’re still running back to the OR for that other patient that’s so dear to you. How many times does she have to almost stop breathing before you finally choose her?”

Silence stretched, heavy and painful.

Zayne’s voice cracked slightly when he answered. “You have no idea what my job—”

“I don’t need to,” Xavier cuts in, quieter but no less furious. “She deserves better than being someone’s second priority. She deserves someone who looks at her and sees an emergency. Not someone who only shows up when she’s already on a hospital bed. She deserves someone better than you.”

Another long pause.

Then Xavier exhaled, the fight draining from his voice. “Forget it. She wants to go home. She wants to spend her Christmas with you. So let’s get the paperwork done and get her out of here. That’s what matters right now.”

His footsteps moved away.

His words continued to linger on Zayne’s mind, guilt and regret seeped into his heart.

They discharged you that evening with strict instructions and a small portable oxygen concentrator. Zayne carried your bag. Xavier walked you to the car but didn’t come inside the apartment.

Back home, Zayne helped you settle on the couch. He set up the oxygen machine, made you tea, sat close, and held your hand like he was terrified it would slip away.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll clear more time. We’ll have another winter date. I promise.”

You smiled weakly—small, tired, and yet, still hopeful.

“I know you will.”

Later, when he stepped out briefly to take a call (the same critical patient again), exhaustion pulled you under fast.

Zayne returned a few minutes later. He found you already asleep, breathing shallow even with the oxygen. He sat on the edge of the couch, took your hand gently in both of his, and pressed it to his lips.

Silent tears slipped down his face.

He didn’t make a sound.

Just held your hand tighter, shoulders shaking, silently apologizing for every late night, every missed moments, every time he had chosen the other patient over the girl who had waited for him since they were young.

Outside, snow began to fall softly against the window.

Inside, your chest continued its quiet, relentless collapse.

And still, you dreamed of bonfires and empty promises.

a/n: man!!! this month was crazy for me… it seems like the AO3 curse has followed me to Tumblr too lol. if you guys aren’t aware, Reader’s symptoms are similar to my chronic illness (aside from the coughing up flowers lol). so unfortunately, i had a little health scare for the last few weeks :,( … i am okay now tho!

Tumblr was also banned in my country for a few days … it feels like the universe is against me!!!!! arghhhhh!!!!!!

thank you for all the love and support, the next update will be uploaded in a few hours! i love each and every one of you <3333

taglist:

@palletaegoo @jelxqa @beebopisjustwatching @glitterykingdomangel @peachmartini

[lumeowre]

HELLO hope you doing well and drinking lots of water. I just want to ask you when will you update 'last word of a dying star' since im actually excited yet scared to see what happens next btw im in no way pressuring u into posting it early and im sorry if it came off that way😖 anyways i hope you have a great day/night.

hi there!!! don’t worry, you’re not pressuring me in any way! i will be updating Last Words of a Dying Star today at 3pm GMT+8 🩷🩷 since i was sick for the whole month and couldn’t update for long, i’ll be dropping 3 new chapters today to redeem myself (｀_´)ゞ

thank you so much for checking up on me! i hope you’re doing well too, nonnie <33 and thank you so much for enjoying LWoaDS! 🩷

[lumeowre]

Last Words of a Dying Star

synopsis: A cough left ignored. Nights spent alone. Sufferings forced to endure by yourself. You’re dating the Dr. Li, but what what happens if your boyfriend-of-a-doctor failed to foresee something serious?

disclaimer: this series will contain Angst/Comfort(?) (maybe… we will see), slow burn, Xavier mentioned, kind of an asshole Zayne (sorry), probably incorrect hospital stuffs, death, and very very detailed descriptions of health problems

Prologue, Ch. 1

The morning of midterms arrived like any other cold late-November day in Linkon—cold enough that your breath fogged the bathroom mirror, quiet enough that the apartment felt larger without Zayne in it.

You slept for fourteen hours again. Not the peaceful kind. The kind where your body simply switched off, leaving you sprawled across the bed in yesterday’s hoodie, one arm dangling off the edge, phone dead on the nightstand. When your eyes finally opened, the room was already bright with mid-morning light. Panic spiked—then dulled almost immediately into heavy, syrupy exhaustion.

Zayne had left hours ago. You knew because his side of the bed was cool and made, the way he always left it when he didn’t want to wake you. On the kitchen counter sat a single post-it note stuck to the coffee maker:

“You’ve got this.

Dinner after.

—Z”

The handwriting was neat. The same as it had been when he was fifteen and correcting your buoyancy equations in the library. You traced the “Z” with your thumb, smiled despite the dull ache behind your ribs.

You showered. Dressed in layers because the cold lived inside your bones now. Packed your bag with trembling hands—laptop, notes on core-collapse supernovae, the little snow-seal keychain you still carried even though the ring had worn thin. You told yourself the tremor was just nerves. Midterms. Nothing more.

The walk to campus was longer than physics allowed. Legs dragged. Ribs pulled inward with every breath. By the lecture hall your lungs felt lined with frost. You took the back seat. Opened your notebook to the last scrawled line:

Core-collapse supernova. Iron core. No fusion yield. Collapse in <1 second. Shock stalls. Revival or silence. Black hole swallows the rest. Only ripples remain.

The professor entered. Papers landed like verdicts.

Question 3 (25 points):

Describe the sequence of events leading to a core-collapse supernova in a massive star (M > 8 M☉). Explain why the iron core cannot support itself against gravity once fusion ceases, and discuss the role of neutrino-driven shock revival (or failure) in determining whether the star explodes or forms a black hole.

You wrote. The pen obeyed. The words came slow, deliberate, as though your hand already knew the ending.

“In very massive stars (more than eight times the Sun’s mass), the core burns through its fuel in stages: hydrogen into helium, helium into carbon, then neon, oxygen, and finally silicon—each stage shorter than the last. Silicon burning produces an iron core in roughly days. Iron fusion is endothermic; it absorbs energy rather than releasing it. Once the iron core forms, fusion ceases to provide outward pressure.

Within <1 second, the core collapses.

Protons and electrons are forced together into neutrons, releasing a flood of neutrinos. The outer layers of the star plunge inward at a quarter the speed of light and slam into the newborn proto-neutron star. They rebound, forming a shock wave that tries to tear the star apart—but almost immediately it weakens, drained by energy loss and cooling.

Revival depends on neutrinos. If enough energy is deposited behind that failing shock, it surges outward again, blasting the star’s outer layers into space in a supernova. What remains is a neutron star—or, if the star was massive enough, a black hole.

If revival fails—if the shock cannot regain momentum—the core continues its inward spiral. Matter falls past the event horizon. No explosion occurs. The star vanishes quietly. The light dies. The mass is erased from view. Only faint gravitational waves ripple outward, carrying the last trace of what once burned so fiercely.

The star simply disappears.

Nothing remains but absence.”

You set the pen down. The final period felt heavier than it should.

You coughed once—small, discreet—into sleeve. A classmate glanced. Looked away.

You handed in the paper. Stepped into merciless sunlight.

Outside you braced against brick. World tilted. Steadied. Phone out. Fingers shook.

“Done! :)

Can’t wait for tonight! ❤️”

Sent.

A reply arrived like clockwork.

“Exam over? How did it go?

I might be running behind. I had to check on a critical follow-up patient. Should be out by 7. Still on for tonight. Promise.”

“critical follow-up patient…” a familiar clench came on your heart.

“Went well! See you at 7 ❤️”

You didn’t go straight home.

Instead you sat on a bench near the physics building. Watched students pass like ghosts in coats. The phone buzzed again.

Xavier.

“U looked off after the exam yesterday.

Just checking in. U OK?”

You stared until letters blurred.

Then typed:

“I’m okay, promise! I’m still on campus, feel free to come by! :)

I’m at the bench where we usually stay.”

Sent.

Ten minutes later he appeared—white hair catching weak sunlight, hands in pockets, expression already worried before he reached you.

He sat without asking. Close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

“You look sick,” he said quietly.

You tried to laugh. It cracked halfway.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t smile. “You’ve been disappearing.”

You looked at the fountain instead. Water moved in slow, mechanical arcs.

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re more than tired.” His voice stayed soft. “You’re fading. And it’s like he doesn’t see it.”

The “he” landed like a stone in still water.

You swallowed. “He’s busy. Has lives to save, you know.”

“And you’re letting yours slip away waiting for him to notice.”

Tears slowly pricked. You blinked them back.

Xavier shifted closer. Not touching. Just there.

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole,” he murmured, “but you deserve someone who looks at you like you’re the priority. Not the afterthought.”

You turned then. Met his eyes—blue, steady, pained in a way that felt older than both of you.

“I know,” you whispered.

He exhaled slowly.

“Then why stay?”

“Because when he does look… it still feels like the only place I belong.”

Silence stretched thin between you.

Xavier reached out—slow—covered your hand with his. Warm. Grounded.

“You don’t have to decide today,” he said. “But when it hurts too much to keep pretending… I’m here. I won’t ask, I won’t judge. I’ll just be here.”

Your throat closed.

“Thank you,” you managed. Voice splintering. “For seeing me.”

His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

Then he let go.

“Text me after your date tonight,” he said quietly. “Just so I know you’re safe.”

You nodded.

He stood. Walked away without looking back.

You sat until the cold seeped through your coat. Until the fountain’s sound became unbearable.

Then you went home to wait for the man who still hadn’t noticed you were drowning… or maybe he did notice, he just doesn’t have the time to care.

He was waiting outside the apartment at exactly 7:03 p.m.

Black coat, hair still slightly damp from a shower he must have rushed through. No phone in his hand. No distracted glance at the screen. Just him—looking at you like you were the only thing on his schedule tonight.

“You’re early,” you said, surprised.

“I left early.” He stepped forward, brushed a stray hair from your face with cool fingers. “You look beautiful.”

You laughed—weak, breathless. “I look like I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

“You look like you.” His thumb lingered on your cheek. “That is beautiful.”

Dinner was at the rooftop restaurant—corner table beneath trembling string lights. Wind carried distant city noise like mourning. He ordered the Riesling (dry, but not so sweet) you once loved. the Profiteroles you used to steal from each other’s plates.

He listened when you spoke.

You told him about the exam question—how the core collapses in less than a second, how the shock wave stalls, how revival is never guaranteed. How sometimes the star simply folds inward and takes everything with it.

He watched you the entire time.

No drifting gaze. No checking the door. Eyes only on you.

He reached across the table. Laced his fingers through yours.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “About how long it’s been since I just… looked at you. Really looked.”

Your chest tightened—not the sick kind. The other kind.

“I’m looking now,” he continued. “And I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

Tears gathered behind your eyes. You blinked them away.

The Profiteroles arrived. He pushed the plate toward you first.

“First bite’s yours,” he said. The same line from years ago.

You took it. The outer chocolate was bitter-sweet on your tongue.

After plates were cleared he paid. He led you outside.

“Let’s go to the hill you like,” he said.

The observatory path rose cruel and steep. Halfway your lungs seized. You stopped. Pretended to adjust your scarf.

He noticed.

“You’re pale.”

“Just tired,” you lied. “Can you carry me?”

He crouched.

You climbed onto his back. Arms around his neck. His hands locked under your thighs. He carried you the rest of the way—slow, steady, as though time had finally paused for both of you.

At the top he spread his coat on the grass. You lay back together. Shoulders touching. Stars stared down—cold, ancient, distant.

He pointed.

“Look, we can see Orion’s Belt from here. You taught me that when we were kids.”

“You remembered...”

“I remember everything you taught me.”

Wind moved through dry grass. Sounded like breathing.

You pulled out your phone. Hands shook.

“Can we… take a picture?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. Pulled you close. Chin on your shoulder. You angled the camera upward—city lights below, stars above, his profile sharp against the dark.

Click.

Another—one where you kissed his cheek mid-laugh. His eyes closed. Peaceful.

Another—both looking at the lens, heads touching, smiles small and sad.

You lowered the phone. Thumbed through the photos. Each one felt like a memory you want to relive.

“Cute. Send them to me later,” he murmured.

You nodded.

He pulled you down beside him again. Arm around your waist. You rested your head on his chest. Listened to the steady thump beneath his ribs.

After a long silence, he spoke—voice so low it almost disappeared into the wind.

“I used to believe,” he said quietly, “that if I could just keep hearts beating… if I could save enough of them… then the people I love would stay. That I could hold on to them forever.”

You swallowed. The words landed soft, but they carried weight.

He continued, slower, like he was only just admitting it to himself.

“But lately… I’ve started to realize even the strongest hearts can slip away. Not because I didn’t try. Not because I didn’t love them enough. Just… because time doesn’t always listen.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side—barely noticeable, but there.

You felt your throat close. “And you think that’s happening now?”

He was quiet for several heartbeats.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just know I’ve never wanted to hold someone this tightly… and I’m still afraid you’ll still slip away from my arms.”

The confession hung between you—simple, raw, devastating.

You turned your face into his coat so he wouldn’t see the tears. He didn’t ask why your breathing had changed. He just pressed his lips to the top of your head and held you closer, as if trying to prove—right then and there—that he could still keep at least one heart beating a little longer.

He didn’t ask why you were crying. Just held you tighter.

You stayed like that until the wind turned knife-sharp. Until your shivering became something he couldn’t ignore.

He sat up. Wrapped his coat around your shoulders. Helped you stand.

Down the hill he carried you piggy-back again. You laughed into his neck—sharp, fleeting, almost real. He smiled against your cheek.

And in the car, you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder. His hand rested on your knee. City lights blurred past like dying embers.

You suddenly woke in the dark.

Zayne’s breathing slow beside you. Arm across your waist—loose, possessive, asleep.

Chest wrong.

Tight. Heavy. Something pressing inward.

You slipped from the bed. Closed the bathroom door. Turned on the light.

The mirror showed a corpse wearing your face—skin waxen, eyes sunken, lips bruised violet. You coughed. Wet. Pressed tissue to your mouth.

Crimson flower bloomed in the center.

You stared until it darkened.

Folded the tissue. Buried it. Washed hands until skin stung. Brushed yours teeth, and crawled back in bed.

Zayne stirred. Pulled you close.

You pressed face into his chest, and slowly wept without sound.

Dream came like suffocation. You’ve been dreaming about the past lately.

You’re thirteen again. Snow thick outside the station. Zayne—fifteen—on the platform. Suitcase. Too-big coat. Breath fogging between you.

Crying. Quiet. Broken.

He wiped your tears with sleeve.

“We promised. Friends forever.”

“Forever.”

A snow-seal keychain tied to suitcase handle.

“I have to go. Have to study more. Protect the people who matter most.”

Thought he meant you.

He touched the keychain—reverent.

“She’s waiting for me to be ready.”

Ice formed in your lungs.

You didn’t ask her name. Didn’t have to.

You hugged him—a desperate goodbye.

“Please… come back to me...” you prayed to him.

And then, the train’s door hissed.

He soon had to let go.

You watched the train depart away. Watched snow erase footprints.

Platform blank. White. Empty.

You woke up gasping.

Tears soaked pillow.

Cough deeper—rattling. Muffled in fabric.

Zayne slept.

You stared up at the ceiling until gray bled through blinds.

The phone buzzed.

Xavier.

“Are U sure Ure OK? I’m worried about U.”

You stared until letters swam.

Typed numb:

“Just got home, and yes, I’ll be okay. Thanks for worrying tho! You’re the best :)”

Sent.

Outside, the city stirred—fast, indifferent, waking into another day that would not wait.

Inside your chest, the core had already begun to fold inward.

No outward pressure left to hold it.

No fusion to burn.

The shock wave had formed once—faint, hopeful—only to stall, energy bleeding away into nothing.

No neutrino burst strong enough to revive it now.

No explosion to light the dark.

Just a quiet collapse.

Matter spiraling past the point of return.

The light dying first, then everything else.

Only faint ripples left behind—gravitational whispers no one would ever hear.

And still—no one noticed.

The apartment stayed quiet.

Zayne slept on, arm draped across you like a promise he no longer knew how to keep.

Your phone screen dimmed beside the pillow, Xavier’s message left in the dark.

You closed your eyes.

Let fate continue.

It was already too late for revival.

a/n: updates might be slower for the next few days. got sick 🥲 i had to rush this chapter since i wanted to update something before my health went poopoo. i hope this chapter still lives up to people’s expectations tho! thank you so much for the love and support <33 i didn’t expect people to enjoy it this much

taglist: @palletaegoo @jelxqa @beebopisjustwatching

[lumeowre]

this inspired me to write a oneshot smut of Zayne… where he uses his anatomy powers to overstimulate Reader… won’t be connected with Last Words of a Dying Star tho!!!!!

[lumeowre]

Last Words of a Dying Star

synopsis: A cough left ignored. Nights spent alone. Sufferings forced to endure by yourself. You’re dating the Dr. Li, but what was he like before his cold walls were rebuilt?

disclaimer: this series will contain Angst / Comfort(?) (maybe… we will see), slow burn, Xavier mentioned, kind of an asshole Zayne (sorry), probably incorrect hospital stuffs, death, and very very detailed descriptions of health problems

Prologue, Ch. 2

You glance at the clock: 2:17 A.M. Probably another busy night at the hospital.

The bed is too big without him in it. Always has been, even when he’s lying right there, careful not to crowd you.

You roll onto his side of the mattress anyway. The pillow still carries the faintest trace of bergamot—him.

You bury your face in it and inhale like you’re trying to pull him back through time, where everything felt right.

And suddenly you’re twelve again, middle school, the library lights dimmed to after-hours amber because you’d begged the librarian for “just ten more minutes.” Your physics mock exam was tomorrow, and the equations refused to stay in your head. Numbers blurred on the page like they were mocking you.

You’d been there alone for an hour when the door creaked open.

Zayne, your classmate, stepped in without a word—winter coat still on, scarf loose around his neck, backpack slung over one shoulder like he’d come straight from his own advanced seminar. He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just… resigned, in that quiet way of his.

“You’re going to fail if you keep circling the same wrong step,” he said, voice low enough not to echo.

You startled, pencil skittering across the paper. “How did you even know I was—”

“You always stay late before exams.” He set his bag down, pulled out the chair across from you without asking. “And you always pick the corner table by the window.”

Heat crept up your face. You hadn’t realized he noticed things like that.

Zayne noticed your mistake on your formula, and didn’t wait for permission. Just reached across, turned your notebook towards him, and scanned the mess of crossed-out derivatives. His pen moved in precise, economical strokes—correcting, not rewriting. Explaining in short, clipped sentences that somehow made the chaos click into place.

“Archimedes’ principle,” he said. “The buoyant force equals the weight of the displaced fluid. You calculated the volume correctly—125 cm³—but you used grams instead of newtons for the force.”

He slid the notebook back, nodding you to try again. “You forgot to convert everything consistently to newtons. Grams cancel in buoyancy if you’re sloppy with units.”

Half an hour passed in near-silence, broken only by the scratch of pens and the soft comment of “Try that again.” When you finally solved the problem that had been torturing you for hours, he gave a nod with the smallest smile on his face.

“Better.”

You exhaled, shoulders dropping for the first time in days. “Thank you. Seriously… I was about to start bawling out loud.”

Then, he looked up then—really looked. Those cold green eyes steady, unreadable, but softer around the edges than usual. “You don’t have to thank me.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “You should eat something. Your hands are trembling.”

You laughed, weak and surprised. “It’s just nerves.”

“It’s low blood sugar.” He reached into his bag without looking, pulled out a small wrapped energy bar—the kind he always carried for long OR observations later—and slid it across the table. “Eat.”

You thanked him. Your fingers brushed his for a second—his cool skin against your warmer one. Neither of you pulled away immediately.

Zayne watched as you unwrapped it and took a bite. He didn’t look away, didn’t fidget. Just waited, like making sure you actually ate was part of the equation he needed to solve.

“How’d you know it was low blood sugar?” you asked once you’d swallowed, closing your notebooks to give your full attention to the boy sitting right in front of you.

“I’m studying to be a doctor—a cardiac surgeon.” He said it plainly, no bragging, no hesitation. “I’ve been preparing to get into Skyhaven University’s Medical School.”

You blinked. “Already? We’re just in middle school, my dude,” you giggled—which earned you a sharp glare from the librarian across the room. You covered your mouth, then whispered, “But still… that’s such a Zayne thing to do.”

“…‘Zayne thing to do’?”

“Yeah!” Another smile tugged at your lips; you leaned forward just a little, elbows on the table. “You’re always top of the class. You’re reliable, scary smart, responsible. It’s hard to believe you’re actually the same age as me. Sometimes I think you were born wearing a white coat.”

He stared at you for a long second, expression blank except for the tiniest twitch at the corner of his eye—like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or amused.

“I don’t wear a white coat yet,” he said finally, deadpan.

You snorted, then clapped a hand over your mouth again when the librarian shot another look your way.

The laughter faded into comfortable quiet. You finished the energy bar, crumpled the wrapper, and glanced at him again.

“Why a doctor, though?” you asked, softer now, genuine curiosity slipping through. “Like… why cardiac surgery specifically? Most people our age want to be YouTubers or streamers… or something. You’re already picking such an important career.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped to the table for a moment—long enough that you almost thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he spoke, voice so low you had to lean in to catch it.

“Because… there’s someone I want to save...”

He paused, fingers pressing lightly into the edge of your notebook—not gripping it, just resting there, as though he needed to hold something steady while he admitted it.

“If I become a cardiac surgeon… it’s so I can keep her safe. So nothing ever happens to her.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the scratched wood between you, distant and focused, like he was seeing someone else entirely.

The words hung there, simple and absolute.

You felt your own heart give a small, confused lurch—not jealousy exactly, not yet, but the sudden sharp awareness that you were sitting across from a boy whose entire compass already pointed somewhere else. Someone had gotten there first. Someone mattered more than top grades, more than late-night libraries… maybe even more than you.

You swallowed around the tiny, unexpected knot in your throat.

“…She must be really special,” you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay even. “To already mean that much.”

Zayne finally lifted his eyes—just for a second. Something raw flickered there, too quick and too young to name properly. Not quite sadness. Not quite longing. Just… certainty.

“She is,” he said. Simple. Final.

Then the moment passed. He blinked once, twice, and the mask slipped back into place like it had never cracked.

Silence settled again. You finished the energy bar, crumpled the wrapper, and glanced at the clock above the door. Almost time the library closes.

Zayne stood first, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. But instead of heading straight for the exit, he paused beside your chair.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “If you get stuck again during the exam… breathe. Count to four. Then reread the units. You’ll see it.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “You’re giving me exam advice now?”

“You asked how I knew about low blood sugar.” He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “Same principle. Patterns. You have them. I notice.”

Your heart did a funny little skip—nothing dramatic, just enough to make you wonder if it was the sugar hitting or something else.

He turned to go.

“Wait,” you said, too quickly.

He stopped. Looked back.

You stood up too, suddenly awkward. “Um… thanks again. For tonight. And for the bar. And for… showing up.”

He studied you for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, very quietly: “You don’t have to thank me for showing up.”

But the way he said it—soft, almost careful—made it sound like maybe he was thanking you for being someone worth showing up for.

He left first. You watched the door close behind him, the cold draft slipping in for just a second before everything went quiet again.

You sat back down, staring at the empty chair across from you, the faint warmth still lingering where his hand had brushed yours.

Outside, snow had started falling again—soft, silent, the kind that made the whole world feel smaller and safer.

You smiled to yourself, small and secret.

Maybe failing physics wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world… if it meant more time spent like this.

The next day the exam room smelled like fresh pencils and nervous sweat. You sat at your desk, heart hammering, but every time a question about buoyancy or density stared back at you, you heard his voice—calm, clipped, certain.

Read the units.

You breathed. Counted to four. And the numbers lined up.

When the bell rang and papers were collected, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. Not perfect, maybe, but… good. Really good.

You were walking out of your classroom, scarf wrapped tight against the February chill, when you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned.

Zayne was there, coat buttoned, hands in his pockets. He must have finished his own exam early (of course he did).

“[Name], how did it go?” he asked without preamble. No hello. No smile. Just the question, quiet and direct.

You beamed before you could stop yourself. “I think… I actually did okay? Like, really okay! The buoyancy stuff? It clicked. Because of you!”

He stopped walking for half a second, eyes flicking to yours.

Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“Good.”

One word.

But the way he said it—low, deliberate, with the tiniest softening at the corners of his eyes—felt like more than good. It felt like you did something worth noticing. From Zayne Li, who never wasted words, that single syllable landed like sunlight after weeks of gray.

Your cheeks went hot despite the cold. You ducked your head, grinning so wide it hurt.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, kicking at a small pile of snow. “I mean… thank you. Again.”

The memory fades as another cough pulls you back.

The pillow is cool against your cheek now. No bergamot left.

Just the echo of his voice, soft and certain:

“You don’t have to thank me for showing up.”

You curl tighter into his side of the bed, eyes stinging.

The apartment is still empty.

And amidst the silence, you wished he could show up just like before.

You’ve been sleeping more lately.

Not the refreshing kind. The heavy, unwilling kind—where you sit down to review one more equation and wake up hours later with your cheek pressed to the textbook, drool staining the margin, the room darker than it should be. You tell yourself it’s finals stress, the last brutal stretch before graduation. You tell yourself Zayne’s endless shifts are wearing on you too. You tell yourself a lot of things.

But the mirror doesn’t lie.

Your skin has taken on a soft, ashen undertone—like someone turned down the saturation on your reflection. The faint shadows under your eyes aren’t just from late nights anymore; they’ve settled in, stubborn and blue-tinged. Even your lips look paler, the usual flush gone.

You pull your hoodie sleeves over your hands and head to your lecture anyway.

Xavier notices first.

He’s waiting outside the lecture hall like always—casual lean against the wall, white hair catching the afternoon light, that easy half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes when he’s watching you too closely.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the bricks. His gaze sweeps your face in one smooth, practiced motion. “You okay? You’re… quieter than usual.”

You force a laugh. It comes out thinner than you mean it to. “I’m fine. Just tired. Midterms, you know.”

He doesn’t smile back. Just studies you a second longer, head tilted slightly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. And you’re sleeping through half your classes now. I saw you nod off in class—head on your arms, didn’t even twitch when the prof dropped the marker tray.”

Heat creeps up your face. “I caught up on the notes later.”

“Mm.” He falls into step beside you as you start walking. “You’re also pale. Like, hospital-pale. Not ‘I pulled an all-nighter’ pale. When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t instant ramen or coffee?”

You giggle, “You’re one to talk,” once the giggle dies down, you hide your hands in your hoodie’s pockets. “Zayne’s been busy. I’ve been busy. It’s fine.”

Xavier’s jaw tightens—just a flicker—but he doesn’t push. Not yet.

Instead he nudges your shoulder lightly. “Come on. Meow’s Café. My treat. You need something sweet and cats. And I need to make sure you don’t pass out on the sidewalk.”

You hesitate. The cat café is your place—yours and Zayne’s. The little corner table by the window where he used to steal bites of your matcha cake, where he’d rest his chin on his hand and watch the tabby curl up in your lap like it belonged there. You haven’t been back for months. Not since his shifts swallowed every free evening.

But Xavier’s already walking, and something in you doesn’t want to be alone with your own thoughts right now.

So you follow.

The café smells the same: warm espresso, faint litter-box undertone masked by vanilla candles, the soft thump of paws on hardwood. A fluffy black cat immediately claims your lap the second you sit down. You scratch behind its ears automatically, the rumble of its purr vibrating against your chest like a tiny motor.

Xavier slides your favorite—iced matcha latte with extra oat milk—across the table. He’s already halfway through his Taro Mochi Milktea, watching you over the rim.

“So,” he says after a moment. “Talk to me. Is there something going on with you and Zayne?”

The question lands soft, but it still stings.

You stare into the foam on your drink. “Nothing’s… wrong. Exactly. He’s just… really busy. Saving lives and all that. I get it.”

Xavier leans forward, elbows on the table. “You say that like it’s supposed to make it okay that he hasn’t noticed you’re basically fading in front of him.”

You flinch. “He notices. He just… has priorities.”

“Priorities.” Xavier repeats the word like it tastes bitter. “Right… and you’re not one of them?”

The black cat kneads your thigh, oblivious. You swallow hard.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Sometimes it feels like I’m… background noise. Like he’s listening for something else. Someone else. And I’m just… here.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. You blink fast, embarrassed.

Xavier reaches across the table—slow, careful—and covers your hand with his. His palm is warm. Steady. Nothing like Zayne’s cool, precise touch.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are softer than usual—gray-blue, earnest, a little pained.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he says. “Whatever it is—Zayne, school, or feeling like shit physically—you don’t have to pretend it’s fine with me. If you need to cry, yell, or just sit here and pet cats until you feel human again… I’m here. Shoulder, ear, whatever you need. I’ve got you.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

Your eyes burn. A tear slips free before you can stop it. You swipe at it quickly, laughing wetly. “God, sorry. I’m a mess.”

“Oh, [Name]… don’t apologize.” His thumb brushes once over your knuckles—gentle, grounding. “You’re allowed to cry.”

You squeeze his hand back, just once. “Thank you. Seriously. For being… such a good friend.”

The word friend hangs between you.

Xavier’s expression flickers—something quick and unreadable. A tightening at the corners of his mouth, a shadow passing behind his eyes. It’s gone so fast you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

He pulls his hand back slowly, offers a small, crooked smile instead.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than before. “Friend. Always.”

The black cat chooses that moment to stretch, paws kneading deeper into your lap. You focus on that—the soft fur, the steady purr—because looking at Xavier right now feels too raw.

Outside, the sky has gone bruise-purple. Your phone stays dark. No text from Zayne. No “I’ll be late.” Nothing.

You sip your latte. It tastes like nothing.

Across the table, Xavier watches you again—quiet, patient, worried in a way that feels almost too attentive.

And for the first time, you wonder how long he’s been watching.

How long he’s been seeing what Zayne hasn’t.

You get home just after nine. The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of the hallway nightlight you always leave on for him. Your bag thuds softly against the floor as you kick off your shoes. The cat’s purr still echoes in your ears, warm and uncomplicated, but the latte sits heavy in your stomach like regret.

You don’t bother turning on the main lights. Just shuffle to the couch, curl into the corner with a throw blanket that still smells faintly of Zayne’s cologne, and let your eyes drift shut. You tell yourself you’ll just rest for a minute.

You wake to the soft click of the front door.

The clock on the microwave blinks 11:47 P.M.

Zayne steps inside quietly—coat already half-off, surgical mask dangling from one ear like he forgot to take it all the way off. His hair is mussed from the cap, dark circles carved deeper under his eyes than usual. He pauses when he sees you on the couch, blanket tangled around your legs, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like armor.

“You’re still up,” he says, voice low and rough from a long day.

“Barely.” You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. Your head feels thick, like it’s stuffed with cotton. “How was your shift?”

He exhales through his nose, hangs his coat, sets his keys down with that careful precision he always uses. “Long. Complicated.” A pause. “A very important came up at the last minute. I couldn’t leave early.”

The word “important” lands like a pebble in still water. Small ripples. You feel them in your chest.

You nod anyway. “It’s okay. I get it.”

He crosses the room, stops in front of you. Up close, you can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face—lines that weren’t there when you first started dating. He studies you for a long moment, brow furrowing slightly.

“You look tired,” he says. Not accusatory. Just… observing. Like he’s reading a chart. “More than usual.”

You force a small smile. “Midterms. And maybe I’ve been sleeping too much lately. Or not enough. I don’t know.”

His hand lifts—hesitates—then settles lightly on your forehead, cool fingers checking for fever the way he’s done a hundred times. No fever. Just the same quiet concern he gives every patient.

“You’re pale,” he murmurs. “And cold.”

“I’m always cold when you’re not here,” you say, half-joking. It comes out softer than you mean it to.

Zayne’s expression flickers—something almost like guilt. He drops his hand, sits on the coffee table in front of you so your knees almost touch. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For the late nights. For being gone so much. I know it’s been… months since we’ve done anything normal. Anything that feels like us.”

Your heart stutters. He’s never said it out loud before—not like this.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, voice steady but careful, “after your midterms are over… we should go out. Properly. Just you and me. Dinner somewhere nice. Or that rooftop you like—the one with the city lights and no one else around. Whatever you want.”

The words hit like sunlight after endless rain.

You feel your eyes widen, your mouth curve into a smile you can’t hold back. “Really?”

He nods once. “Really. I promise.”

It’s been so long since he’s said promise and meant it like this. Since you’ve felt like more than the person waiting for him to come home. Since you’ve felt like a couple instead of two people orbiting the same apartment.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is the reset.

The revive of your relationship.

You lean forward without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, bury your face in the crook of his shoulder. He smells like antiseptic and bergamot and faint sweat—the hospital clinging to him like a second skin. He stiffens for half a second, then his arms come around you—slow, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something.

“I’d love that,” you whisper against his collar. “A lot.”

He holds you tighter, just for a moment. “Good. Then it’s a date.”

You pull back enough to look at him—really look. His eyes are tired, but there’s something softer there. Something that almost feels like the Zayne from the library all those years ago. The one who showed up without being asked.

For the first time in weeks, hope flickers in your chest—small, fragile, but real.

You ignore the faint tremor in your hands.

You ignore the way your heartbeat feels uneven, like it’s skipping steps.

You ignore everything except this: him, here, promising something that feels like a future.

Maybe—just maybe—this time he’ll keep it.

He presses a kiss to your forehead—cool lips, lingering a second longer than usual—then stands. “Go to bed. I’ll shower and join you in a few minutes.”

You nod, still smiling, still clinging to that tiny spark.

As he disappears down the hallway, you sink back into the couch, blanket pulled tight.

Your phone buzzes once on the cushion beside you.

A text from Xavier:

“U get home okay? Text if U need anything. Even at 2 A.M.”

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

Then you type back: “Home safe. Thanks again. You’re the best. :)”

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The apartment is quiet again.

Zayne’s shower starts running.

And somewhere deep in your chest, that uneven rhythm continues—quiet, persistent, the feeling of dread brewing.

taglist: @palletaegoo

[lumeowre]

Last Words of a Dying Star (Prologue)

synopsis: A cough left ignored. Nights spent alone. Sufferings forced to endure by yourself. You’re dating the Dr. Li, but what happens if your boyfriend-of-a-doctor failed to foresee something serious?

disclaimer: this series will contain Angst/Comfort, Xavier mentioned, kind of an asshole Zayne (sorry), probably incorrect hospital stuffs, death, and very very detailed descriptions of health problems

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Zayne noticed anyway. He always noticed the small things—pupil dilation in a patient’s eyes, the faint dying sound of a heartbeat—but he didn’t pause long. Just looked over the rim of his reading glasses, expression clinical and faintly impatient, like you were merely backlog.

“Probably just a cold,” he said, voice low, the same tone he used to tell patients their surgery was routine. “Drink water. Sleep. Don’t push it.”

Then he was gone—coat already on, keys in hand—leaving the apartment door clicking shut behind him before you could even form a proper “Be safe” or “Come home soon.” He didn’t even kiss your forehead the way he used to, but maybe it was an emergency, so you brushed it off.

You stood in the quiet kitchen for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he’d been. The clock above the stove blinked 6:13 A.M. Another dawn without breakfast together.

These days his schedule was surgical: out by six, back sometime after eleven, if at all. You told yourself it was normal. He was the Dr. Li Shen—Linkon’s youngest cardiac prodigy, the surgeon newspapers loved to photograph mid-procedure, mask down, gaze steady and unreadable. Saving lives didn’t leave much room for lazy mornings or goodnight kisses. You couldn’t be the girlfriend who whined about it. That would be… petty. Unworthy.

So you buried yourself in your studies in Prestara University’s astrophysicist major.

Final year. Midterms in ten days. You were chasing a perfect GPA—because if your awards shone bright enough, maybe your parents would stop sighing over video calls. Maybe, Zayne would look up from his laptop one night and actually see you again, not just the outline of the person he used to know in school.

You used to feel small—safe—next to him in an endearing way. Now it felt different. Like standing in the shadow of something indifferent. He was brilliant in a way that made other brilliant people quiet. Nurses whispered his name in the halls like a prayer. Patients woke up asking for “Dr. Li” by first name, as though they’d known him their whole lives. Everyone wanted more of him. But, you were just… there.

You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you anymore. The girl who used to sneak him snacks in middle school? The one who laughed too loud at his dry jokes? Or just… someone convenient. Someone safe. Someone who wouldn’t demand more than he could give.

Another cough came while you were highlighting a paragraph on primordial black holes. It wasn’t violent. Just persistent. A little deeper than before.

You ignored it.

You ignored the way your handwriting had started to tremble on the margins of your notes. You ignored the way coffee tasted metallic now, like old coins. You ignored the faint bruise that had bloomed under your left collarbone two weeks ago and refused to fade. You told yourself it was from leaning too hard against the desk. You told yourself a lot of things.

The apartment was too quiet without him. You’re overthinking again. You used to fill the silence with music or dumb, brainrotting YouTube videos. But now, you just let it still. Let it press against your ribs.

Your phone sat dark and silent beside the laptop. No messages. No “I’m on my way home.” Just the soft hum of the city outside the window and the faint metallic taste of fatigue on your tongue.

Zayne’s voice echoed in your head, calm and unyielding.

“Don’t push it.”

You almost laughed—bitter, breathless. Too late for that.

Another cough. This one lingered, turned into a shallow rasp you couldn’t quite clear. Fatigue started creeping up you.

You closed the textbook slowly.

Maybe, it was time to listen to the doctor for once.

a/n: eekkk!!! my first ever post in Tumblr!!!! this prologue has been on my drafts since forever, and since this is my debut… i decided to post it here!

this is mostly inspired by my own personal experiences with a disease… not a chronic bad luck in love tho! hehe :P

[lumeowre]

rules and protocols 🫡

here are the rules to both my account and requests! please do note that my account is 18+ only MDNI!!! PLEASE!!!!

account rules

★ please don’t bring up discourse in my account. i am a grown ass woman idc about fandom arguments

★ any hate comments will be removed and blocked. this is a safe place for all

★ please do note that English isn’t my first language. apologies for my grammatical mistakes and typos

things i will write

★ smut

★ fluff

★ angst

★ drabbles

★ incest

★ age gap

★ series

★ literally any ddne contents idgaf

things i WON’T write

★ scat… that’s all 😭