#I need to include this in my writing more often

[spideyanakin]

bruce 'batman' wayne - fic recs

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works by @vigilvntes

a world alone ➾ bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side (the dynamic between them is everything im sobbing)

warm ➾ (why can't this be me)

works by @house-of-kolchek

the darkness hides the truth

living a triple life

works by other amazing writers 

right place, right time (series) by @devilfic ➾ you took the hippocratic oath. you swore to help those in need. you didn’t sign up for a man crawling through your apartment window bleeding to death, but you’ve unfortunately seen worse. surgeon!reader, secret identities, meet ugly but it’s kind of cute, vigilantes breaking into medical professionals’ houses but it’s not because they don’t heave health insurance, bruce wayne is a masochist. (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! THIS ? THIS? yes yes yes. It's so intense and brilliant shut up I love you for writing this)

surely, you'd burn the same (series) by @jangofctts ➾ reader works with gordon, is childhood friends with bruce, starts sex pollen trope! (one of my favorite battinson series ever, genuinely in love. I think I have read it like 5 times. the smut? the plot? the tension? the level of like wtf going on for the reader is just so perfect. absolutely adore this)

delicate by @psychedelic-ink ➾ “you’re the only thing I care about,” (sobbing)

like an animal by @imaginedisish ➾ sex pollen trope! after the riddler strikes again, he leaves some unusual clues behind for you and Bruce…including a strange green dust. (this HAS TO BE one of my favorite sex pollen trope fic ever. the plot? the tension? 1000/1000)

iron by @stargirlfics ➾ (this is probably one of the hottest bats fics out there, this had me on my knees)

are you upset? hot. by @athenalvss ➾ bruce has a weakness for his wife when she's angry, maybe he should make her angry more often. (hot, genuinely have read this 50 times)

[starry-stay-s]

Family of 4 turns to family of 5...?

☆Sylus xnonmc! reader

☆girl dad Sylus💪

☆fluff, suggestive moment or two

☆authors note; ok so im gonna say this here but I may add it to my about me page, but all of the pics I make will tend to have a curly haired reader as its underrepresented in many fandoms and as someone will curls, I gotta be strong and write for those looking for it💪; working on some other works rn so bear(?) with me pls

☆warnings; children ig?, curly haired reader and daughter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ever since you married Sylus, you decided it'd be best to be a housewife. Sure, you loved your job and it's made good money, but logically you had no need for it. No need for the stressful written reports coworkers who were far too stubborn(and frankly, stupid) for their own good, only causing you more stress. And let's be honest here, Sylus's bank account will run dry when pigs fly, so why not bask in relaxation at home.

Ever since making this decision, you've slowly adjusted to his sleep schedule. Becoming more and more of a night owl every day. Yes, it wad a bit hard at first but now it's almost as if this had always been your schedule. While Sylus when to meetings, deals, auctions he deemed to dangerous for you, you cleaned the base, cooked for you(and the twins if they weren't with Sylus), and then simply did nothing.

Yep, absolutely nothing but lay on the couch, bed, whatever you deemed worthy that day. Sometimes you'd watch a show you've been wanting to cus never had time for, or a new movie, or read a book from your tragically long to be read list. And sometimes, when you were in an especially good mood, you'd go to your favorite café and go on a mini shopping spree, often buying things for Sylus, the twins and Mephisto, who you've come to peaceful terms with.

It was amazing, truly, finally getting relaxation as you got to do anything and everything you pleased, having your beloved come home everyday and grettjng you with a hug and kiss. And God don't even get started on how much Sylus loved this new arrangement. Knowing his kitten was at home waiting for him to return safely everyday as she got to be greedy and do whatever she pleased, it satisfied something deep within him.

It's been a about 7 months since the wedding and everything is fine, you've both long settled into this new routine. But you can't help but start to feel a little lonely. Sure, sometimes the twins are home, but they're usually off doing their own mischief. Mephisto stayed most of the times too but he was usually far too occupied with finding new additions for his hoard. And Sylus was usually out on business, doing who knows what who knows where.

You let your thoughts wander one day as you're cooking dinner for the 4 of you, yes the twins included because they're practically your children. Children, huh? Surr you weren't anywhere near being blood related but you cared for them like a mother would, making sure Sylus wouldn't punish them too harshly for one of their regular pranks and mischief, sometimes even getting in on it yourself. Thinking about it now, you and Sylus haven't really touched on that topic yet.

Would he want children? Did you want children? Would you be able to raise them here in the N109 Zone without putting them in danger? So many thoughts and insecurities clouded your mind as you continue cooking, not hearing the door open.

As you stir the pot, a pair of warm arms embrace you from behind. You shake your head clear of your thoughts, though some linger in the back of your head. You look back over your shoulder to meet Sylus's gaze. Smiling you turn back around to ensure dinner isn't burned.

"Welcome home, baby." You say as he nuzzles hus head into the crook of your neck, inhaling your warm and familiar scent. He let's out a soft hum, akin to a low purring that you feel rumbles his chest. He places feather light kisses on your neck, not saying anything but he didn't need too. On days like this he just needed to hold you, to remember that you're home and safe, that everything he does is for you, that even the rough days are worth it when he sees you at home, making dinner or seeing the charges on his card from your usual stores.

You turn off the stove, dinner done but wanting to be held a bit more. You lean back into him, laying your hands on his and his trails soft kisses up higher and higher until he finally reached your lips. The kiss is deep, slow as if hes trying to memorize every line and curve of your lips.

He pulls away and looks into your eyes again, and you can't help but imagine having a mini Sylus running around, with his silver locks and ruby red eyes. You try to stop thinking about it, but you can't, maybe you'd been seeing too many cute baby tiktoks, but you suddenly have this urge to just have his children. He notices thoughts fogging your mind.

"Whats wrong, sweetie? You know you can tell me anything." He says softly, searching your eyes for any clue as to what you're thinking about. If only he knew you were thinking about jumping his bones until Chinas birth rates skyrocket-

"I've been... thinking about us. And how maybe instead of it being the four of us it could be... five." You say hesitantly, unsure of his reaction. You quickly look away and busy yourself with plating the food, slipping through his arms, leaving them limp at his side as he stares at you, eyes wider than usual. As you place the plates on the table and are about to call Luke and Kieran, he grabs your wrist gently.

"Are you saying... you want a child with me?" He asks softly, you turn to look at him and see the vulnerability in his eyes. The way he waits for your response, pupils blown wide and jaw slack, makes you smile.

"Yeah, I am, is that a problem?" You say with a nod, meeting his gaze. He shakes his head and just stares for a while, his expression of pure devotion like you just told him you hung up stars and moon yourself. You lead him to his chair and sit him down as he continues to star at you with the same look, calling out for the twins to come join you two. You hear a clambering wave of footsteps as they come from who knows where and stop in front of you, out of breath and mock saluting.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bossman" they say in their usual perfect harmony before settling down at their respective seats, you joining them. As you all eat, Sylus's eyes never leave you, his expression has changed to mask what he was feeling but you could still tell by that glint in his eyes. The twins talk most of the time per usual, about what the did and what they wanna do, as they stuff their faces. Sometimes it genuinely concerns you that anything you make them could become a choking hazard if it's them who's eating it. You add comments every now and then, getting up when everyone has finished and moving the dishes to thre sink. The twins thank you once more before running off, back to their usual shenanigans. Sylus moves silently beside you, helping you do the dishes.

You use a kitchen towel to dry your hands, passing it to Sylus when youre done. You stand there, leaning your hip against the counter, facing him with loosely crossed arms. He sets the towel back where it was before and watches you before gently speaking.

"So, children, huh, kitten? If that's what you wanted you could've told me sooner, you know your wish is my command." He says.

"I know, its just I didn't really think much about it until recently and... I dont know, I guess I was scared to mention it to you." You respond quietly, your eyes averting from his.

"What did you think id say, sweetie? I may be the big bad bossman of Onychinus to everyone else, but to you im just Sylus." He uses two fingers to gently grab your chin and turns you towards him, your eyes meeting again.

"I know, I know. But... would you want children with me?" You say with uncertainty.

"I thought you'd never ask, kitten. I want anything you're willing to give me, and if children is one then id gladly take all of them." He quietly affirms, his gaze intense but loving.

"All of them? It's not I'm not giving you a whole soccer team." You say, smiling with a playful tone.

"Pity, I was hoping for two so they can compete against the other." he says with his usual smirk, tone teasing as he slowly embraces you.

You giggle and lean into him, your weight. comfortable weight against him. He kisses your head and quickly picks you up, placing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You gasp in shock, clinging onto whatever you could as you laughed.

"Sylus, put me down! Where are you taking me?" You ask, softly hitting his back. He continues walking through the house as he chuckles.

"To get started on making our two soccer teams." He says and you could practically hear his smug grin. You continue hitting his back and laughing. He opens the door to your shred bedroom and lays you on the bed, crawling over you and kissing your lips gently as you hear him lock the door with his evol.

"Make my time worth it and we'll see about the soccer teams." You say gently against his lips. Hi smirks and presses his weight against you, your lips slotting against each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four years later you find yourself bathing your daughter, Nora, as Sylus sets everything she needs for after in yours and Sylus's shared room. She giggles in the bath, playing with the bubbles, face covered in them as she tried getting them on you too. Soon you burst her bubble(pun intended, please laugh) and get her out of the bath, ending her fun. You wrap her in her dragon hooded towel that she says looks just like her papa. AS you carry her out, your meet with the sigh of Sylus carefully arranging her pajamas. You smile and set her down, drying her completely before having Sylus get her dressed. She giggled the whole time, enjoying his attention. You went to find her brush and handed it to Sylus, as she refused to let you do her hair after bath time.

He gently brushed through the wet curls as she babbled on about what she was playing in the tub with you. He nodded along, listening attentively as if it was the most important business deal. He gently styles her curls as she continue, talking about whatever comes to her mind. Once he's done he gently puts on her bonnet, kissing her now mostly covered forehead. She jumps up and smiles, tackling him in a hug. He dramatically falls down on the bed, her laying on top of him, letting her play around with him, a soft smile on his face, his gaze soft as he watches her.

You watch quietly as you finish getting ready for bed yourself. You sneak up on her, quickly picking her up and spinning in a circle. She squeals, her adorable laughter filling the air, her dimples on full display.

"Papa! Save meeee!" She screams, giggling as you carry her away and to her room to put her to bed.

"Im coming, princess." He says as he follows you in a light jog. You look back and immediately walk away faster, smiling.

"I dont think so, this is my pretty princess!" You say as you make it into her room, her flailing in her arms as she waits for Sylus, who walks in mere seconds later.

"Hand over my dear princess before I take drastic measures." He says, standing just beyond the rooms doorway. You pretend to think about it as your daughter looks at you, eyes just as ruby as Sylus's wide with hope.

"Mm, I dont think so, I think I'll keep her to myself."

"You've left me no choice." He says, smirking and sending a small chill down your spine. The next thing you know his evol is pulling Nora out of your arms and behind him as he tickles you. You gasp and panic, trying to escape the attack, laughter filling the air.

"DAmmit, Sylus, let go!" You say through gasps of breath, trying not to die as he continues the assault, your daughter finding your suffering enjoyable as she laughs as well. He only lets go after a few more moments, tear falling out the corners of your eyes as you gasp to catch your breath, bunched over. He grabs your daughter and hold her tightly, kissing her cheek.

"My beloved princess is saved, did I do well, your highness?" he says to her, still playing along as your daughter lets out a final giggle and nods.

"Very good papa, you defeated the monster! So you have the honor of reading my bedtime story." She says matter of factly, already willing out of his arms, past you and into her bed. She gets under the covers and lays down, waiting for Sylus to follow and read to her. He chuckles and follows, sitting in the chair beside her bed for this sole purpose. He grabs the book she always asks for, about a princess being saved by the dragon instead of the prince. He looks over at you, who's barely recovering from the brutal attack. You glare at him, though there's no real heat behind it as you walk closer and kiss your daughters head.

"Goodnight, Nora. Sweet dreams, and only one story alright?" You say softly, staring at her lovingly as you wait for her answer.

"Yes, mama! Night night!" She says with a nod, practically shooing you away so she can have time with her father. You chuckle and walk out the room, settling into yours and Sylus's bed.

Once you leave the room, Sylus begins the story hes read at least a million times. Now Nora always has two reactions to the story; once, she asks Sylus to read it over and over again, and he does because for his daughter, hes a weak man, her ultimate weapon her pout and puppy eyes. Or two, she falls asleep to the low sound of Sylus's voice, a noise so comforting for her that she can't help but become sleepy before he's even halfway through the story. When this happens, he finishes the story, though he knows shes asleep, because he know she'll wake if he doesn't(it happened one too many times and hes finally learned his lesson)

This night sits the latter, her big crimson eyes drifting closed as hes only half way done reading. He continues in a softer voice now, ending the story and kissing her forehead, his whisper a breath.

"Goodnight, my princess. I love you dearly, sweet dreams." He puts the book back quietly and fixes her blanket before staring at her. Her little pink bonnet securely covered her silver curls, the ones you so diligently taught him how to care for and style. Her eyes, now closed but a perfect copy of his, her lips full and plush just like his as well. He quietly chuckles, thinking about how your genes didn't even bother fighting. He gets up with a small smile, making his way to your bed.

There you lie half awake, wanting to wait for him but exhaustion from the day catching up far more quickly than intended. You barely notice him walking in, only noticing him when his arms wrapped around you from behind. He whispers into your ear softly.

"Go to sleep, kitten, im here." He continues whispering sweet nothings until you fall asleep, which doesn't take long. Once he hears your breathing even out, he settles in more and sighs, thinking about how amazing his life turned out of be.

Not once did he think this kind of domestic life was possible, but the ring on your finger and Nora were proof that even someone like him could have a happy ending.

[ms-demeanor]

Hiya I have a quick question, I was helping someone with something and they've been using PayPal's direct debit thingy which says it gets you paid faster but like I was like lmao why do you need this sort of thing (like we have stuff in the UK which can give you predatory payday advances like micro loans and there's some companies which do some other predatory stuff with payday advance payments for like financial collateralisation) but like during chatting with them they said it was pretty normal for companies in the USA to still give people cheques and you then have to cash them which takes like 7 days?

Like seriously is that still super common? You don't have like first of all that's a long time ours is max like 4 days and it can appear next day with some cheques, secondly what if you lose your cheque? Thirdly you don't just have automatic transfer? Like how many jobs literally give you a cheque? I've never had that even on my job which was a temp job for like one day doing ticketing they just pay straight into your account. The PayPal stuff said it includes government jobs what???

Checks/cheques are not uncommon in the US, and often they actually take 10 days to clear. Direct debit is becoming more common, but.

Okay.

SO. I got my first personal checking account with Washington Mutual when I was 19. It was a free checking account that didn't have any minimum deposits or requirements.

Washington mutual ate shit in the financial crisis and my bank closed. Chase picked up my account, but there was a $15 monthly fee and I had to carry a minimum of $100 in the account or they would close it. So I closed the Chase account because I couldn't afford it and for the next four or five years I would take my paychecks to the issuing bank, cash them there, and would hold on to the money. I had a credit card at this time, so I used to take cash from my cashed check to either a stationary store or walmart to buy a money order to pay my credit card. Sometimes I'd also cash my check at walmart, but you pay a fee for that and you don't pay a fee if you cash the check at the issuing bank.

I don't know what kinds of minimums and fees banks require in other places, but in the US banking can be expensive, especially if you have limited options nearby and rely on cash for anything.

Paypal is often a stand-in bank for people who either don't have bank accounts or whose bank accounts are difficult or expensive to use.

If you lose a check, you ask the person who issued it to cancel the old one and re-issue payment. I know that happened at least once with my paycheck. (Lost checks aren't like lost cash; to accept a check you need to verify that the person handing it to you is the account holder, which you do by checking their ID; I remember at the gun store we used to write this little cross on the corner of the check where we'd put the person's Driver's License number and our name and the date and something else to say who it was who took the check and verified the ID, so it wasn't like someone else could pick up a found check and use it to pay for something)

Most jobs can give you a check if you insist on it, but I think direct deposit is more common these days. I have uncashed checks from one job that I had for two hours and from a class action lawsuit filed by Denny's employees (I worked at Denny's for about a day, so my portion of the settlement was like seven dollars). I get my tax returns as a check, and older people still give checks as gifts sometimes.

The government payments to PayPal may be paychecks, but more likely it's for stuff like social security payments or tax returns.

[fnzktn]

hype girl

abm!haerin x abm!reader

synopsis: she never said much. but every choice she made brought her closer to you.

includes: slowburn!!!, thesis💔, soft jealousy, slight favortism but she's never gonna admit that, r is oblivious to haerin's crush😞

word count: 9.9k

part of the shs!njz series

a/n: literally had to bribe my former abm bsf to give me the link to their thesis that won when we were in 12th grade so i could use it to this fic💔 worth it

the first thing people say about kang haerin is that she’s quiet. not in a cold way, not even in the sharp, untouchable way people might expect from someone who looks like her. just quiet.

quiet in a way that feels deliberate. in a way that makes you pay more attention to the sound of your own voice when you speak to her, like anything too loud might crack the space she keeps around herself.

she doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. she doesn’t walk in groups unless she’s needed there. she never lingers in doorways the way most of your classmates do, never stays behind to gossip or stretch out her presence just to be seen. and yet, somehow—she’s always seen.

some people think it’s because she’s pretty, which is true. she is. the kind of pretty that isn’t accidental. it’s practiced, almost polished, in a way that hints at structure. school-pressed uniform, hair always neat, minimal jewelry that still somehow looks expensive even when it isn’t.

there are campus stories—her parents run businesses you’ve seen on EDSA billboards. someone once said she modeled for a school campaign when she was in junior high. you’ve seen one of those posters in the admin building. her face is half-turned, eyes slightly downward, the edge of a smile on her lips. it doesn’t look posed. it just looks like her.

but it’s not just that. it’s not the beauty that draws people to her. it’s the silence. or rather—how she uses it.

haerin’s the student council treasurer. always on time, always speaking with just enough confidence to hold a room without overpowering it. she doesn’t argue with teachers, but she doesn’t shrink in front of them either. she listens. she folds her arms and tilts her head slightly when she disagrees. when she answers, her voice is calm. measured. decisive.

there are videos on her instagram story highlights—short clips of her dancing in a studio. muted lighting, big mirrors. she never tags anyone. no captions. just her. sometimes she posts on weekends and deletes them after a few hours. it’s always a little unexpected. it’s like seeing someone blink mid-statue. movement in the middle of all that stillness.

you don’t talk often. just sometimes. usually when you don’t understand something in fabm, or you need help finding a formula for business math. she never seems bothered by your questions, but she doesn’t exactly invite them either. she answers plainly. writes things down if you forget. slides her notes your way when you ask.

she’s always been kind. just… distant.

but then came the first day of inquiries, investigations, and immersion.

third period is supposed to start at ten. but at 10:03, the iii teacher still hasn’t arrived.

the classroom isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. students half-slouched over their desks, refreshing gc messages and half-finished quizlets, poking at leftover food with plastic forks. someone yawns dramatically near the back. two boys in front are sharing one earbud each. your seatmate is drawing on the corner of their paper. from where you’re sitting, you can see three people using ai to finish their business case drafts. someone opens a bag of chips. it crackles too loudly. no one tells them to stop.

you’re sitting in your usual seat—third row from the back, by the windows. it’s a decent spot. close enough to hear but not enough to be noticed. you like it that way.

outside, the clouds are thick and slow-moving. the sunlight coming in is pale, almost watery. not golden, not sharp. just soft. a tuesday kind of light.

haerin’s seat is two columns away from yours, diagonal. she’s not doing anything, just flipping a pen between her fingers. there’s a reviewer open on her desk, but her eyes aren’t moving across the page. she looks like she’s reading, but you know she’s not. she does this sometimes—sits very still, lets the world move around her like she’s not quite part of it.

someone calls her name across the room. she blinks, looks up. nods. doesn’t say anything. then goes back to her pen.

the door clicks open at 10:06. finally.

the teacher walks in, holding a manila folder. they look serious. everyone starts sitting up straighter.

you reach for your notebook instinctively.

“okay,” the teacher says, not wasting time. “since we’ve already covered your research orientation last week, we’re moving straight to groupings.”

you feel something in your stomach fold in on itself.

groupings.

you glance around. a few people are already side-eyeing their seatmates, mouthing names. some groups are obvious. some are already forming under desks. haerin hasn’t moved.

“this semester, you’ll be working on your research papers in fixed groups of five,” the teacher continues, adjusting the folder. “the subject is designed to simulate a business environment, so we’re treating this like a project-based task. not just research, but immersion. you’ll conduct field work, you’ll propose your own focus, and yes—you will defend your findings by the end of the term.”

no one’s speaking anymore.

then, the teacher adds, “and to make this more interesting, we’ll be assigning leaders. four of them. the rest will be drafted—yes, drafted—into teams.”

groans. tension. disbelief. but nothing new. this teacher is known for curveballs.

“the four team leaders,” they say, reading from a small card, “will be…”

there’s a pause. a paper shuffle. then names.

you don’t hear your name. you barely react. not disappointed—just relieved.

but then, “kang haerin.”

heads turn.

she blinks once, sits up straighter. her pen stops moving. she doesn’t look surprised. she never does.

your teacher continues. “team leaders, you may now choose your members. one by one.”

and then—

“we’ll go in reverse order. kang haerin, you’re up first.”

you freeze.

she stands up, notebook still closed. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t even glance at anyone for a cue. just says your name.

calm. clear. definite.

your name. first.

your name leaves her mouth and lands in the room like a dropped pin.

not loud. not dramatic. not dragged out with emphasis or flair. just said. simply. like it made sense.

and for a second, no one reacts. the class seems to hesitate—like the name didn’t register because no one was expecting it. not even you.

especially not you.

your first thought isn’t even a thought. it’s more of a physical thing—like something invisible tapping against the inside of your ribs. a second of blank stillness before the wave reaches your head.

she called your name.

haerin. kang haerin. student council treasurer. the one who’s good at decision trees and breaking down amortization schedules in under ten lines. the one who always walks just slightly apart from everyone, like she exists on a different plane of focus. that haerin. she said your name. first.

you blink. you aren’t sure if you heard it right. maybe it was someone else with a similar name. maybe she meant to pick someone sitting near you.

but then people start turning.

not dramatically. just little glances. a few shifting shoulders. the sound of someone snorting quietly to your right. someone from the back whispers, “wait—what?”

your body doesn’t know what to do. your hands are suddenly too still. your notebook feels like the only thing anchoring you to your seat. you don’t move. not until the teacher clears their throat and looks at you.

“that’s one,” they say, making a note on the clipboard. “next?”

the rest of her group fills in slowly, but no one remembers their names.

not really.

because the surprise of your name hangs in the room longer than it’s supposed to, stretching through each new pick like a secondhand echo. your classmates shift back into polite focus as the other leaders begin to choose, but the tension has already cracked. now there’s an edge of curiosity under it. something tight and low and wordless. like you’ve been pulled into the center of a story that hasn’t even started yet.

you watch her. carefully.

after you, she calls a quiet boy from the top ten. next is a girl from the debate team—someone articulate, good under pressure. then, someone unexpected again, a transfer student who barely speaks unless prompted. and that’s five.

five people. including you and haerin.

when the teacher nods, announcing that the groupings are final, you nod too. but yours is automatic. you’re still looking at her.

there’s a stillness to haerin’s posture as she sets her pen down and folds her hands, like nothing about this morning has been surprising to her. like this was the plan all along.

you don’t know what to make of that.

the rest of the draft moves in a blur.

other leaders are called. names are picked. teams slowly form. you hear your classmates call out to each other, some joking, some groaning, some whispering predictions like they’re betting on exam scores. someone claps when two people who clearly wanted to be grouped end up together. the noise returns, gradually. the room fills with movement again.

but you stay quiet.

you can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone’s a little more aware of you now. not in any intense way—just in the corner-of-the-eye, side-of-the-mouth kind of way. glances that are too quick to be kind, too casual to be real. you catch someone whispering something to their seatmate, eyebrows raised. another girl leans forward to whisper, “since when were they close?”

you aren’t sure what to do with your face. you don’t feel smug, but you don’t want to look confused either. so you keep your eyes on your desk and your hand on your pen and pretend to take notes that don’t matter.

from the corner of your eye, you see haerin turning to the teacher to confirm your team schedule. her voice is calm. her hands are still. she could be discussing stock returns and she’d sound exactly the same. no shift. no weight. just certainty.

when the bell rings, people start rising immediately. the scraping of chairs, the shuffle of bags. your name’s been called three times before you realize someone’s waiting for you by the door.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. haerin’s already halfway down the hall, her steps slow, precise. she doesn’t wait for you. but you know you’re supposed to follow.

you catch up outside the building.

she’s walking beside the trimmed hedges, the sun catching at the edges of her hair where it’s tied back loosely. she’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the new group schedule.

“hey,” you say, not too loudly.

she looks up. slows. waits for you to fall into step beside her.

you walk together for a few seconds. quiet. just the gravel beneath your shoes, the hum of the afternoon.

then you ask, carefully, “why’d you pick me?”

you don’t look at her when you say it. just keep your eyes ahead.

she doesn’t answer right away. you hear her thumb tap the side of her phone. she breathes in once. then—

“you were the only one who asked last semester if immersion could be off-campus.”

you blink.

“i remembered that,” she adds, tone even. “you asked about real-world application. no one else did.”

you’re silent. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you’re realizing you didn’t know she’d heard that. that she'd remembered it. you’d said it in passing. to the teacher. to no one, really.

she noticed.

“i thought,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words as she walks, “that someone who asks questions like that… probably has ideas worth listening to.”

your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

she hums softly. a small sound. almost a smile, but not quite.

then she pockets her phone, adjusts her grip on her bag strap, and says, “our first meeting’s on friday. i’ll message you.”

friday afternoon. room 302.

it’s a quiet, out-of-the-way classroom on the third floor, usually reserved for electives or teachers who don’t like being interrupted. the lights are dimmer here. the windows are dusty, only half-open. the air smells like paper and whiteboard ink and faintly of rain, even though the sky outside is still clear.

you’re the second to arrive.

haerin is already seated by the far window, a half-drunk bottle of water beside her, her hair tied loosely in a way that feels more lived-in than usual. she’s reading something—a printout, probably the class syllabus—eyes scanning, pen tapping once against the edge of her notebook.

she doesn’t look up when you enter, but she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge that you’re there.

you sit two chairs across from her. not beside. not yet.

the rest of the group trickles in slowly. you know them, more or less—two boys, one girl, all smart enough to keep up but casual enough to get distracted when things get too abstract. one of them—the taller guy with the chain necklace who always carries an iced americano into class—is already talking about presentation templates before he even sits down.

haerin waits until they’ve settled. then she speaks.

“so,” she says, flipping her pen around, “we’re finalizing our direction today. whatever we pick, we commit to it.”

no one answers immediately. someone shifts in their seat.

then the girl says, “we could do something safe. like e-commerce growth post-pandemic. everyone’s doing that.”

the others nod. something easy. something passable. nothing risky.

you hesitate. the idea forming in your head is half-formed, but it’s there—has been there since last week. it’s not as clean, not as familiar. a little ambitious. maybe too much.

but it’s the only one you’ve been thinking about.

so you speak. quietly.

“what if we did something on small community-based startups?” they look at you. you continue, voice a bit more certain now. “like sari-sari stores that restructured after lockdowns. people who used to sell in-person but had to shift models completely. it’s still e-commerce, technically. but from the ground up.”

you feel the weight of silence right after.

the guy with the iced americano frowns slightly. “that’s… a bit messy, isn’t it? hard to quantify.”

“data’s gonna be hard to pull,” the girl adds. “and those places don’t keep records.”

you nod, slowly. already pulling back, already regretting speaking.

and then—

“it’s our strongest lead so far.”

everyone turns.

haerin isn’t looking at anyone in particular. just writing something down in the corner of her notes.

“the rest are surface-level,” she continues, voice calm. “this one has depth. and flexibility. and a unique angle for our defense.”

her words are quiet, but they don’t need volume. they settle into the space with finality.

no one argues.

someone says, “okay.” another nods. the iced americano guy leans back, quiet now.

you’re still processing.

because she didn’t just accept your idea. she claimed it.

not to be nice. not to make things easier, but because she actually meant it.

you glance at her. she’s still writing. doesn’t look up. doesn’t need to.

and for the first time, you think—maybe you’re not just here because she remembered something you said. maybe you’re here because she trusts the way you think.

the hallway outside the faculty office is quiet except for the low hum of electric fans and the occasional scuff of shoes along the tiles. the light through the windows is weak and diffused, more gray than gold, casting everything in the tired color of early morning nerves. it’s pitch day, a formal pre-immersion presentation for all iii groups, and the whole class has been instructed to show up in full business attire.

the result is a corridor filled with uneven collars, ill-fitted coats, and classmates swapping belts. you’re standing just beside a dusty mirror bolted to the wall, trying to fix the same necktie for what feels like the fourth time. the knot keeps slipping sideways, no matter how tightly you pull it.

your fingers are clumsy with the fabric—too stiff, too smooth, like it refuses to cooperate with the rhythm you vaguely remember from a tutorial you watched the night before. you try again. pull, loop, fold. no good. it still sags a little to the left. you sigh under your breath and glance at your reflection. not awful. but not great, either.

“you’re doing it wrong,” comes a voice just over your shoulder. low, steady, no trace of teasing.

you glance up. it’s haerin.

she’s already fully dressed, neat in a crisp navy blazer over a pale blouse, sleeves fitted just right, a pair of simple earrings you haven’t seen her wear before catching a bit of the light as she tilts her head. her hair is tied loosely at the back, a little messier than usual, but it suits her. she looks like she’s already been calm for hours. like there was no part of this morning that could’ve unsettled her. she’s looking at your tie now, not you.

“i know,” you say quietly, almost embarrassed.

she steps in without another word, raising her hands to your collar. “stay still.”

you do. you try not to breathe too loudly.

her fingers are light but certain as she undoes the knot, slipping it free in a single practiced motion. she moves carefully, not slow, not fast—just enough for you to feel each adjustment. the pull of the fabric. the brief press of her knuckle against your chest. the clean slide of the tie being straightened, tightened, tucked.

she doesn’t comment on how off-centered it was, doesn’t sigh or frown or act like she’s doing you a favor. she just works quietly, like it’s nothing new. and yet, the air between you shifts into something quiet and careful, like even she feels the weight of this simple thing being shared.

when she finishes, she steps back. “there.”

you look down. the knot sits perfectly now—centered, flat, almost sharp against your shirt. her fingers had only brushed your collarbone once, but it lingers more than it should. you glance at her. she meets your eyes for a second. there’s no smile, no expression of pride, just that familiar neutral calm. but something about the moment feels like it’s been folded and placed somewhere you’ll return to later.

“wear it like that from now on,” she says, not waiting for a response, already turning to leave as one of your groupmates calls her name from the other end of the hallway.

you watch her walk off, blazer catching slightly at her sides as she moves. you reach up once, touch the edge of the knot again, as if to prove it’s real. it is. still firm. still exactly where she left it.

the week after, she grows quiet.

not in a cold or distant way. just quieter than usual. a kind of gentle withdrawal. she still shows up on time for meetings, still replies to the group chats, still submits her deliverables without reminders. but her presence feels dimmed, like someone lowering the brightness on a screen. she listens more than she speaks.

she stares at her laptop a little longer between sentences. she doesn’t interrupt jokes, doesn’t offer side comments, doesn’t even give you that usual nod when you walk in a room. she’s not ignoring you. but she’s somewhere else.

the others don’t seem to notice. you do.

you try not to overthink it. but it follows you—through meetings, through class, through the way your eyes keep flicking toward her even when you’re supposed to be writing.

it takes until friday to ask.

you’re the last two left in the room after a group check-in. the others have already left for lunch, leaving papers half-folded on the desks and a bag of barely touched snacks on the windowsill. haerin’s packing slowly, folding her charger neatly, checking her usb twice before putting it away. her face is neutral, tired maybe, but not upset.

you stand there for a moment, watching her. “are you okay?”

she doesn’t look up. not at first.

“yeah,” she says after a second. it’s not curt. just soft.

you wait. she zips her case.

“sometimes i just get like this,” she continues. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, even though she still isn’t looking. “okay.”

a few more seconds pass. she finally straightens and meets your eyes.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out.”

you weren’t expecting that. not from her. not out loud.

you search her face—calm as always, but this time there’s something else there. something quiet and unguarded. not vulnerability exactly, but a flicker of honesty that feels new.

“i get it,” you say, and you do.

she nods once. doesn’t say anything else.

you walk out together. there’s no need to talk.

but the space between you feels different now. not wider. not heavier. just more real.

the immersion site is just two jeepney rides away — still within the city, though farther than most of your classmates are assigned. it’s a quieter part of town, nestled past the marketplace, near a line of low-rise apartments with rusting gates and cracked sidewalks. the streets aren’t unfamiliar, but they’re quieter than what you’re used to.

your group is assigned to a small home-based printing business run by a married couple and their niece. they take bulk orders for stickers and packaging from nearby cafés and shops, operating mostly through facebook and instagram dms.

everything is done in their living room — orders lined up on a folding table, samples stacked inside plastic drawers, handwritten records clipped together with binder clips. no official branding. no business cards. just a steady, humble system that keeps the orders moving. when they describe their process, it’s with phrases like, “we just figured it out along the way,” or “as long as the supplies don’t run out, we’re okay.”

they’re generous with their answers. open, even if they don’t fully understand why you’re asking what you’re asking. haerin leads the interview. she sits across from the couple with a small spiral notebook and a list of questions she barely glances at — she knows most of them by memory.

her tone is soft but confident, her posture straight without looking stiff. she listens closely. never interrupts. and when she does speak, her questions feel more like conversations than interrogations.

you sit nearby with the recorder, mostly quiet, logging timestamps and checking battery levels. your pen stays near the edge of your notebook, unused except for the notes you jot quietly between answers.

until something catches your ear.

it’s the fourth or fifth question. haerin is asking about when the business moved online, and the husband answers easily, saying it happened around june. but something doesn’t line up. earlier, they’d mentioned having a surge of graduation orders that came through dms, which shouldn’t have happened midyear. you glance at your notes. march. that’s what they said the first time.

you raise your hand a little, quietly.

“sorry—can i ask something?”

the couple pauses. the group turns. not startled. just slightly surprised.

you glance at haerin once — she nods — then look back to the interviewees.

“earlier you mentioned that you were already receiving graduation orders through instagram,” you say slowly, “but just now you said you moved online in june. did you start using digital channels earlier than that? maybe around march?”

the wife turns to her husband. he blinks. then nods, smiling like he’s only just now remembered.

“yes! you’re right. it wasn’t june — it was march. we only said june because that’s when we opened the new account.”

the niece laughs. “i told you it started earlier.”

the husband chuckles. “good catch,” he says, glancing at you. “thanks for clarifying. we always mix that up.”

your groupmate beside you scribbles the correction into their notes. you nod, quietly writing it down as well. the others move on. but for a moment, you feel something different settle into the air around you — something small, like the sound of a quiet switch being flipped.

from across the table, you feel haerin watching.

she doesn’t say anything. just picks up her pencil and draws a small circle next to a timestamp. that’s all.

but later, when the interview ends and the group is filing out of the house, tired but satisfied, she walks beside you for the first few steps. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t make it a point.

but she stays close.

someone suggests stopping somewhere nearby before heading back. no one argues. there’s a café at the edge of the barangay, tucked beside a small clinic and a dental lab. the kind of place students go to finish essays or kill time between errands. it’s narrow, air-conditioned, with a glass counter full of uneven brownies and labeled drinks in stickers. two fans spin lazily overhead. the stereo plays a soft acoustic playlist, half drowned out by the whir of the blender.

you take a table by the window. haerin sits across from you.

your groupmates are still near the counter, debating over who’s paying for what, distracted by iced coffee options. no one notices the way the sunlight lands gently across your table. your drink arrives first. hers, a bit later — something warm, even in this heat. she pulls out her notes before she even takes a sip.

you watch her underline a word.

“you’re still working?” you ask, not in criticism — just observation.

“if i don’t mark what stood out now,” she says without looking up, “i’ll forget what mattered.”

you nod. you understand that.

she circles a line. taps once near the edge of her page.

you glance at her again. “you noticed the timeline thing too, right?”

this time, she does look up. her eyes meet yours. “yes. but you spoke first.”

she says it plainly. not like she’s impressed — more like she’s confirming something. acknowledging it.

you don’t respond. not immediately.

she tears a small square from her paper. writes a timestamp in her sharp, slanted handwriting and slides it across to you. “use this when you cross-check your audio.”

you fold the paper without thinking and tuck it into your pocket.

you don’t talk much after that. but there’s no pressure to. the quiet stretches naturally between you. outside, a motorbike rolls past, followed by the slow, hollow bark of a dog. inside, the light is soft, and the fan hums, and for a while, the rest of the group just blends into the background.

when it’s time to go, she stands first. your straw wrapper is still on the tray. she picks it up and throws it away without a word.

the classroom is warm. not hot, not uncomfortable — just warm in that way old rooms tend to be when the lights have been on too long and the windows barely let the breeze in. it’s late afternoon, maybe an hour before dismissal.

your group is gathered around one of the long wooden tables in a half-circle, laptops open, papers fanned out. you’ve just presented your revised framework to the supervising teacher. this is meant to be the mid-point consult — where flaws are spotted, adjustments made, and promising directions are encouraged. but it doesn’t feel like encouragement today.

you’re halfway through explaining your proposed angle when the teacher leans back in his chair and frowns.

“i don’t think that’s feasible,” he says, tapping his pen lightly against the table. “how do you plan to measure something as vague as that? what are your indicators?”

you blink. “well—”

“and if you’re basing it on self-reported data,” he adds, interrupting, “how do you plan to account for bias? you’re not psych students. i don’t want assumptions passed off as findings.”

you nod, swallowing back the words you were going to say. you weren’t expecting praise — just not this. not this fast. you glance at your notes, unsure where to begin defending something that hasn’t even been fully shaped yet. your fingers fidget near the edge of the printout. one of your groupmates shifts uncomfortably.

and then, quietly — from your left “we’ve accounted for that.”

it’s haerin.

she doesn’t raise her voice. doesn’t sit up straighter. just speaks clearly, like she’s adding a line to a conversation she was always part of.

“the variable isn’t vague,” she continues. “it’s emerging behavior. it’s supported by existing business literature, especially in informal microbusinesses. we plan to isolate it by observing purchasing decisions over a fixed period. we’re not using abstract metrics. we’ve broken it down.”

the teacher raises an eyebrow. but says nothing.

“as for bias,” she adds, “we know our limits. that’s why we’re framing it as patterns, not conclusions. we’re not interpreting motive. just documenting action.”

she says it calmly. like this isn’t about proving anything — just about making sure something true doesn’t get misunderstood. her hands stay folded near her notebook. she doesn’t even glance at you.

the teacher leans forward again, slower this time.

“that’s a good point,” he says, more thoughtful now. “make sure to write that in the limitations. and don’t bury it. i want it on the first page.”

haerin nods. “yes, sir.”

he stands a few minutes later, dismissing the session with a reminder about submission deadlines. your group gathers their things. someone jokes about how intense that felt. someone else sighs in relief.

you don’t say anything. not right away. you’re still sitting where you were, watching her close her folder. she does it like it’s done — no celebration, no tension. just another task folded neatly into the afternoon.

as the others move toward the door, you linger behind. your bag’s half-zipped.

“thanks,” you say.

she looks up. “for what?”

you gesture vaguely to the space between you. “that.”

she shrugs. “i knew you were right.”

you smile, small, unsure.

“you don’t have to explain things perfectly the first time,” she adds. “that’s why we’re a group.”

it’s such a simple thing. said without weight. but it lands somewhere soft inside you. you don’t know what to say back, so you just nod.

she turns to leave, walking ahead of you by a few steps. not far. just enough that you watch her for a moment before following.

and for some reason, you feel lighter than you did before the meeting even started.

later that night, the group call drags past midnight. it starts as a discussion, turns into document formatting, and eventually dissolves into half-sentences and background yawns. someone falls asleep without leaving the call. someone else plays music too loud. you and haerin stay silent for most of it, cameras off, both of you working in parallel without speaking.

at 12:43 a.m., she messages you privately.

“your idea made the whole framework work. just so you know.”

the second immersion takes place in a busier district, not far from a university belt. the roads are uneven, lined with shops that never close, and people who never seem to walk slowly. it’s not unfamiliar, but the pace is sharper — everything louder, faster, more unpredictable. your assigned business is a compact booth that sells thrifted clothing and repurposed accessories. it's owned by two sisters in their late twenties, both former design students who decided to build something of their own after dropping out.

the stall is tucked inside a commercial strip between a milk tea place and a print shop. it’s barely wider than a classroom door. the walls are made of thin plyboard, painted by hand with swirling yellows and greens. shirts hang from the ceiling. bucket hats drape over plastic hooks. there’s a mirror framed with mismatched stickers and a glass counter full of mismatched earrings.

your group arrives in two batches. you’re in the first, along with haerin and one other. the sisters are welcoming, excited even, and they talk fast — explaining how they source items, how they price, how sometimes the business makes enough for rent and sometimes it doesn’t. you and haerin take turns asking follow-ups. she stays composed, unhurried. you find yourself adapting to her rhythm — letting her ask the questions that shape direction, then chiming in to fill the gaps.

at some point, one of the owners compliments the structure of your questionnaire. “you two are very organized,” she says, pointing to your clipboard. “most students don’t ask about our struggles. just sales.”

you glance at haerin. she says nothing, but nods once. you’re not sure if it’s meant for them or for you.

after the interview ends, your group decides to eat nearby. the others still haven’t arrived. the three of you step into the street — bright, noisy, overfull. it’s the kind of late afternoon that feels stretched too thin. cars honking, motorcycles weaving, people brushing past your elbows without pausing. you feel a little dazed by it.

you glance at her once. she doesn’t look back. just says, softly, “you ask good questions.”

you turn. not quite sure if you heard her right.

she’s still looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard—just something she said because it was true.

“you’re good at noticing things,” she adds, a little quieter. “you don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.”

it’s quiet for a while after that.

the milk tea shop is cramped, overly air-conditioned. you share a table by the window, your drinks sweating between you. she takes your straw wrapper when you forget to throw it away. doesn’t say anything about it. just does it. later, when someone starts talking about deadlines, she passes you her checklist without being asked.

no one else notices anything. not the compliment. not the way your eyes follow her hands more often now. not how her voice sounds less distant when she’s speaking just to you.

but you do.

and you start to wonder if maybe she notices it too.

your group has settled into a rhythm. not perfect — but stable. every few days, you meet in the same corner classroom at the end of the second floor hallway, the one with the loose window lock and the flickering ceiling light that no one ever fixes. sometimes it’s too cold from the aircon, sometimes too warm when it’s turned off, and someone always arrives fifteen minutes late. but no one complains. you sit. you work. you try not to get overwhelmed by how much of the research still doesn’t make sense yet.

today’s focus is data sorting.

haerin is at the whiteboard, breaking the variables into columns, her handwriting small but sharp. the others are hunched over their laptops or fidgeting with printed transcripts. your group is quieter than usual. there’s something about messy data that flattens everyone’s mood. too many numbers. too many phrases that mean nothing unless you squint at them sideways.

you stare at your section of the spreadsheet. you’ve been trying to code your notes into usable insights, but everything looks off. inconsistent. like you missed something. you keep reading and re-reading your own writing, and the more you stare, the less confident you feel. there’s a margin note you don’t remember making. one timestamp doesn’t line up. you scroll too far, then lose your place.

one of your groupmates sighs. “none of this matches the framework.”

someone else adds, “i think we should just redo this part.”

your stomach sinks. they’re not talking to you directly. not even criticizing. but your fingers pause over the keyboard anyway.

you feel it. that low, quiet kind of doubt. it creeps in softly — the thought that maybe you’re dragging things down. maybe you’ve been silent too long. maybe they’re right to redo it.

you glance across the table.

haerin’s not looking at the board anymore. she’s looking at you.

“it matches,” she says, to no one in particular.

the others stop. look up.

“this part here,” she continues, stepping toward your end of the table. she places one hand lightly on the printed sheet you’ve been working on. “it doesn’t look like the rest because it was tracked by behavioral pattern, not by product type. that was intentional.”

you stare at her.

she taps one of your notes gently. “it’s consistent. just not with the parts you were expecting it to match. but it lines up with our first visit.”

someone frowns. opens the photo log. someone else flips through the observation record.

she stands there calmly, not defending — just clarifying. just stating something that needed to be said.

one of the groupmates nods. “she’s right. this part actually strengthens the framework.”

another mutters, “we should’ve started from this, honestly.”

you don’t say anything. just sit there, still, unsure how you feel.

after a few minutes, the others shift back to work. someone goes back to color-coding. another asks if anyone brought snacks. the conversation resets.

you lean slightly toward haerin as she returns to her seat.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, low enough so only she hears.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i know.”

a pause. “but you’re too quiet when you get unsure.”

you glance at her. her gaze stays fixed on the whiteboard. her voice doesn’t change.

“and i don’t like watching you disappear like that.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you don’t.

you just sit there beside her, quiet, feeling the air shift around that one line — like she handed you something you hadn’t realized you were missing.

by the time the session ends, the light outside has dimmed enough that someone finally notices the flickering ceiling bulb above. the group starts gathering their things. chairs scrape gently against the floor. someone jokes about ordering fries on the way out. no one moves too fast — everyone’s tired in that content kind of way, the kind that follows a day that wasn’t perfect, but felt like progress.

you’re slow to pack. you move your notes carefully into your folder, double-check your usb, uncap your tumbler and find it empty.

beside you, haerin closes her laptop with a soft click. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak.

but as you reach for your bag, she taps her knuckle lightly against the edge of your table.

you look up.

“don’t second-guess it next time,” she says.

her voice is quieter than before. almost like a reminder she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

you nod.

she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads toward the door, her steps unhurried.

you follow after a few seconds, her words still repeating in your head, like something written in the margins, half-faded but carefully placed.

the auditorium isn’t loud, but it isn’t silent either. it’s the kind of in-between sound that settles under your skin — a steady murmur of folders being flipped open, heels tapping against the aisle, the low whirr of a dusty projector bulb warming up on stage.

the air-conditioning is colder than it needs to be. the lights are too white, flickering slightly at the edges. a bottle cap rolls faintly across the floor before someone stills it with their shoe. it’s the last hour of the program. your group is next.

you sit in the third row with your hands locked loosely on your lap, fingers twitching beneath the hem of your blazer. you’ve adjusted your tie four times now, but it still feels crooked. your name tag is pinned too close to your collar. someone behind you sneezes. a teacher coughs. you’re not really hearing any of it.

haerin sits to your left. her legs are crossed neatly at the ankle, posture perfect. her folder is closed, clasped in her hand like she doesn’t need it. and maybe she doesn’t.

you’ve seen her recite her part so many times you could mouth it along if you wanted to. she hasn’t spoken since your group was called earlier, but she’s alert — eyes focused, shoulders still. calm in a way that makes your own breath feel too loud in comparison.

the current group presenting wraps up with a shaky thank you. the audience claps politely, and the panelists — three professors seated at a long table just below the stage — begin scribbling their final notes. they don’t look impressed. the emcee adjusts her mic, her voice low but practiced as she calls the next group.

“representing the ABM strand group four, under the research of kang haerin.”

you stand when the others do. haerin leads. you follow. your steps are quiet on the wood-paneled stage. your blazer pulls slightly when you bow. the lights aren’t blinding, but they’re bright enough to make your skin feel warmer than before. you try not to look at the crowd. you focus on the screen. then the panel. then haerin.

she’s already at the laptop, plugging in the usb. the title slide appears. she takes the mic, doesn’t test it, just lifts it calmly and says, “good afternoon.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

“the study we’ll be presenting today is titled ‘purchasing patterns in low-visibility microbusinesses: a behavioral lens.’” her tone is measured. no filler. no notes in hand. just the rhythm of someone who’s rehearsed something until it lives in her bones.

she outlines the context — a breakdown of your chosen stalls, your decision to focus on low-foot-traffic areas, the nuance of your behavioral angle. she paces her words carefully, not rushed, not drawn out. there’s something magnetic in how she speaks. not performative, not flashy — just sure. like she knows what she’s saying and doesn’t need anyone’s approval to say it.

the first slide clicks. then the second. your groupmate presents the methodology, the field structure, the decision tree behind your customer approach. then it’s your turn.

haerin looks at you once — just a glance — as she hands you the mic.

your fingers brush.

your hands are colder than they should be. the mic feels heavier than usual. you step forward and look at the screen, but not for too long. you inhale, just once.

you begin.

“for this segment, we’re focusing on a behavior cluster observed during our third immersion visit — specifically, patterns that deviate from predicted logic-based decisions.”

your voice doesn’t sound like much at first. it’s softer than you meant it to be, and the reverb in the room makes it echo oddly. but you keep going. you frame the deviation, then introduce your anchor subject — the customer who repeatedly chose the more expensive vendor out of habit, not price. you explain the three-site comparison, then gesture toward the color-coded map. it’s the slide you made. the one haerin told you not to take out even when you were unsure it made sense.

you reference it now with more ease than you thought you’d have. your language stays sharp. the panel doesn’t interrupt. one of them — the visiting lecturer — leans forward. nods, once.

you close your section with the phrasing you’ve practiced exactly three times. “we interpreted this behavior as spatial habituation under limited cognitive engagement — a response not to price or brand, but to perceived effort and routine anchoring.”

the room doesn’t react. not right away. you hand the mic back without looking up.

haerin takes it again, voice soft but even, weaving your points into the study’s final conclusions. she doesn’t repeat anything. just folds everything in, word by word. her final sentence lands cleanly, “we propose a behavior-first lens not just for customers, but for how microbusinesses position themselves in low-competition markets.”

you all bow. the panel doesn’t move.

then applause — not rushed. not loud. but held just a second longer than expected.

you step off the stage slowly. your hands are sweating. the group sits down again. no one says anything for a while. you wipe your palms against your pants once. haerin is already adjusting her name tag.

but after a few breaths, she leans in and whispers something only you can hear. “you didn’t even look at your notes.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse skips.

the rest of the congress passes like a blur you’re only half in. the last strand presents — TVL, a case study with too many text-heavy slides. then comes a panel commentary segment, then closing remarks from the research coordinator. you nod when you’re supposed to. clap when everyone else claps.

and then the emcee returns to the mic, card in hand.

“we’ll now announce the recognition for best output and best presenter across strands,” she says, her voice bright, a little too rehearsed. “for best research study—”

a pause. then your group’s name.

“—ABM strand, group four.”

there’s a beat of silence in your chest before you hear the others beside you react. one of your groupmates exhales a sharp “no way,” then gets to his feet. someone behind you claps. someone else gasps a soft “wow.” your body feels like it hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

you stand slowly.

the host reads the next line.

“and for best research presenter—” another pause, “—y/n l/n, also from the ABM strand.”

you feel it land.

this time, you don’t move. not until haerin stands beside you, her hand brushing your sleeve. not until she nods once — not telling you to go, just reminding you that you earned it.

you walk up to the stage again. your name is called. you’re handed a framed certificate, the edges cool against your fingers. one of the panelists leans in as she passes it to you.

“you speak like you’ve done this for years,” she says quietly. “you paced it perfectly.”

you murmur something polite in return. you don’t remember what.

the camera flash catches you mid-blink.

you don’t look for her after the program ends. but somehow, she’s already waiting at the back hallway, where the noise dies down into faint applause and footsteps echo off the cement walls. you’re rebuttoning your blazer, still holding the award folder when you feel her hand on your wrist.

she doesn’t say anything. just rests her fingers there for a moment — light, almost unsure — before reaching past you to push open the door beside you. the small restroom tucked behind the curtain partition. dimmer, quieter, unused.

you glance at her once, but she’s already stepping in.

you follow.

the door closes softly behind you.

you stand there, a little too close. neither of you speak at first. the light above flickers faintly, casting a pale wash over the floor. your award folder is still in your hand. your collar is slightly uneven. she notices — straightens it with a quiet touch.

your eyes meet.

and for a second, that's all it is.

then she lifts a hand — not confident, not certain, but slow — like she’s still waiting for you to move away. when you don’t, she touches your face. just barely. her thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, a careful, searching motion like she’s never done this before. maybe she hasn’t. maybe she has, but not like this.

you don’t lean in. not yet.

it’s her. it’s always been her.

she draws just a little closer. her gaze flickers to your mouth and back again. and then finally — only when she’s close enough to feel your breath catch — she kisses you.

gently.

not rushed. not deep. not even for very long.

just once. light and hesitant, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed to.

when she pulls back, she stays near. her hand hasn’t moved. she looks at you like she’s still somewhere inside that moment, somewhere between the breath she took and the one she forgot to exhale.

“you looked really good up there,” she says. her voice is low. steady, but quieter than usual. “i couldn’t help myself.”

she doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away, either.

and neither do you.

for a moment, nothing moves. the air feels heavier than it should — like even your breath might shift the balance if you’re not careful. her hand lingers near your jaw, still half-raised, but she’s not touching you anymore. her fingers hover like they forgot how to rest or retreat. her eyes flicker to your mouth again, just once, then stop halfway — as if thinking better of it.

she draws back half a step. not because she wants to, but because she thinks she should. her gaze drops to the folder you’re still holding, and for some reason, that makes her expression soften — like she’s only just now remembered where you are. what all of this just came from.

“we should go,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move.

you nod. or at least you think you do.

neither of you walks to the door. not right away. she leans back against the sink counter, arms crossed loosely now, but her posture isn't composed anymore. it’s a little messier — just slightly. the collar of her blouse has shifted beneath her blazer. the hand that kissed you now curls against her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stay where you are.

and for a while, you just look at each other.

there’s something quieter than silence between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full. like everything that needed to happen already did, and now you're both standing inside the space it left behind.

eventually, she exhales. “thank you,” she says.

it takes you a second to understand.

“for what?” you ask.

her eyes meet yours. and this time, there’s no hesitation.

“for making it feel easy,” she says.

she doesn’t explain. and you don’t ask.

because maybe you understand anyway.

you don’t leave right away. not until the hallway outside quiets again — until the echo of chairs being scraped across the auditorium floor fades into something distant. she straightens first, brushing a wrinkle off her skirt, fixing the loose strand of hair tucked behind her ear. you mirror the motion, slower. the silence between you doesn’t feel strange. just full.

when she reaches for the door, she doesn’t look back to check if you’re following.

she already knows.

the hallway is empty when you step out. the hum of the venue remains faint in the background — laughter in clumps, teachers calling attendance, someone’s name shouted near the exit. she doesn’t rush. her steps are even, light, as if she’s conserving the last of her energy. your pace falls in line with hers without thinking.

neither of you speak.

the folder stays tucked beneath your arm, its corner pressing into your ribs. your award certificate peeks slightly through the plastic sleeve. you catch your reflection in one of the windows you pass — uniform straight, tie slightly loosened now, cheeks still warm. you wonder if anyone would notice anything just by looking.

haerin doesn’t touch you again. but she walks close. close enough that your elbows nearly brush with every step. her bag strap slips once down her shoulder, and you almost reach to fix it — but she pulls it up herself.

when you reach the courtyard, she slows.

the group’s still gathered there, under the trees, trading food from their packed lunches, animatedly reenacting parts of the earlier presentations. they haven’t noticed you yet. your classmates are laughing about something. someone waves their certificate like a fan.

haerin stops beside a low stone bench and exhales.

you stop too.

“do you want to go back now?” you ask, voice quiet.

she looks at you. studies your face for a second like she’s memorizing something.

“in a bit,” she says.

so you sit down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. you rest your hands on your knees. she folds hers in her lap. the breeze moves through her hair. you feel her glance at you once, then look away just as fast.

and for the next few minutes, you don’t talk.

you just sit there together.

not waiting for anything. not needing to explain. just letting whatever this is — settle.

later that night, she messages you.

the event is minor — just a local showcase for the business track, held in one of the open halls behind the annex building. it’s loud, cluttered, not too formal. tables lined with folders and sample mockups. students huddled in clusters explaining brand plans to wandering teachers, a few alumni visiting, two unfamiliar faces from another senior high. everyone’s either in pastel polos or tucked-in uniforms, sleeves rolled up, name tags pinned crookedly to collars.

your group — the same one from III — had been tapped last-minute to present your now-award-winning paper as an example. not for judging. not for competition. just for show. a “model output,” they’d said. something for others to look at.

so you stand near the center table, beside the neatly propped-up trifold board, repeating the same summary you’ve now memorized by heart. your voice is calm. your hands stay still. you’ve done this too many times to stumble now.

haerin is just a few feet away, talking to a teacher who keeps nodding at your visuals. she’s in full student council mode — neat, composed, perfectly poised as she explains how the framework could be applied to local vendors. but she glances at you every so often. you catch it each time.

and you don’t think much of it — not until later.

you’re halfway through walking a visiting college rep through your feasibility metrics when someone new approaches your table. another student — not from your class. tall. unfamiliar. easy smile. they wait until the rep leaves, then lean slightly closer to your side of the table, gesturing to your summary sheet.

“you’re the one who spoke at the congress, right?”

you glance up. “yeah, that was us.”

“you were really good. like, actually made the topic sound interesting.” they smile, easy and a little too smooth. “kind of rare.”

you laugh once under your breath, polite. “thanks. we just rehearsed it a lot.”

“you didn’t look like you were rehearsing. you looked like you knew exactly what you were talking about.” they point toward the flowchart pinned to the board. “can you walk me through this part?”

you nod and begin to explain — outlining the data sequence, the way your group layered in comparison samples, your voice steady, hands gesturing just a little. they stay attentive. too attentive. and when you glance to the side mid-sentence, you see haerin.

she’s standing near the corner, not too far, one hand resting on her elbow, gaze trained directly on you.

you keep your explanation calm, voice even, but you can feel the weight of her stare. the other student smiles again. “seriously, you made this look easy. if you’re planning on taking business, i hope we end up in the same course.”

“i’m… not sure yet,” you say, half-distracted.

“well, you’d do great either way.” they step back just slightly. “and if you ever need help with mockups or design stuff—”

“hey.”

the word lands light but firm. you both glance up. haerin is at your side now, expression composed but unmistakably cool.

“we’re packing up,” she says to you, not looking at the other student. “you ready?”

you nod quickly. “yeah, let me just—”

“i’ll handle the rest,” she cuts in. “come on.”

you follow.

she walks toward the hallway behind the annex building, the quieter one where most students rarely go unless they’re cutting through. her pace isn’t hurried, but it’s not slow either. focused. when you reach the end, near the faculty lounge, she stops. you stop too.

she turns to face you fully now, her eyes sharp but unreadable. “you’re popular today.”

“that was just someone asking about the panel.”

“they weren’t asking about the panel. they were asking about you.”

“haerin—”

“you looked good,” she says. “too good.”

your breath catches, just slightly. “what?”

“when you explain things. when you stand like that. like you don’t even realize how serious you look when you’re focused.” her voice is quieter now. “people see it. they start thinking things.”

you don’t respond, unsure if this is irritation or something else. she takes one step forward.

“they think they can get close. like you’re available. like you’re theirs to impress.”

another step. she’s close now. just inches away.

“i don’t like it.”

you meet her gaze. “why?”

her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t blink. “because they don’t know you the way i do. and they shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

you hold your breath.

“you’re mine,” she says. low. final.

and then she kisses you.

no hesitation. no asking. just her hand reaching up to your collar, the other at the side of your face, pulling you in with a quiet intensity that makes the whole hallway disappear.

it’s not rushed, not showy — just firm and certain. like something she’s been keeping in for weeks. her lips press warm against yours, lingering. and when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far. her forehead leans lightly into yours.

your eyes stay closed for a moment. then you open them.

“you’re bold today,” you whisper.

“i was being patient,” she murmurs. “you made it hard.”

you laugh under your breath, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

she doesn’t let go.

neither do you.

the convenience store is mostly quiet now. a few students linger by the window, waiting on rides. the overhead lights buzz faintly, casting pale reflections on the table between you. your tie is folded in your pocket. haerin’s hair is slightly mussed, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. your fingers keep brushing the condensation on the shared milk tea cup, half-watching the swirl of pearls at the bottom.

neither of you have brought up the kiss.

but it’s there. humming underneath everything. the shared glances. the way she sat beside you, not across from you. the way her leg stayed pressed lightly against yours. none of it accidental.

you look at her. “so.”

she stirs the drink once with the straw. “so.”

“you kissed me. again.”

“you let me.”

“you called me yours.”

she pauses.

“i meant that,” she says softly.

you turn slightly to face her better, cheek resting against your knuckles. “mm. i liked it.”

her gaze flickers toward yours, unreadable.

“but,” you add, “i feel like i should know what that makes us.”

she blinks. “…what?”

“am i just someone you kiss in empty hallways? or do you have a title in mind?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but charming,” you counter. “and curious. what are we, kang haerin?”

her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “you’re mine. isn’t that enough?”

“sounds like a placeholder.”

“it’s not.”

“then what am i? say it.”

she exhales. you can see the internal battle behind her eyes. not because she doesn’t want to say it — but because saying it makes it real. makes it more than just what’s been simmering between you since the first day of immersion.

she murmurs something, too low.

you lean in. “huh?”

“…you’re my girlfriend,” she says, clearer now. voice low, firm, not looking directly at you.

you grin. “one more time?”

she finally looks at you. “you’re my girlfriend,” she repeats. then adds, quieter, “do you want me to write it down, too?”

“maybe.” you lean back, smug. “school record. printed. laminated.”

she rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink. “you’re ridiculous.”

“but officially yours?”

a pause. then, “yes.”

“girlfriend,” you repeat, a little softer. “mine, too.”

you bump her shoulder lightly. she doesn’t move away.

outside, the street is emptying, headlights sweeping by in slow motion. inside, under the soft hum of cheap fluorescent light and a nearly finished milk tea, haerin reaches for your hand. doesn’t make a show of it. just lets your fingers slip together, quiet and sure.

and just like that, it’s official.

girlfriend. hers.

finally.

[writerjayne]

Wymack owns apartments au

This was inspired by my friend and their wacky ass neighbors in their Apartment complex (including one who is apparently wanted by the police??) We were talking about said neighbors and I went: what if the Foxes lived in the same apartment? But Exy wasn't a thing because being a team gives them a common interest (using that word very loosely), and just being neighbors would not. So without further ado, have this AU that I'll probably never write a full fic of:

So, keeping Wymack in character: he owns an apartment complex focused on renting to people who would be rejected/denied housing by other companies. He inherited it from his parents who were awful to thier tennatns and borderline slumlords. Wymack poured everything he had into the apartments, renovating and modernizing them, determined to make something better than his parents could ever dream of. Wymack lives on the premises and every opportunity he has to do the opposite of what his parents would do, he does. 

Dan's a stripper and can only pay cash? She has an awful credit score, but hey, rent's getting paid, why would Wymack care? (Eventually, he rents some units to her stage sisters too) Matt eventually moves in with Dan, and Wymack doesn't bat an eye. 

Nicky showed up as a 19 year old with two 15 year olds who he has custody of? Wymack knocked a wall down between two units so they had 3 rooms (even if they stayed in each other's rooms half the time Wymack understood the twins may need space and privacy as they get older), and he gave them a discounted rate until Nicky got a solid job.

Kevin escapes his abusive adoptive family and runs to the only other person he knows outside of that circle. If he has no money/prospects? Wymack knew Kevin's mother, of course, he'll take the kid in, set him up with an assistant manager job, and get him enrolled in classes so he can get a certification while also helping Kevin with the legal side of things. Kevin sleeps on Wymack's couch for a month before he's comfortable having his own apartment.

Renee, needing to start over far away from her old gang? Her mother called Wymack and he had a unit free. She quickly befriends other tenants and suggests a community garden to Wymack who is happy to oblige. (Andrew often gardens with her and everyone thinks the friendship is weird) She and Andrew bond per canon and Renee becomes the heart of the complex and as much of a unifying force as she can be given the circumstances.

Allison, disowned and cut off from family money, with no job? Wymack sets her up with a unit and helps her apply for jobs, telling her she won't pay rent until she has a job, as long as she keeps applying. She finds a job within the month and Wymack holds off on charging her rent anyway.

Seth can't hold a job and has multiple evictions on his record? Wymack still gives him a chance. Second and third ones too when rent's not paid. Or when cops show up looking for him. Or when he starts fights with his neighbors. Wymack can see the scared kid who just needs someone to believe in him. 

So when Neil shows up, clearly trouble and too young to be on his own, desperately trying to come across as normal, Neil, who flinches when Wymack moves too fast, but offers enough cash to cover first and last months' rent plus double Wymack's normal deposit request? Wymack asks no questions and simply sets him up in the unit across from Nicky and the twins. 

It would be easy for them to be the kind of neighbors who never interact, but enough of our Foxes are friendly/nosey that I think they would all eventually become friends. So here's how I think some of that would happen:

Allison and Seth do date but it would be a lot more volatile than cannon (though never abusive) with lots of fighting that everyone else in the building just get used to. (Dan and Renee always check on Allison and Matt eventually becomes friends with and starts checking in with Seth too) 

Renee is everyone's friend and often bakes (just seems like her vibe) she unintentionally scares the crap out of Neil his first night by dropping off some chocolate chip cookies to welcome him to the building. (Much later, she's very apologetic about it, and Neil is able to acknowledge that it wasn't anyone's fault. Besides, he had never been upset with her over it, just cautious)

Nicky is the nosiest neighbor but not to the point of invading people's privacy. Anytime there's movement outside, he's peeking out the windows and has been known to crack the window open to listen to loud conversations/arguments outside. He does know everything about everyone even though he hasn't been here the longest.

Aaron is still going to med school, Andrew and Nicky are supporting him.

Andrew often goes up to the roof to smoke (boy likes to be tall) and this is how he and Neil actually meet face to face. (Andrew was aware that there was a new tenant but hadn't seen him) Neil sits up there to burn cigarettes and stargaze, kinda. Andrew immediately is like 'this kid is weird, let's figure out all his secrets,' and Neil is basically along for the ride.

Neil would still be on the run but maybe from just his dad, Mary did still die so Neil was desperate for a slice of normal and took a chance with Wymacks apartments. I haven't expanded this to much further than what I've shared here so I don't have all the answers or even a plot really but I think Neil would pull everyone together like canon.

Layout-wise (if you're curious), I'm picturing we have Building 1:

First floor- Dan and Matt in A1, Allison in A2, Renee in A3 and Seth in A4

Second floor- Nicky and the twins in unit A5 and A6. Across from them is Neil in A7 and Kevin in A8 

Basement has washers and dryers as well as storage units for each apartment. 

Building 2 has Wymack's double unit (B1 and B2), Kevin still crashes here sometimes but Wymacks door is always open to anyone who needs to talk. Abby also has a unit in building 2, B5, and she also helps out where she can. 

Building 3 has an assortment of different tenants, some of Dan's stage sisters, a couple small families and a couple single person units. 

[kosmicdream]

do you have any opinions on go nagai? having read devilman + devilman lady i think you have a lot in common with him as an artist

Oh. I have OPINIONS.. My hot take is that i actually kinda hate Go Nagai LMAO.. i know, i think most would assume otherwise but.. Well. Every time i have read or engaged with an adaptation of his work, I’m left feeling underwhelmed in a way that’s.. pretty frustrating. I wanna like it! but I’m usually left with feeling “.. that’s it??” and i struggle to feel an actual connection with anything made, it feels more like seeing something for the sake of having a broader appreciation for manga.Like, of course, you cannot deny his legacy/influence on manga/anime. But personally i need more than that to connect with an artist and so far, I haven’t felt it. I don’t want it to be forced, but it doesn’t keep me pursuing more of his stories to see if it clicks for me. 

I could also feel this way because I’m such a huge Tezuka fan (he’s one of my favorite artists ever who massively changed my storytelling when I started reading him as a teenager) that I almost have a harder time looking at Go Nagai’s stories and wondering what new things he brings to the table that Tezuka hasn’t.. Done already but better. Possibly a hundred times even. This also could just be a trend with western online circles, but i get kinda offended?? That Go nagai is brought up SO often when i feel like Shotaro Ishinomori was like. Way more interesting as an artist (while also being another well known mangaka Tezuka directly mentored) To me. And i dont see his name brought up quite as often. This is of course just a very petty reason but I CANT LIE.. it will still annoy me.. I see the appeal of Go Nagai’s artwork, but it kinda always gives the vibe of like. Traced Tezuka drawings to me. My favorite thing about his work has to be maybe Sirene’s design. And some of the devil designs are cool. But man, that's kind of like grasping at straws to say something nice. I think his cover art/illustrations are stronger than his actual manga pages, which i feel often look very stiff or unintentionally awkward. His stories too feel a bit rushed. Like “i dont know what im doing! Who gives a fuck!!! heh” kind of writing. Which I think can be appealing and fun but idk.. 

I think because Berserk is such a huge influence on my work, it makes sense that Devilman would be a given too, since Devilman was essentially the blueprint for a lot of Berserk. But I really just think what Miura saw and took from Devilman was vastly more interesting than devilman itself for me. I also somewhat enjoyed the Devilman crybaby anime that was made several years ago but.. Once again.. That was because of Masaaki Yuasa, who is one of my favorite anime directors.. And.. also.. Devilman Crybaby kind of just felt like Kemonozume (an older anime by Yuasa) but worse. It was still fun! but Kemonozume was truly unique and incredible to me. All those qualities that i liked about crybaby were in Kemonozume but stronger, with an original plot/characters and felt less restrained narratively to a pre-existing story. (and one with such a big legacy)

IDK.. hopefully not too disappointing to hear but that’s my honest opinion… So far everything of Go Nagai seems more interesting when done by other people for me, including fanart. I’ve seen SO much fanart that makes it look like a story I want to check out!!!!!! and then the story I check out is just not anything like what i thought lmao. NOW i know what to expect. and so far its just been the same meh feeling.

Anyway.. That’s kinda about it! Yup..

[burningcheese-merchant]

Nu uh take that back or i delete my tumblr and become a twitter artist

(i am officially obsessed with drawing your ocs,it's your fault)

In case you haven't noticed, you've fallen right into my trap............

Also

She's beautiful 😭 I'm such a sucker for your art, man. I love how you render stuff. Your colors are so beautiful!!! And idk what program and/or brush you use but it scratches an itch in my brain. You're honestly the best ❤️❤️❤️ I always smile when I see you pop up in my inbox haha. Thank you so so much for everything you send me ❤️

Also sorry not sorry for brainwashing you into loving my OCs so much. Welcome to my wacko cult, you're not allowed to leave :) it's ok though, we have angst and shenanigans and delicious Indian food

[sodaneko]

it's been over a week but i legit haven't stopped thinking about this

[geddy-leesbian]

reminded of the comment on my almost abandoned fic where Chris is investigating the aftermath of RE4R and found Luis alive but hella injured and he's immediately arrested because he was wanted by the BSAA, and then Leon has to find evidence proving that Luis never willingly worked for Los Illuminados and only got tangled up in it fleeing Umbrella

(okay sorry to have to break the flow with that long explanation but the context is necessary) and someone asked why Leon didn't reach out to Ashley to have her testify to the BSAA that Luis was innocent as far as las plagas stuff goes, and it's like.... I felt like it was kinda clear? the US government decided to cover up all evidence that they had any involvement in anything and stonewalls the BSAA, Chris has to make up a bullshit cover story to get Leon's help without pissing off the government, literally no one can know that Leon went back to Spain and told Chris a bunch of shit that happened because it was classified information related to the military and the fucking president's daughter and they would have Leon's head if they knew he just readily gave Chris all that information. that's all explained in the fic.

Leon can't just reach out to Ashley, the president's daughter that the BSAA isn't supposed to know was ever in Spain, I feel like that's pretty clear from context without me explicitly stating that??

[hedgewitchnecromancer]

how do i explain to my parents that there’s a difference between i have no active plans today and im actively looking for work to do like im sitting here on the couch eating breakfast at 11 you don’t need to tell me i need to do scholarships with my time i didn’t ask for that

[doctorwhoisadhd]

there's a certain quality the harmonies of like... early to mid 2000s alt rock has. which i am obsessed with... like i wanna do that. i NEED to figure out how to write harmonies that sound like that

[senditcolton]

sweetie pie honey muffin congrats on 1k!!! may i please have a lead me to the garden chai cookie of the oak variety with one mister ryan graves? love youuuuuuu 🥰🤩🥳

thank you so much my love!! love you to the moon! and i went a little more cutesy fluffy for this oak chai cookie. hope you love it!

word count: 0.8k

You loved your boyfriend, Ryan. You really did.

You swear you did.

But sometimes, you wondered what the hell you got yourself into.

And yes, some people might think that you were talking about the distance, his travel schedule, the packing and moving, the lack of stability. But right now, you were talking about the fact that this man woke you up at the crack of dawn… to go on a run with him.

It was partially your fault. You mentioned to Ryan that you would love to be a little more active, get some more exercise. And Ryan – your sweet golden retriever boyfriend – took that off-handed comment and ran with it.

Literally.

No, like he was legitimately running ahead of you on the Nova Scotia beach and you were struggling behind him, your feet sinking beneath the sand, even though Ryan had the foresight to have the two of you run on the smooth packed edge of low tide.

You had been doing alright or at least you thought you had. It was different at first but you were sure you could handle it. But now, after only 8 minutes of this, you were ready to collapse into the wet sand and stay there until the waves washed you away.

“Come on babe, keep up!” Ryan shouts to you and you can hear the playful tone of his words but oooh boy, you were ready to fight him. Add kickboxing to your exercise repertoire.

“I hate you!” you reply, your own tone light but there was a slight truth to your words. Thankfully, Ryan doesn’t take offense, like he never did, and just laughed before smiling back at you.

“I know.”

You huff with your own strained laughter as you dig your feet into the unsteady ground and propel yourself forward, knowing that Ryan would never push you too far. You manage to last for what feels like another two minutes before your pace is slowing and you’re calling out to your boyfriend again.

“Ryan,” you whine, the high-pitch helping to cut through the sound of crashing waves. “This is so difficult. Like why did you have me run on sand?”

“Adds resistance! Really works your lower body and helps your balance.”

“Is that why you hockey players like it. Helps you balance on your knife shoes?”

“Something like that,” Ryan chuckles, slowing down his pace until you’ve caught up to him.

“Well, I…” you huff out, reaching out to grip Ryan’s forearm, halting both him and yourself before you lean forward, your chest heaving. “Oh, I can’t do this. This is exhausting.”

“I know you can do it. Just a few more minutes and then we can take our sweet time walking back to the car.”

“Babe, I don’t think I’m cut out for this. This is what you do every morning?”

“Yeah, I really like it. Training with a view, y’know? But I promise, if you end up absolutely hating this, you never have to do it again.”

“You swear?” you genuinely ask, looking up at him and still slightly hating him. But now, you’re hating him for the way the sunlight hits his pale skin and highlights the cut of his jaw.

“Absolutely,” he smiles at you and if your legs didn’t already feel like jelly, the action would have you weak in the knees. “But I know you can make it. You’re stronger than you think.”

The words soften your resolve and you stretch your body upright, sighing deeply as the salt air fills your lungs and the breeze from the ocean cools the sweat on your skin. You eyes open to find Ryan still staring at you, waiting for your answer. The bemused huff falls from your chest as you playfully glare at Ryan.

“Why are you so good at sweet-talking me?”

“Must be the Gemini,” he says and you can’t stop the laugh that falls from your lips.

“Okay, five more minutes,” you concede and Ryan’s grin grows more as he turns to take off again. But before he can, you stop him with a grip on his forearms. “But… we’re getting frozen yogurt after this.”

“Deal.”

You do manage to stick it out for the next five minutes, managing to reach the small beach that Ryan had planned your route to. Soon you found yourself walking back to the car, your shoes in Ryan’s hand, the rising tide lapping around your ankles, and the small cup of vanilla fro-yo in your hands.

And when you looked out over the ocean, the sunrise painting the beach a hazy pink and orange, you were startled to realize that you might start to enjoy these types of mornings with Ryan.

But maybe next time, the two of you could try yoga instead.

[whysamwhy123]

Me - ''I want to get better about writing shorter stuff and just putting it out there without thinking too much about it. So I'm just gonna write a short little OrangeHook drabble about Hook being a cuddlebug. It'll be a couple hundred words at most, just a cute little thing, it doesn't have to be a whole fic or tell a complete story or anything like that. Just fluff!''

Me - *writes 1.5k words and is still not done, thinks way too hard about it, feelings are now involved and discussed at some length, there's multiple asides and unnecessary details, silly moments abound and of course, there's age jokes*

Why.

[arionaleilani]

i don’t know if anyone cares about what i have to say on instagram, but here’s some word vomiting about the beauty of existence and snapshots of life by me

[springcatalyst]

you know, you don't need a loom to weave, at it's simplest a piece of cardboard and some yarn will do just fine

i knowwwww i've heard of card weaving which seems like the easiest way to do it however A: i simply do not need another little craft and B: i don't rlly know where to get yarn near me and C: i don't even know what i would make or why and D: i don't have the free time to justify. weaving. i'll probably pick it up at some point honestly BUT. not yet

[goon-account]

i lovelovelove writing theories for my fave games by starting from the conclusion and cherry picking things for proof. that isnt exactly how you should do media analysis but it is pretty fun. also the monthly ghetsis kinshift's making me a tad pissy and making me feel a deep need to offer people things that aren't true but could be true to you if you just have trust in me