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THE LAST LAUGH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader
divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 3.1k synopsis: Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed—until they are. a/n: I feel like I've been spoiling y'all with too much fluff and smut lately. Sooo, here's some angst. warning: Graphic depictions of death, blood and torture, character death
It had started as a routine patrol. A quiet night, for once. Jason had even allowed himself to relax. You’d been on the other end of the comm, he had been teasing you on your so-called cooking skills and threatened to order takeout behind your back while you laughed and scoffed. He was telling you he was going to be home soon and how he wanted to crawl into bed beside you and sleep for a week when everything happened.
Arkham’s roster was sealed. Every major threat was accounted for. There had been no alarms, no alerts, nothing unusual.
He should have known better.
The moment he heard it—that laugh—his heart stopped. High-pitched. Guttural. Gleeful. Echoing faintly through your comm right before it cut to static.
Jason’s blood turned to ice.
Then he was moving.
Every instinct in his body screamed as he pushed the bike harder, weaving recklessly through traffic, past red lights and blaring horns. The city became a blur. He didn’t feel the cold wind biting at his skin or the way his fingers cramped from gripping the throttle too tight. He didn’t even notice the burning in his lungs.
He barely saw the road.
He saw you.
He saw your smile. The way you rolled your eyes at him, the way your voice softened when you held him through his nightmares. He saw every moment that made him believe—for the first time in years—that he could be more than his rage.
And he saw it slipping away.
Jason stormed the building like a force of nature. He didn’t pause to plan or think. He kicked down doors, tore through hallways, left a trail of groaning bodies in his wake. He moved on instinct—pure rage and terror—climbing blood-smeared stairwells two steps at a time.
He reached the top floor and burst through the final door, gun drawn, breath ragged, pulse roaring in his ears.
The room stank of copper and smoke.
His vision tunneled. Under the harsh flicker of overhead light, a crowbar lay bent and bloodied on the cracked concrete floor, the stains of red glinting under the flickering overhead light. there was no sign of the Joker. Only an old speaker crackling from the corner, looping the same sound over and over again.
Your screams.
Your cries.
Jason barely registered it. The sound stabbed through his ears like splinters of glass, but his mind could only latch onto one thing. Because then he saw you.
You were crumpled in the corner—your limbs limp, body slumped at a sickening angle. Blood seeped from the cracks in your lips, staining your skin, your ripped uniform, the floor beneath you. Bruises bloomed across your face and neck in violent shades of purple and black. Your eyes were still open. Staring blankly at the ceiling.
Jason’s world stopped. He dropped to his knees so fast the impact rattled up through his spine, and sent a jolt through his bones.
“No, no, no—”
His voice cracked, raw and panicked. His shaky fingers brushed your jaw. Before he leaned in, listening for breath, for anything. He pressed trembling lips to yours and began CPR, counting beneath his breath through gritted teeth. One, two, three, breathe. Over and over.
He knew it was useless.
You were too still. Too broken.
But he tried anyway—desperate, mechanical, refusing to stop until his chest was heaving and his vision swam with hot, helpless tears.
As he stared down at your lifeless face, something shattered inside him.
He remembered every treasured moment.
Your smile, easy and warm. The sparkle in your eyes when you laughed. God, you always laughed so easily—so pure and genuine. But now, all he could hear were your screams echoing from the speakers.
He remembered the way your hands—soft and steady—would cup his face, kissing the scars that marred his skin. Scars left behind by the very same monster who had done this to you. You never flinched. Never looked away. You had kissed every wound like it didn’t disgust you. Like he didn’t terrify you.
Those hands now lay limp at your sides. Stiff. Cold. Gone.
Jason’s head dropped as the truth crashed down around him like a collapsing building.
And then it tore from him—a guttural scream so raw, so violent, it didn’t sound human. It echoed off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness of the room.
And then the rage came, white-hot and all-consuming.
It surged through Jason like fire in his veins, burning away everything else. The grief, the helplessness, the pain—it all gave way to something feral.
This was the final act. The moment that shattered what little remained of his restraint.
Slowly, he stood. His limbs felt detached from his body, like they were moving on their own. He crossed the room in a few soundless steps and bent down, fingers curling around the crowbar the Joker had left behind like a signature.
He stared at it for a long time.
There was blood matted into the metal, strands of your hair caught in its jagged edges. It was still sticky. Still fresh.
Jason’s grip tightened until the metal groaned in protest.
Then he vanished.
For three days, no one heard from him.
Not a ping on his comms. Not a trace in his safe houses. No movement in the surveillance grid. He refused to contact anyone.
And then the bodies started appearing.
In the Narrows, in alleyways, in burnt-out tenements. One by one, they turned up—Joker’s people. Goons. Smugglers. Middlemen. Anyone who ever associated with the clown.
Some were dead.
Some were on the brink, maimed and tortured.
This was him sending a message.
He was coming after the clown and he wanted the Joker to know.
Back in the cave, the air had turned suffocating.
Bruce stood at the Bat computer, unmoving. He hadn’t taken the cowl off in nearly twenty-four hours. His jaw was locked tight, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with something deeper than exhaustion. On the monitor in front of him, the footage played on a loop—Jason kneeling beside your body, desperately trying to bring you back. His hands stained red. His voice cracking. His scream of utter despair before everything inside of him seemed to shut down as he grabbed the crowbar.
Bruce watched it again. And again. And again.
He blamed himself.
Tim didn’t stop moving. He threw himself into work, hunched over keyboards and monitors, fingers flying as he sifted through surveillance feeds, phone pings, facial recognition scans—anything to find his missing brother. Anything to stop what they all knew was coming.
“Jason’s going to kill him,” Tim said hoarsely, not looking up from the screen. It was the first thing he’d said in hours since he saw the video of your death.
No one disagreed.
Dick took it the hardest—at least the most visibly. He let out a yell as he punched one of the cave’s reinforced walls so hard his knuckles split open, blood dripping down his wrist. Alfred rushed toward him, reaching for his arm, but Dick jerked away, breath ragged and eyes blazing with fury.
“This didn’t have to happen,” he snarled, voice shaking with rage and guilt. “She should’ve never been alone. Where the hell was everyone?”
He turned away, bracing both hands against the wall now, shoulders hunched. The muscles in his back twitched beneath his suit. He couldn’t look at the others. Couldn’t stand to see his own grief reflected back.
You’d been like a sister to him. Not just because of Jason, but in bonds you took the time to form with everyone in the family. In all the ways you’d softened the edges of their lives. You’d been the reason Jason came back to them. You’d bridged the gaps they hadn’t known how to cross and fill.
You were the light in the darkness. And now that light had been snuffed out.
Damian hadn’t said a word since the news.
He’d watched the footage once, standing stiffly as your final moments played out on screen. As Jason collapsed beside your body. As he reached for the crowbar and stalked out.
When the video ended, Damian turned and walked away without a word.
The next morning, Alfred found him in the training room. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t eaten. The punching bag had long since burst, its innards scattered across the floor. Wooden practice weapons lay broken in jagged halves. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the same clothes he’d worn the day before. Bruises covered his arms, angry and dark, and his knuckles were scraped raw.
His bo staff—his favourite—had snapped down the centre.
Damian among the debris, breathing heavily, muscles tight with exhaustion and something far worse—grief.
“I should have gone with her,” he said hoarsely, not looking up. The words were quiet, almost choked. “I could have stopped it.”
“There was no stopping it,” Alfred replied softly, stepping into the room. His voice was heavy with his own sorrow and regret. “Not with that man. You would’ve been another victim.”
At that, Damian turned his head, just enough to meet Alfred’s gaze.
His eyes were colder than they should’ve been. Too old for his young face.
“He should already be dead,” he said icily.
His voice didn’t tremble. But his hands did.
They found Jason three nights later.
The building was a condemned warehouse in the Narrows—one of the Joker’s old haunts. The air inside was stale with rot and copper, a sickening echo of the place you had died.
The Joker was tied to a chair in the centre of the room, barely clinging to life. His face was a ruin—swollen, bloodied, almost unrecognizable beneath the purple bruises and caked blood. One eye was swollen shut. Teeth were missing. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps.
Jason stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, blood spattered across his chest and arms. The crowbar—the same crowbar the Joker had used on you—hung loosely in his grip, stained dark.
“Get the fuck out,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous, without turning to face them.
“Jason,” Bruce said carefully, stepping forward. “Put it down.”
“She begged,” Jason murmured, hollow and distant, as though he hadn’t heard Bruce at all. “You know that? I got here too late… but not late enough to miss the audio loop. He recorded it. Her screams. The way he laughed while he broke her apart.”
Tim looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight.
Dick flinched as though struck, his hands curling into fists.
Damian didn’t speak. He only stood stiffly, his posture rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white.
“This won’t bring her back,” Bruce tried to reason, doing his best to keep his voice steady.
Jason snarled whirling around, “How many more of us does this psycho need to kill before you do something?”
His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His helmet masked his face, but they could all imagine what lay beneath—wild bloodshot eyes, tear-tracked cheeks, fury and grief twisting his features.
“He beat her to death with this,” Jason spat, lifting the crowbar, hands trembling. “Same way he did to me. Don’t you remember? because I do. Every. Fucking. Second. She shouldn’t have died like that.” At all.
His voice cracked, just once—but it was enough.
“He laughed while she screamed,” Jason whispered, like he couldn’t stop himself from reliving it. “I heard it. Over and over again, until it was all I could hear. I—”
He faltered, swallowing hard. His grip tightened around the crowbar.
“And now you want me to just… let him live?” Jason’s voice rose, not loud, but sharp—accusing. “After everything he’s done?”
“No,” Bruce said finally. His voice was firm, but the weariness beneath it betrayed him. “I don’t want that. But we don’t cross this line.”
Jason let out a short, bitter laugh—humourless and sharp.
“Ironic,” Jason spat, the word laced with venom. “When killing this scumbag from the very beginning could’ve saved thousands of lives. But you—” he turned his head just slightly, the crowbar still hanging at his side like an extension of his arm, “you let it go on. Again and again. Don’t talk to me about lines, Bruce. You’re no better than him for letting this go on for as long as it has.”
Bruce flinched.
Dick stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Jay—listen, man—just look at yourself,” he said, his voice tight with grief. “You think this is what she would’ve wanted? For you to throw away what’s left of yourself? To lose you after we already lost her?”
Jason’s eyes flicked to him. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and cold, shaking with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare bring her into this to make me spare his life.”
Dick’s breath caught, but he stood his ground. “She loved you, Jason. You think she’d want you to throw everything away like this? You think she’d want her death to break you?”
“She was my everything, Dick.” Jason’s voice cracked again, and this time, he didn’t try to hide it. The grief bled through every word, every breath. “There’s nothing left to break.”
His hand clenched tighter around the crowbar. His shoulders shook—not from rage, not anymore—but from the sheer devastation he couldn’t contain.
No one dared speak.
Tim stood frozen, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t force the words past the lump in his throat. He just stared at Jason, helpless and sickened. There was nothing he could say or do to make this better.
Then—Damian stepped forward.
His boots echoed quietly in the bloodstained room. His voice, when he spoke, was cold as steel.
“He deserves to die.”
All eyes turned to him.
“I would kill him myself,” Damian continued, his tone brutally calm. “For her. For Todd. For all of us.”
He looked at Jason then, gaze unwavering.
“But not like this.”
The room went still.
“Justice,” Damian said. “Not vengeance. Y/N lived by that as strongly as any of us. She believed in it. She wouldn’t want this.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Jason looked away, jaw tightening until the muscle ticked.
“She deserved better,” he muttered. “Better than me. Better than this.”
“No,” Damian said, stepping closer, his voice softer now—earnest, for once, without a trace of sarcasm or pride. “She chose you. Don’t make her death a reason to become the monster she always believed you weren’t.”
For the first time, Jason’s stance faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his own grief had finally settled fully on his back. He swayed—not physically, but emotionally, like a dam cracking under pressure.
“She believed in you, Todd,” Damian added, quieter now. “Even when you didn’t.”
Bruce said nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t argue, didn’t try to justify the code he’d sworn to uphold. Because deep down, Jason was right. This was his fault. He’d let the Joker live—again and again—and this was the cost. You and every life Joker had taken was the cost.
Dick’s throat worked around words that refused to come. He looked like he wanted to speak, to reach out, to do something, but the grief caught in his chest wouldn’t let him.
Tim dropped his gaze, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. He focused on breathing, slow and steady, like that could somehow keep the guilt from swallowing him whole.
You had been too good for this world.
Too good for them.
They should’ve protected you.
But all they had left was the last moment they saw you—that bright grin you tossed over your shoulder as you hopped on your bike, your voice teasing in their comms, alive and warm
Jason slowly lowered his head. The crowbar slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull metallic clang that echoed off the walls like a gavel striking down a verdict. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he had carried—grief, guilt, rage. His knuckles were bone-white, his hands trembling violently.
But then—
A wet, gurgling noise broke through the silence.
Behind them, the Joker let out a faint, wheezing giggle. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, teeth cracked and smeared red. His face so battered it barely held shape, but somehow—somehow—he managed to laugh. Mocking and triumphant.
Jason’s eyes snapped toward him.
And in that moment, he saw red.
All he heard was your screams. The way you cried his name. The echo of the Joker’s laughter overlaying it all.
Jason spiralled back into that sound. That laugh.
The sound that had haunted him since he was brought back by the Lazarus pit.
The sound he now heard in place of your voice.
He moved without thought.
In one swift, fluid motion, Jason turned, unholstered his gun, and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the hideout like thunder.
The Joker’s head snapped back with a jolt, the grotesque grin still carved into his face—only now, frozen in death. He slumped forward in the chair, limp as a marionette with cut strings, blood blooming in a single, perfect hole between his eyes.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed as they registered what had been done.
Bruce closed his eyes. Not in agreement—never that—but in resignation. Because deep down, he had known. The moment he saw the crowbar in Jason’s hands, he had known how this would end. There had never really been a chance to stop it, not with the Joker breathing, not with your death on that clown’s hands. And though the code he lived by screamed in protest, Bruce said nothing.
Because in the end, justice had failed you.
Dick’s expression twisted with shock, grief, and something dangerously close to understanding. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, as if he’d meant to reach out, to say something—to stop Jason before the line was crossed. But the words never made it past his throat.
What could he even say that hadn’t already come too late?
Tim flinched, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His breath caught like a punch to the ribs, and he instinctively turned his face away from the body. He didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Damian didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. His green eyes burned with emotions but he said nothing more.
Jason stood frozen. The smoking barrel of his pistol hung at his side, his arm limp now that the rage had left him. His entire body was rigid, locked in place, his face carved from stone—hard and cold and unmoving.
“She’s dead,” he said, the words brittle and jagged, like ice cracking under pressure. “And now so is he.”
He stared down at the Joker’s body, not with triumph. Not even with satisfaction.
Just emptiness.
“This bastard will never hurt another one of us again.”
#jason todd fic#jason todd one shot#jason todd angst#jason todd x reader#jason todd#jason todd x y/n#jason todd x you#red hood x you#red hood x reader#red hood#red hood x y/n#redhood x reader#redhood x you#red hood angst
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When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.
genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3
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note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter
The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.
The group chat lights up again.
You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.
Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.
"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!
(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3
Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.
Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.
And you?
You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.
You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.
The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.
You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.
But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.
You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.
Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.
You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.
But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.
A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.
And Theo. Of course he’s there.
Ha.
You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.
No, you're ignoring it on purpose.
A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.
You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.
"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.
He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."
You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.
"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."
He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.
"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”
Raf makes a bubbling snort.
You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.
But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.
And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.
"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"
Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.
"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."
Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.
"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."
Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.
You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.
"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."
Pause.
“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.
Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop.
You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.
You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.
Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.
"No more jokes, fine," you cough.
He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.
You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."
He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.
And after your preparations, you follow.
Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.
You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.
Here, you can just be.
By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.
The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.
A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.
You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?
And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.
Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.
So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.
You clock it before it starts showing.
The pitch is wrong.
Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.
You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.
You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.
But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.
Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.
So you stay the course.
Pushing until everything starts pushing back.
The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.
But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.
Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.
So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.
Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.
Everything starts to make sense.
Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.
You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.
Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.
When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.
You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.
He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.
You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.
You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.
You didn’t want to.
You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.
Too busy nursing your own useless grief.
And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.
And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.
"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"
It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.
Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"
Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.
Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.
You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.
The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.
Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.
Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.
You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.
You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”
The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.
Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.
And then it breaks.
You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.
The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.
Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.
The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.
"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"
Static. Again.
But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.
Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.
You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"
The answer is silence, thick and pressing.
But the sea answers instead.
Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.
And the third—
A hollow space where someone should be.
"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.
You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.
The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.
You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.
The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.
You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.
You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.
"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.
The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.
"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.
The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.
"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.
"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—
And you see him.
Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.
"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.
The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.
"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.
He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.
"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.
You’re so close.
"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.
The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.
"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.
"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—
The ferry shifts—
And the wave hits.
It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.
Cold.
Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.
The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.
Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.
Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—
Then something else—
And another—
Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.
Wherever that is.
You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?
There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.
Singing.
Somebody has been singing to you.
Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.
Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.
The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.
Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.
Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.
A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.
It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.
Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.
A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.
But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.
There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.
Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.
For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—
A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.
Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?
You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.
Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.
Skinny dipping, at that.
Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.
Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.
The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!
Naked HUH?
The buzzer in your head goes off.
Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?
Answer: Naked man.
You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.
Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?
"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"
You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”
The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.
“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"
He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.
Then, a noise.
A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.
He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”
“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.
“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"
"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.
There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"
"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.
An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.
"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.
"Excuse me?"
He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”
“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you���re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”
"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.
"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"
This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.
“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”
“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”
You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.
You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.
An idea strikes you.
"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."
"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”
God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?
Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.
“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”
You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.
“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”
Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.
His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.
Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.
And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—
You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.
"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.
His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.
“You gave it back to me,” he says.
The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.
You blink.
He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.
A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”
He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”
"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”
He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.
You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”
You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.
"And you are...?"
"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."
"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"
A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"
"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"
Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."
Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.
The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.
The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.
You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.
But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.
The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.
“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.
"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.
You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.
You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.
"What?"
"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"
"It's my aunt's island."
You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.
What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?
You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.
Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?
The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.
"My aunt’s island."
He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.
You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.
You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.
But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.
Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.
You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.
It clicks.
They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.
You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.
That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.
You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.
"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."
Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."
You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.
Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.
You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.
None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.
But you weren’t alone.
Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.
You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.
You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.
You look back at him, more confused than before.
"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."
A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.
Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...
But he isn't dangerous.
You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.
What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.
"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."
You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.
Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?
Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.
What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.
But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.
As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.
But you do press him for information.
“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”
Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?
And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.
It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.
So you follow.
The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.
The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.
You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.
“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”
“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.
You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.
“Okay. New plan.”
He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.
You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”
He tilts his head. “Huh?”
“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”
He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”
Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.
You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”
He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.
“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”
You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”
“That wound’s still raw.”
“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”
He makes a frustrated noise.
“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”
He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.
“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.
“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”
There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”
He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.
"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."
"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."
"I wish you would listen for once."
"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"
He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.
The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.
Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”
“What?”
“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”
He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.
“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”
“Like?”
You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”
You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.
“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”
Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”
“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”
“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”
“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”
A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.
"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"
He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."
You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."
"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."
The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.
The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.
Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.
And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.
You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.
You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.
You knock.
Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.
You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.
The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.
For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—
Dusty purple brightening with shock.
“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"
Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.
And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.
You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.
But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.
She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.
You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.
It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.
The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.
"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"
Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.
Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."
You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."
"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."
She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.
"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.
Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."
"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.
Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”
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scene ─── on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ( pairing ) hyunjin x f!reader ( genre ) college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content !mdni! ( wc. ) 28.7k / part two. back to nav.
゜・.・ note! ─ thought this was a super cute idea. got really into it (had to spilt it up in parts), so i hope you enjoyyy reading. please let me know your thoughts! took a while to finalize, so it'd mean a lot to me. lots of love, nana
"...and if we look at the second stanza, we’ll see how she contrasts grief with—"
You caught bits of everything, but held onto none of it.
Your mind had been elsewhere since morning, drifting in and out like radio static. The lecture, the notes, the faint scratching of pens. It all passed through you without actually sticking. You kept thinking about the bakery near campus, the unread emails piling up, the to-do list growing longer by the hour. It was all beginning to feel like too much, bit by bit.
The door creaked open. You payed no mind to it. But if you had, you might've noticed him.
A tall guy slipping in late, hoodie soaked dark at the shoulders. Damp hair curling onto his cheek. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't offer excuses. Just eased into a seat a few rows back, his movements fluid, careful. His chest rose and fell, still evening out from the rush across campus.
You let your chin fall into your hand, your gaze sliding toward the window. The rain streaked sideways across the glass, soft but relentless. You let your eyes follow it, maybe hoping it would make things feel a little lighter.
"...so I'm going to give you the rest of the class as a study hall," your professor announced, barely fighting a yawn. "Catch up on readings, work on your papers. Just don't vanish."
A ripple of quiet relief passed through the room. Backpacks shifted. Chairs scraped. Someone whispered, "Bless," under their breath, followed by a soft chuckle. The projector clicked off, and in that dimmed silence, something inside you loosened.
You didn't wait.
As soon as the screen went away, your head dropped to your folded arms. Your shoulders slackened. Your grip on everything eased. The noise around you blurred into something soft and far away.
Barely a few seconds passed before—
"Yah, dead already?" came a voice, teasing but soft. A familiar one.
You didn't even lift your head. "Hey, Bin."
Changbin dropped into the seat to your left like gravity owed him something, juggling three bags and zero chill. His hair was damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to the curve of his neck. A paper coffee cup steamed between his hands, the scent curling faintly into the air around you.
On your other side, Chaeryeong landed with a theatrical sigh, like she'd rehearsed it. She slid her tote bag off her shoulder, reached across you, and gently shut your neglected laptop without a word.
"She's in mourning," she declared solemnly. "Fell in battle after that last psych quiz. May she rest."
"I salute you, fallen soldier," Changbin added, giving a mock salute.
You groaned softly, face still buried in your arms.
Chaeryeong grinned, already pulling a half-eaten box of pocky from her bag like it was part of her survival kit. "No, but seriously. You okay?"
"I'm tired," you mumbled. "And I've got like three papers due next week."
"Okay, but one of them's just a book response, right?" Chaeryeong offered.
You cracked one eye open, cheek still pressed to your sleeve. "The book is seven hundred pages."
Changbin let out a low whistle. "Yeah, no. Death sounds fair."
"Anyway," Chaeryeong said, grabbing her phone. "Can we talk about the girl who dropped a six-part rant on Hotline last night? All because her ex started dating someone from the chess team."
“I saw that!” Changbin perked up, popping the lid off his drink. “It’s so dramatic. Didn’t the girl cheat or something? And now she’s pissed he moved on?”
“She’s not mad he moved on,” Chaeryeong corrected, scrolling through her feed. “She’s mad he moved on fast and to someone who’s, and I quote, too niche. It’s so dumb.”
That earned a soft snort from you.
They both turned toward you, sensing the first sign of life.
“You use it, right?” Changbin asked, tone casual as he took a sip.
You blinked. “Use what?”
“The app,” he said. “Hotline. You’ve posted before?”
You shrugged, slow and noncommittal. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Yeah, but you probably post those dramatic 2 AM voice notes,” he teased. “Like, ‘the rain reminds me of everything I never said to him’.”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "God forbid a girl expresses her feelings."
He laughed, nearly spilling his drink.
Chaeryeong’s eyes flitted between the two of you, narrowed in curiosity. “Wait. Now I’m curious. What do you post?”
“I’m not telling you,” you said flatly, stretching your arms over your head until your spine cracked. “That defeats the point of anonymous.”
“Which means she definitely posts dramatic 2AM voice notes,” Changbin said smugly.
You rolled your eyes but didn't deny it. The conversation moved on without you, their bickering fading into background noise again.
The room buzzed with low conversation now that the lecture was on pause. A kind of collective exhale. Some students cracked open their laptops, pretending to be productive. Others leaned together in loose circles, whispering and laughing like this was a café instead of a half-lit lecture hall with forty minutes still left on the clock.
Behind you, a chair creaked.
Hyunjin sat slouched in his seat, hoodie up, pencil twirling loosely between his fingers. He hadn’t bothered with his laptop. Just a small sketchbook open on the desk, angled away from view. His bag sat untouched at his feet, the canvas edges still damp from the rain.
He’d slipped in late, quietly, after snoozing his alarm one too many times. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t the only one. He recognized most people in this class. Faces, names, friend groups that orbited each other in lazy, habitual loops. He didn’t talk to them. Didn’t need to.
After all, people only ever asked questions when you gave them answers first. And Hyunjin never did.
His gaze drifted over the room, not looking for anything in particular, until it landed on you.
You sat between two friends, head tilted, listening without really reacting. Like you were there, but not entirely present. Your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the frayed cuff of your sleeve. The kind of movement that said more than words. Like your brain was running in twelve directions, none of them clear.
He knew your name, though you’d never spoken directly. You were in his poetry seminar. Mondays and Thursdays, always a few seats ahead. Head bowed when tired. Notebook open and full when it mattered. He’d caught glimpses of your margin notes once, slanted in quick, neat handwriting. Thought about them later, for no reason at all.
He glanced down, sketchbook still open, finally letting his pencil move across the page. He didn’t try to define it. He just drew. Trying not to think too hard about the way you stared out the window like you were asking it a question. Like maybe you were waiting for an answer.
“It tastes like wood glue,” Changbin insists.
“You’ve eaten wood glue?” Chaeryeong shoots back, raising an eyebrow.
“Didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Their voices curled around you like ambient noise. Familiar. Safe. Like the kind of background hum you’d grown up with in a house full of sound. You didn’t have to join in to feel like you belonged there.
Study group at four. Grocery run after. Need to text Mom back. I should drop that one class. Chae’s hair looks really good today. The bakery closes early. I should go.
Outside, a blur of students ran across the courtyard, three of them sharing one hoodie like it was shelter. In the back corner, a girl hummed quietly to herself, scrolling on her phone. Behind her, a guy slumped in his chair while his friend patted his back over a crush spiral. Small, silent scenes repeating everywhere.
And you sat there, wondering if anyone else in this room felt the way you did.
Chaeryeong tapped her fingers against the desk, looking thoughtful. “Okay, but wait. Do you think it’s possible to fall for someone just through words?”
You turned slightly, attention slipping back into the present.
“What, like texting?” Changbin asked, frowning. “Isn’t that just… long-distance?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, “but I mean on the app. Anons. No names, no faces. Just someone’s voice. Or their thoughts. The way they write.” She said it like she’d already fallen.
Changbin looked skeptical. “That sounds like catfishing.”
"I think it sounds romantic," she countered.
"You think free samples at beauty stores are romantic."
"And? Have you ever been handed perfume by a stranger who calls you 'miss' with a French accent? That's cinema.”
You laughed, eyes drifting to your desk.
Her question sat with you. Not just because of the app. Not even because of the weird ache you carried around like a second skin. But because lately, the idea of being seen without being looked at had started to sound like safety.
To be chosen, not for your academics or how you looked when you walked into class on a Tuesday morning, but for your voice. Your words. The kind of things you say when you think no one’s listening.
Maybe it was all the poetry readings getting to you. Or maybe it was just everything.
You rubbed your temple, the pressure pooling behind your eyes. And then, before you could overthink it—
“I think I’m burnt out.”
It’s not dramatic. Just quiet. Honest in a way that felt like a sigh. They both go still.
“Wanna skip next class?” Chaeryeong asked, chin in hand, voice casual but eyes flicking toward you with quiet concern. “You look like you could use a break.”
You glance at the clock, considering. “Don’t you guys have an exam after this?”
“So?” they say in sync, almost offended.
You huff a small laugh. “I think I’m just gonna stop by the bakery,” you say, sitting up and brushing your hair back from your face. “You two stay. I’ll grab something and bring it back.”
Chaeryeong frowns, clearly not sold. “You sure?”
You nod. “I need the walk.”
Truthfully, you need the air and the silence. The space to pull yourself back together.
Changbin pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket and slaps it into your hand. “Bring me an iced americano.”
“In this weather? I’m not your delivery service.”
“You offered,” he says smugly, ignoring the logic.
Chaeryeong grins as you turn to her. “I’ll take something flaky and not too sweet. Please? Oh, and maybe a batch of cookies if they’ve got any.”
“Damn, you hungry or—” Changbin starts.
“It’s for all of us, dumbass,” she mutters, elbowing him. He laughs.
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth rising at the edges of your expression.
You stood, scarf in hand, wrapping it once around your neck. Phone tucked into your pocket. Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Steadier now, heavier. But there’s a comfort in it. Like if you just kept walking, maybe something in you would finally rinse clean.
Before you turned to leave, your gaze lifted just once toward the upper rows. That’s when you saw him.
Hood half-off. Headphones in. One earbud dangling. His phone glows dimly in his hand, thumb scrolling in lazy, distracted loops. The sketchbook still lies open beside him, spine bowed, edges curling slightly from wear.
You’re certain you’ve seen him before. In passing. In class, maybe. Familiar in the way foggy mornings are.
But you don’t stare. Don’t give yourself the time to linger. You miss the way he looks up, just briefly, as you step out of the lecture hall, offering the professor a quiet nod on your way out. His eyes follow the back of your head, watching the door as it closes behind you.
Then he exhales, shifting his gaze back down to the screen in his palm—
Only to catch his own reflection staring back.
𐪞
*ding*
The door chimed softly as you stepped into the bakery. A mid-morning lull. Only a few students were tucked into booths. Heads bowed, mugs cradled, music whispering through shared earbuds. The windows were gently fogged from the warmth inside, streaked by rivulets of rain. Soft jazz played low from a speaker near the display case.
The air wrapped around you like a blanket, rich with the scent of sweet dough and fresh espresso. Something about it made your shoulders loosen..
You exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.
The cashier, a boy with sleepy eyes and a polite smile, rang you up. Minho, his name tag read.
One iced americano. Two chocolate croissants. A small paper bag of cookies. You paused before ordering, hesitating at the register until the cold on your fingers convinced you to add a hot chocolate to the list.
“Here you go,” he said, sliding the bag and warm drink toward you with practiced grace. “Have a good one.”
“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the bag like it held something more than food.
You found a booth in the corner, right by the window, and slid into the seat. The warmth from the pastries seeped through the paper bag, into your lap, grounding you.
Then your phone buzzed.
chae 🧡 — tell me u got the cookies ...
binnie — she want that cookie so effing badddd
⤷ you — pls
you — got you both sweets, don’t be weird about it
chae 🧡 — french kissing you rn 👩❤️💋👩
(you) loved a message.
binnie — bro probably forgot my drink
you — i literally got it, wdym
binnie — oh
binnie — ok nvm ily
⤷ chae 🧡 — LMAO?
binnie — wait, what pastry tho?
you — choco croissant
(binnie) and (chae 🧡) loved a message.
chae 🧡 — chessss, u know me so well
binnie — BLESS
jisung — ….
jisung — nah nah that's crazy 😭
jisung — did i die or something why am i not in this drop
you — you're sick
jisung — ok but i'm not DEAD
binnie — u sound like a frail victorian child. get off ur phone bro
jisung — i literally just wanted to feel something 😞
you — we'll bring you soup tmrw chill
jisung — finally. one decent person in this grp, yall suck
chae 🧡 — hope ur door stays jammed and that the tissues are just outta reach
jisung — :'(
you — anyway
you — see y'all in ten
A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You tucked your phone away, fingers still warm from the cup in your hand.
The first sip of your hot chocolate tasted like a delicacy.
And for the first time today, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt kind. Like a small, unexpected pocket of calm had been carved out just for you.
𐪞
The low hum of your mini heater filled the quiet of your dorm. Soft, steady.
The mirror in the bathroom was still fogged from your shower, and a towel hung crooked on the hook, like it had given up halfway through the fall. The air smelled like your new body wash and the faint trace of laundry detergent from the pile you only half-folded before flopping into bed.
By the time you curled under the blanket, you were already halfway asleep. Hair still damp against the pillow. Your body didn’t feel tired so much as done. Like you’d been holding yourself upright all day and had finally set it all down.
It was past ten. Maybe closer to midnight.
The glow of your laptop still lit the far side of the room, casting shapes against the wall. But you weren’t at your desk. The assignments could wait a little longer.
Your phone rested beside you, screen dark. You unlocked it.
Hotline.
You hadn’t even thought about it. It was there, waiting. Your thumb hovered over the app like it knew the path before your mind caught up. Like muscle memory had guided you.
So, you opened it.
The interface bloomed onto the screen, slow and gentle. No ads. No noise. Just space. Dark blues fading into muted purples, then warm orange and soft red. An ombre that looked like dusk. The kind of palette that made you exhale without realizing.
The posts glowed in soft contrast. Little fragments of thoughts, floating like signals in the dark.
Your gaze drifted to the small mic icon in the corner of the homepage. You hovered.
And then, without really deciding, you pressed it.
user074320 • now (recording) — For a moment there’s nothing. Just the low hum of your heater filling the silence. "…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise’”
A beat of silence.
“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”
You exhale a breath that’s half a laugh, half just tired.
“I don’t know. I had a decent day. Laughed at something dumb. Saw a cute cat. Ate a cookie that was probably 90% butter. Got rained on, but in a main character kind of way, so… cinematic points, I guess.”
Another pause, like you’re deciding whether to keep talking.
“Still came home and immediately face-planted into my bed like I’d been sprinting uphill for hours. Like my brain’s doing laps while my body’s trying to power down. I don’t even know what I’m carrying, but it feels heavy.”
*whirr*
“…Anyway. If you’re listening, I hope today felt a little less heavy for you. Or that you had a good hair day. Or at least, I hope the soup you had was hot. That helps sometimes.”
Tap.
You didn’t relisten. You just let it post.
Then set the phone down beside you, screen still faintly warm in your hand. Your eyes closed for a second.
The app refreshed on its own. Your note now quietly sitting on your profile, timestamped and anonymous. Below it, the familiar scroll of recommendations began to fill the screen, one by one. Posts you’d probably forget in a few hours. Little confessions floating around like fireflies in the dark.
You scrolled. Mindlessly, absently. Not really searching just… keeping yourself company. Then paused.
A profile caught your eye. Not because of the username or the nearly empty bio besides pronouns, but because of the profile picture.
A blurry painting of flowers in a vase. Not neat or delicate. Just color and chaos, all messy strokes like someone tried to paint a feeling instead of a thing. Curious, you tapped.
The first post loaded, dated today.
user024025 • 15h — opened my notes app to study and ended up writing poetry about someone who doesn’t know i exist. so anyway. GPA stands for girl please acknowledge me.
A quiet laugh pressed into your pillow before you could stop it. And before you knew it, you were scrolling.
is it weird that i want someone to know me so well they can tell what kinda of day i’ve had just by the way i say “hey”?
if you see this: drink water. stretch your back. your spine’s not supposed to feel like that.
accidentally caught eye contact with someone while trying to sketch them and now i need to change campuses.
saw a couple slow dancing under the overhang outside the library during the rain. no music. just the sound of puddles. when will that be me????
i think most people don’t actually want to be saved. they just want someone to sit next to them in the dark and not try to fix it. just… be there. and lately, i think that’s all i want too.
saw my ex get rejected by my friend who works at the bakery. what a good day to be alive. 7/10 pastry tho.
sometimes i want to be held. other times i just want to be understood. today i wanted both but settled for neither. next question.
love when the universe throws me a bone. like yeah, i saw my ex. yeah, they tried to say hi. yeah, i pretended to be deep in a phone call with my grandma. (i was on the calculator app)
i asked chris if i was annoying and he said “no more than usual.” it’s the little things keeping me alive.
got my coffee and accidentally said ‘you too’ to the barista when she told me to enjoy it. yah i’m never showing my face there again.
you ever meet someone and immediately know you’d write poems about them that they’d never see?
group projects should come with therapy vouchers. and snacks.
had a staring contest with a cat on the way to class. pretty sure it cursed me. failed a quiz an hour later.
i don’t want fireworks. just someone who holds my hand in grocery stores and knows how i take my coffee and doesn’t let me spiral alone at night.
some days i feel like i’m here. like really here. i ask people how their weekend was. i nod at the right times. i drink my coffee before the ice melts. and it’s fine. it’s all fine. and then there are days like today. where everything feels like i’m two steps behind myself. like i’m watching my life happen through a window i can’t open. i think what gets to me the most is how no one notices. or maybe they do and just don’t ask. sometimes i just want someone to ask me something real. not like “how are you?” in the way people say it when they’re already moving on. like: “what do you think about before you fall asleep?” or “what memory do you wish felt less distant?“ but no one really asks things like that. so i write it here. not for attention or pity. just in case someone reads it and thinks, oh. me too.
Your thumb lingered on that one a little longer than you meant to. The date, just two days ago, stood out.
They weren’t sappy love notes or petty school gossip. Some were funny, in that quiet, offbeat way that made you smile before you even realized it. Others read like scattered thoughts—tiny moments most people would overlook. A few felt heavy. Not necessarily poetic, just emotionally fluent.
And somehow, the mix made it feel real. Like the person behind them wasn’t trying to be profound, just thinking out loud. And you’d wandered into the middle of it. A stream of consciousness, left open.
You hadn’t noticed how long you’d been reading until the screen dimmed and your eyes blinked back into focus. Your phone had grown warm in your hand, the heat pressed lightly into your palm.
1:03 AM.
The rain still tapped steadily on the glass.
Your chest felt different. Still heavy. Still stretched from the day. But in that quiet corner of the internet, nestled between strangers and static, you felt a little less alone.
Something about his voice, even in text, made you want to stay just a little longer.
[Three weeks later, Monday morning]
The sky looked bruised, grey bleeding into dull blue. Wind tugged at the edges of your sweater, fingers stiff as you clutched your phone and bag tighter, breath visible in the air. The walk to class felt longer today, like the world was resisting your movement, nudging you to turn around and call it quits. But you kept going.
It was early. Too early.
Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, and puddles scattered like shards across the sidewalk caught the faintest blush of light. Some students trudged past on foot. Others biked through the cold with determined misery, scarves trailing like battle flags.
You don’t remember what song was playing through your headphones. Just that it had faded into background noise by the time you reached the stone steps of the humanities building.
Inside, the contrast hit almost instantly. The stairwell was warmer, just barely. Echoes of your footsteps followed you up the narrow steps, and by the time you reached the second floor, the change in temperature was more noticeable. You pushed open the door to your poetry seminar, and warmth met you like a second skin. Soft. Immediate. A quiet relief.
The room was already half full.
You weren’t late, class hadn’t even started, but clearly, you weren’t the only one who’d chosen refuge here before the day officially began.
You made your way to your usual seat and set your things down slowly, your hands still stiff from the cold. Everything felt a little off-center. Not wrong exactly, just out of rhythm.
Lately, that feeling had been harder to shake. The kind of tired that didn’t come with yawns or heavy eyes, just a dull pressure that settled in your heart and stayed there. You were keeping up with your work. More than keeping up, really, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
And it followed you even now, as you sat there thumbing through your notes and pretending not to notice the unopened grocery list still sitting in your phone. Another reminder you’d snoozed: Buy Minho a birthday gift.
You’d been meaning to. Really. You wanted to find something personal. Something that said thank you without saying ‘thank you for giving me a pastry when I cried in your bakery and not making it weird’.
Because somehow, that moment, nearly a month ago, had turned into a quiet friendship.
You hadn’t planned to cry. You barely even remembered what tipped you over. Just that you’d walked in soaked from the rain, holding too much all at once. And Minho had noticed. Said nothing about your face or your silence. Just slid a pastry across the counter, as if to say it’s okay to fall apart here, and turned away like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Since then, he’d been… steady. Generous, even. Letting you help around the bakery during slow hours, never mind the fact that you didn’t have any real experience. Never asked much from you, just gave you things to do, space to exist. And somehow, that space he gave had started to feel like something you could lean into.
You liked that about him. The way he didn’t make kindness feel like a spotlight.
It was so different from what you were used to.
Your dad’s voice still echoed faintly in your ears from the night before. Something about your grades. Something about getting a “real” job.
You’d tuned most of it out after the first few lines, just enough to keep from getting pulled under. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying. He just had a way of making even your best efforts sound like placeholder. Like you were always one decision away from disappointing him again.
Still, despite all that, your thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To him.
He never said his name. Only posted every so often, like he didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t help sharing little pieces of himself anyway. You’d never liked a single post. Never interacted. But you read every one. Not because you had a crush, exactly. There wasn’t anything romantic about it. Just curiosity. Like watching someone through a fogged window and trying to make out the shape of them.
You were pulled back to the present when a gust of wind rattled the window behind you. Your pen paused mid-scribble. The clock ticked closer to the hour.
With a quiet sigh, you opened your laptop and notebook, settling in. Around you, the room had filled up fast. Low chatter. Laptop keys. The soft rustle of jackets being peeled off. You barely noticed when the door creaked open again.
He walked in, unhurried for once. Bag slung casually over one shoulder, cheeks still pink from the cold. Your gaze lifted just as he passed your row.
It wasn’t a moment, just a glance. Eyes met. But it caught him off guard.
Somewhere in his head, something slipped. You didn’t catch the subtle shift in his grip, or how he sat down with a stiffness he didn’t usually have. His face slightly redder than before.
The professor arrived a few minutes later, launching into the usual rhythm. Announcements, dates, some soft reminders about next week’s readings. The background noise of scribbling pens and laptop keys filled in the rest.
You let yourself tune in loosely, just enough to stay tethered, until—
“I want you to write something,” the professor said, her voice lifting over the murmur, “about someone in this class.”
Your head tilted slightly. That wasn’t the usual prompt.
“Doesn’t have to be literal,” she added quickly, grinning as a few groans rose up. “And it doesn’t need to be emotional or romantic, so don’t panic. Just something rooted in observation. The way someone carries themselves. A glance. A moment you noticed. Real or imagined, doesn’t matter. Just write.”
The room stirred with sudden interest. Chairs shifted. Voices rose.
You stayed where you were. It wasn’t that the assignment scared you. It was just that your brain couldn’t decide what emotion to land on lately, and the idea of having to funnel that through another person felt like a lot.
Then your professor clapped once, sharp and cheerful.
“Pair up. You don’t have to tell your partner who you’re writing about. But you do need to help them brainstorm.”
You blinked. That part hadn’t been in the fine print.
Chairs scraped. People turned to their neighbors, already half-laughing and claiming partners with ease. You glanced once to your right, then left, more out of reflex than expectation. Then—
“You,” your professor called, eyes meeting yours. “Still need someone?”
You gave a single nod, calm. She gestured past you.
“Hwang. You’re with her.”
Well, damn.
He didn’t move at first. Still a few rows behind, seated along the elevated stretch of desks. His fingers tapped a slow, barely-there rhythm on the edge of his notebook, like he was waiting to see if you’d look up first.
When you didn’t, he stood. Walked down the aisle with a kind of casual hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. And then just hovered.
You glanced up when you felt his presence at your side.
“Mind if I—?” He gestured toward the empty chair next to you, already halfway pulling it out.
You shook your head. “Go ahead.”
He sat a little too fast, the legs of the chair dragging with an unfortunate screech across the floor. Someone in front of you turned briefly at the sound. You didn’t laugh, but your smile almost gave you away.
Neither of you spoke right away. He glanced down at his notebook like he expected it to do the talking. It didn’t.
“…So,” he said after a second. “Poem. About a classmate.”
You nodded. He paused like he had more to say, then shook his head lightly. “You wanna go first? Or—wait. That makes it sound like I’m trying to dodge it.” He winced. “I just meant—”
You let out a soft laugh. “It’s fine.”
The professor had moved to the far end of the room, checking in with another group. Someone nearby kept clicking a pen like it was a nervous tic.
He gave a short nod, still unsure if he should be relieved or embarrassed.
The silence between you wasn’t tense, just unformed. Like the space before a new sketch, when the lines haven’t taken shape yet. You glanced at his notebook. He hadn’t written anything down either.
“Have someone in mind already?” you asked.
His eyes flicked up, then back to yours. “Not really. You?”
You tilted your head. “Still deciding if I wanna make someone up or not.”
That earned you a quiet smile. A real one this time. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.
“I was thinking,” you added, “it might be easier to just write something loosely based. Not like ‘you wore a gray hoodie and sat four seats back on Thursdays,’ but more… the feeling someone gives you. You know?”
Your eyes flicked to him.
He looked at you a second longer than you expected, like he was still turning it over in his head. Then he nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
It was hard to tell if he meant it or was just trying to sound agreeable, but the way he said it felt genuine. Careful, in a good way. Like he’d actually considered it.
You both drifted into writing, or at least the appearance of it. His pen hovered over the page more than it moved, tracing invisible lines that never quite landed. You caught him sneaking a glance at your notebook once, but you let it slide.
A moment passed before he added, like it had been sitting in his mouth too long, “I haven’t done a partner thing in a while. Sorry if I’m kinda…”
His voice trailed off, a hand waving vaguely like he hoped you’d fill in the blank for him.
“Awkward?” you offered, not unkindly.
His head snapped up, his mouth falling open in mock betrayal, but the spark in his eyes gave him away.
“I was gonna say a little out of practice, but yeah, that too.”
You smiled, just barely. “I don’t talk much in this class either.”
That seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders uncoiled, settling just a little.
“I’m Hyunjin, by the way,” he added after a beat, almost like the thought just caught up to him. Then, quick—“I mean, I know you know that. It’s on the roll call, obviously.”
You blinked, a soft laugh pulling out of you. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”
There was a beat where he probably could’ve moved on, but instead, he glanced at you, a little unsure. “Uh, what’s your name? I mean, I know it. But I—like… it feels different asking.”
You tilted your head, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “You already know it.”
“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”
That threw you a little. You told him anyway, your name landing soft but certain between you. And when you did, he nodded, like he wanted to remember exactly how you said it.
“Okay. Cool.”
Class was still going on, but the two of you had slipped into this quiet side stream, slightly outside the flow of the room. Everyone else was still taking notes, listening to the professor, but it felt like you’d ducked into some parallel pocket of time.
You weren’t sure what you were going to write about yet. But maybe now, you had more to work with than you thought.
You glanced over at him. “What’re you majoring in?”
“Visual arts,” he said, scribbling absently in the margins of his paper.
That fit. His clothes weren’t loud or branded, but they looked chosen. Like someone who knew how colors worked or at least cared. You could picture him sketching on café napkins, or showing up to class with graphite smudged on his sleeve without noticing.
“You?”
“English,” you offered. “Not super surprising, since we’re here.”
He smiled, soft and easy. “It fits.”
It felt like the conversation might naturally end there, but then he surprised you by asking, “Do you write outside of class?”
You hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
He nodded, a little too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands after asking. “Cool.”
“Do you?” you asked back, not teasing, just returning the energy.
“Yeah—uh, I do. Just for fun, though.” He shifted in his seat like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. “Nothing serious.”
The quick glance he sent your way told you he wanted it to sound casual, but cared a little too much about how it landed.
You raised an eyebrow, like you were still deciding whether or not to believe him.
He reached for his water bottle like it was a prop he suddenly needed, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip, then pausing, realizing it was empty. He set it back down with overly careful precision, like that would somehow make the moment less awkward.
You gave him a look. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That. The whole…” you gestured vaguely toward the bottle, fighting a smile. “Was that supposed to be dramatic—?”
“No,” he said, sitting up straighter, ears just a little pink. “Forgot I finished it earlier.”
You nodded, feigning seriousness. “Right.”
That pulled a soft huff out of him, something close to a real laugh, but before he could say anything else, the professor called time. Pens dropped. Notebooks closed. Chairs scraped quietly against the floor as everyone started packing up, but for a second longer, Hyunjin lingered like he wasn’t quite ready to leave the conversation.
As he stood, he tapped the edge of your desk. Twice, quick and light. Just enough to pull your attention.
“I’ll… keep working on it,” he said, voice softer now. Somewhere between unsure and hopeful.
And then he headed back to his seat. Moving through the aisles, slipping back into his place like nothing had happened.
You watched him go.
Then turned to a new page in your notebook, and wrote the word: presence.
𐪞
“—I swear, he looked like he was gonna short-circuit.” You balanced a tray of clean mugs in your hands as you walked toward the dish rack. “He sat down so fast the chair made that god-awful scraping sound.”
Minho, halfway through dusting powdered sugar over a fresh batch of croissants, barked a laugh. “Please tell me someone clapped.”
“Almost. One guy turned around like he thought something fell. It was kind of tragic.”
He grinned as he moved the tray to the display case, sliding it in with practiced ease. The warmth of the bakery was a welcome contrast to the wind still sneaking through the door every time it opened. Outside, people passed with their shoulders hunched, while inside, the windows fogged gently around the edges. Jazz played low over the speakers, all saxophone and soft piano.
“What’s the guy’s name again?” Minho asked.
“Hyunjin.” you said.
Minho paused, hand still on the pastry tongs. “Wait—Hyunjin? Like, my Hyunjin?”
You blinked. “Your Hyunjin?”
He set the tongs down and leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing like he was putting pieces together. “Tall, handsome, kinda dramatic but pretends he’s not, draws a lot, goes quiet when he’s flustered?”
You stared. “...That’s weirdly accurate.”
“Oh my god,” Minho said, straightening with a wide grin. “You got paired with him?”
“I didn’t volunteer,” you said, laughing. “Our professor literally pointed at us like she was picking teams for gym class.”
Minho let out another laugh and shook his head. “That explains so much. He’s been off lately.”
You tilted your head. “Off how?”
He just gave a vague shrug and returned to wiping the counter. “Nothing. He just gets in his head. Keeps stuff to himself until he explodes in the most unhinged way possible.”
You raised a brow, amused. “So... normal?”
“Painfully.” He smiled as he passed behind you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his as he went.
That pulled a laugh from you, head ducking slightly as you dried your hands. “He’s... interesting.”
“That's a very polite way of saying what the hell is wrong with him.”
You snorted. “He wasn’t bad. Just... kind of awkward. But like, in a sincere way. Like he couldn’t help it.”
Minho made a face halfway between fond and pained. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
You shook your head, amused, wiping down the espresso machine as Minho poured steamed milk into a mug with far more focus than was probably necessary. The bell above the door jingled as another customer stepped in, and the two of you slid seamlessly into work mode. Greeting them, taking the order, moving like you’d done this together a hundred times.
You liked this part of the day. The quiet before the evening rush. The part where Minho didn’t hover, didn’t push you to talk, just let the conversation rise and fall as naturally as the light shifting across the tiles.
“I actually didn’t even say much,” you said after a pause. “Like, I wasn’t trying to be weird. But I think just existing near him stressed him out.”
Minho handed the latte to a waiting customer without missing a beat. “Sounds like he likes you.”
You blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, all fake innocence. “What? Who said that?”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t start,” he said, already grinning. “I’m just making an observation.”
“Well stop observing. We’re not in class.”
He chuckled, shaking his head.
The moment settled for a second. Minho’s voice cut through, quieter as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Did your dad end up calling?”
You didn’t answer immediately, hesitating. “…Yeah. Over the weekend.”
He glanced up. “And?”
You focused on the swirl of steam rising from the espresso machine. “Same thing as always. Asked about school. Then about jobs. Asked why I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Ah,” Minho said, voice flat like a deflated balloon. “Classic hit single.”
That earned a faint smile.
As he moved past you to grab something from the lower shelf, he paused just long enough to reach up and pat the top of your head. Lightly, without ceremony.
“You’re doing fine,” he said.
You didn’t say anything. But your chest felt a little less tight than before. Suddenly—
The bell above the door slammed open with a jingle too violent to be casual.
“YAH— tell her she’s wrong!”
Changbin came barreling into the bakery like it was his second home, puffer jacket already half-off, finger pointed like he was delivering courtroom evidence.
“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Chaeryeong shouted as she followed behind him, nearly tripping over the doorframe with a bag of snacks clutched in one hand.
“No hello?” you asked, brows raised.
“Okay,” Changbin said, panting slightly. “You’re on the train. You offer your seat to someone. They decline. Do you sit back down or stand anyway out of guilt?”
“Sit down,” you said instantly.
“SEE?!” Changbin said, turning to Chaeryeong like he’d just won an Olympic medal.
She gasped. “No! You can’t sit after that. Now it’s awkward. Now they think you think they’re weak.”
You raised both brows. “You came here... to ask me that?”
“Obviously,” they both said in sync, like you were the slow one.
You blinked, then turned to Minho who just looked amused behind the espresso machine.
“Let me guess,” you said. “They’re ordering something now.”
“Croffle and a latte,” Chaeryeong said immediately. “Oh—and if you have the cinnamon twist—”
“We do,” Minho said, already writing it down. “And you owe her five dollars for emotional labor.”
The drama faded as fast as it came, the two of them now deep in an argument over which season of their favorite show was the best, half-bickering, half-laughing as they waited at their table.
Minho handed you a cup to pass over the counter. You called out the name.
A guy stepped forward to grab it. Young, most likely a student. Soft smile, the kind that aimed to be casual. He grabbed the drink, then slid a napkin across the counter. A number was scribbled on it.
Minho didn’t even blink.
His hand smacked down on the napkin so fast the customer jumped.
“She’s not collecting these right now,” Minho said, cool and unbothered, slowly dragging it back toward the espresso machine like it was a misplaced receipt, unnerving eye contact.
The guy blinked. Laughed awkwardly. “Uh... got it. Thanks.”
Once he was out of earshot, you turned, arms crossed.
“What?” he said, dragging the napkin off the counter and into the trash without breaking eye contact. “I’m protecting the peace.”
“You know that was insane behavior, right?”
“Just vetting the vibe,” Minho said.
“You crushed his confidence in one motion.”
“He’ll recover. Probably write a poem about it.”
You couldn’t even argue with that.
The jazz picked back up, the windows fogging further with the heat inside. Laughter spilled from the table where Changbin and Chaeryeong were now splitting the croffle and debating over who had the better music taste.
You turned back toward the counter just as Minho slid a drink in your direction.
“Didn’t ask for anything,” you said.
“Figured you needed one.”
You took a sip. Hot chocolate. Rich and sweet, still steaming.
“…You were right,” you murmured.
Minho didn’t look up. “Always am.”
𐪞
You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes without thinking. The air in your dorm was a bit cold, not enough to complain about, but enough to make you keep your socks on.
The lights stayed dim. Just the one beside your bed, casting a warm glow across the floorboards. You tossed your coat over the back of the chair, sleeves flopping to the floor, and wandered toward the kitchen corner to put away your groceries. One item at a time, methodical, like your brain needed something simple to latch onto.
What should’ve taken five minutes took thirty.
By the time you were done, your body felt heavier in that strangely comforting way. The kind of exhaustion that meant you were finally still. Showered. Fed. Sweats on. Nowhere else to be.
Your phone buzzed across the room, screen lighting up on your desk.
jisung: i think i left my soul in lecture today
you: it’s okay he didn’t grade that part
chae 🧡: was it the 75-minute slideshow with 300 transitions
binnie: WITH SOUND EFFECTS
jisung: bro the trumpet noise when he changed slides???
you: i thought i hallucinated that
chae 🧡: no that was real. i flinched
jisung: if he puts a slide whistle in next week i’m dropping out
binnie: no because the airplane sound? when the graph "took off"???
you: oh my god i forgot about that
jisung: i was THIS close to just standing up and leaving
chae 🧡: i think i actually blacked out during the bullet point explosion effect
you: no bc why did it sound like an m80 going off
jisung: he’s not making lectures anymore he’s making action films
binnie: i’m buying noise-canceling headphones just for this class
you: just raw dog the visuals?
jisung: survival of the fittest, every man for himself
chae 🧡: anyway whos bringing snacks tomorrow im not sitting through econ empty handed again
binnie: not me. last time my granola bar betrayed me
you: betrayed you how
binnie: the wrapper was SO LOUD i literally stopped mid-open because people turned around
jisung: rookie mistake u gotta open it during peak laughter, sound camouflage
chae 🧡: so true. snack acoustics.
you: they don’t teach you this in orientation
You laughed, a low breath of sound that barely rose above the hum of your heater. Flopped down onto your bed, pulling the covers over your legs, thumb still lazily hovering above the screen. The group chat was half comfort, half chaos. You didn’t need to contribute much. Just dropping in was enough.
You were about to close the app when another banner slid across the top of your screen.
Hotline: New posts added to your recommendations.
Your thumb hovered.
You hadn’t checked the app all day. You hadn’t meant to forget it, but it had slipped beneath lectures, errands, and Jisung’s running commentary about how capitalism was killing his will to live. Still, something about the notification made your breath catch.
You opened it.
The interface bloomed into dusky colors. That soft blend of indigo and burnt orange. It always looked like a late evening sky. Quiet, fading.
You didn’t even need to scroll far. His profile sat right at the top of your feed, neatly slipped into your recommendations like the app knew.
Two new posts.
Your thumb hovered over the first one. It was time-stamped earlier that afternoon.
user024025 • 10h — i said something weird in class today. like i meant it to sound normal, and then it left my mouth and immediately committed social suicide. anyway. this is why i don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.
A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small, automatic. It was the kind of thing you might write down in your notes app just to get it out of your head. Something too stupid to share, but too real to delete.
Your thumb drifted down to the second post. It was newer. Less than an hour old.
user024025 • 32m — some days feel like static. everything buzzing, but nothing landing. couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still. felt like i was glitching mid-sentence. but she didn’t flinch. just looked at me like i made sense anyway. smiled, even. like being a little off wasn’t the worst thing.
You read it once. Then again.
And again.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t dressed up like some people’s posts on the app. His words always landed that way. Like they’d been written in a rush, like he’d almost left them behind. They didn’t try to be anything. They just were.
Still, they stuck to you. They always did. And this one more than usual.
You wondered who he meant. The thought brushed against you so quickly you almost missed it. Something faint pulled at your chest. Maybe curiosity.
Your gaze flicked to the Echo button just below the post.
You knew how it worked. When you echoed something, it didn’t just show up on your feed. It stayed. The post would ripple, soft waves pulsing out from the original like a quiet thread tying you to someone you didn’t know. A notification would ping on his side, nothing detailed. Just a simple signal: someone had resonated. Someone felt it too.
Sometimes posts picked up echoes in layers, gentle soundwaves folding into each other. You’d seen it happen. The soft chime that followed, a sound that shifted with the mood, was never loud enough to interrupt but always just enough to feel. For heavier posts, it was a low, echoing bell. For lighter ones, a soft, upward chime that almost sounded like wind moving through glass.
It wasn’t something you usually did. Echoing meant it stayed. It would sit pinned to your own feed like a quiet mark you couldn’t take back. Lurking felt safer. Passing through felt easier.
But tonight, your thumb didn’t move away.
You tapped the ripple once. The animation bloomed gently, a soft wave that stretched outward and settled again. You tapped it a second time, just to feel the weight of it.
And before you could think about it too long, you followed him.
There was a space for a note, something small you could leave behind. People used it for quick thoughts, one-sentence replies that layered over time, quiet annotations shared between strangers. Most people said something. A word. A question. Sometimes whole sentences if they were feeling brave.
But you didn’t write anything. Just… something.
note to @ user024025 • now — 🩶
Simple. Wordless. Nothing that could be misread. Nothing that could be traced.
You stared at it for a second longer than you should have, then locked your phone and set it face-down on the blanket next to you. The soft weight of it sat against your palm.
You turned onto your back and stared up at the ceiling. The quiet of your room pressed in around you.
You didn’t know what this was. You weren’t sure you wanted to. But still—you closed your eyes with a soft, aching pull in your chest and let yourself drift until the edges of it slipped away.
𐪞
If there was one thing that always brought Hyunjin back down to earth whenever his mind got the best of him, it was art.
Not in the lofty, vague way people often meant when they wrote about it in bios or pretended to feel in museums. He meant it literally. The drag of graphite across textured paper. The slight resistance of canvas under a brush. The weight of a pencil in his hand, familiar and grounding. The shift in the air when he locked into focus and the world got quiet. It was his reset button. Always had been.
In those moments, his thoughts didn’t vanish, but they softened. Became something he could sit with.
Tonight, he needed that quiet.
A half-finished still life sat before him, shadows and shapes slowly sharpening under the glow of his desk lamp. The warmth pooled across the page like a spotlight, soft and deliberate.
The dorm was calm, save for the low hum of a lofi playlist playing from Chan’s speaker. Some mix they’d agreed on ages ago. Chan sat across from him, hunched over his laptop like always, editing something with one earbud in and the other dangling by his shoulder. Comfortable silence.
Hyunjin had just showered. Damp hair clung to his forehead, shirt collar brushing against still-cooling skin. His knee bounced under the desk, restless and wired. He was trying to draw, really, but his mind refused to cooperate.
Exams loomed. Supplies were still unbought. Three still lifes were due before the week ended. And then there was poetry class. His pencil paused mid-stroke. He was genuinely considering skipping next time, just to avoid the fallout from earlier. From you.
God. You.
You hadn’t even done anything dramatic. You’d just talked to him. Looked at him with this kind of soft, steady ease like you weren’t afraid of what you’d find there. Like you saw something worth addressing.
And that alone had left his brain in the blender.
He slouched deeper into his chair with a quiet groan, hand scrubbing through his hair. “I need to get a grip,” he muttered to no one.
Chan glanced up but didn’t say anything. Just gave a barely-there nod like: same here, man. Then went back to editing.
Hyunjin leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. Tried to shake it off. It was stupid. He didn’t even know you. Not really.
You’d always been in the periphery. First in lit, then in poetry. He barely noticed you at first. But once he did, it was like your presence had carved out space in his brain without asking. The way you laughed with your friends. The way you only spoke when it mattered. The way you looked quieter when the sky was gray.
It made no sense. And yet, somehow, it made all the sense in the world.
That was just how his mind worked. Half artist, half hopeless romantic. He could fall in love with a passing glance, obsess over a fleeting moment, turn a single expression into a whole scene he couldn’t stop replaying. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that quiet, gnawing way where small things felt sharp.
He shook himself from the thought and returned to his sketchpad, shading aimlessly. Chan was still editing, head tilted in concentration. Their “working shift,” as they called it. Muted playlists, shared snacks, the comfortable rhythm of existing next to someone without needing to talk.
The quiet didn’t last.
His phone buzzed beside him, a soft chime that cut clean through. He blinked, set his pencil down, and reached for it, already feeling the shift in the air before he even looked.
Hotline: You have 1+ new followers, Someone echoed your post, @ user074320 left a note.
Something about it made his chest tighten. Too specific to be nothing, too random to mean something. Still, curiosity tugged at him. So, he tapped the alert.
The post loaded up. His own words, floating under that familiar color gradient. There, near the top of the thread, was the new note: a single gray heart.
No text. No flourish. Just a symbol, still and quiet and maybe even a little sad. His finger moved without much thought, tapping the note, which led him to the profile that had left it. That’s when he saw it.
The profile picture.
A cat. One he felt like he’d seen before. Familiar in the strangest way, but just out of reach.
The bio was short.
“brain and heart full” | she/her
Something about it felt… unfiltered. Not cryptic, not curated. Just quietly present.
He scrolled slowly, like touching anything too quickly might ruin the feeling. Posts littered the page, text entries and voice notes scattered like thoughts left behind. It wasn’t curated. It was lived-in. Like someone used the app the way it was meant to be used. Not to impress, but to exist.
His thumb paused over the most recent voice post. He pressed play without realizing. Silence first. Then a breath. A heater humming in the background.
Then—
"…Dostoevsky once said, ‘It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.”
Hyunjin’s heart stuttered. His eyes widened, breath stalling. The voice was low, thoughtful. A little amused.
“…Which is dramatic as hell for a guy who’s been dead since the 1800s, but like, he was definitely onto something.”
He jolted, sitting back like the words had physically knocked him. His hand scrambled to pause the post, thumb shaky on the screen.
“Holy shit—” he breathed, heartbeat lurching in his chest.
He practically launched backward from his desk, pencil clattering to the floor. His whole body buzzed, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. It wasn’t just hearing your voice, it was the way it filled the room. Close and clear, like you were standing right there beside him.
Chan looked up instantly, yanking out his earbud. “Yo? You good?”
Hyunjin didn’t answer. He was already pacing, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might ground him.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. I think I’m gonna pass out.”
Chan straightened, the humor draining from his face. “What? What’s wrong?”
Hyunjin spun toward him, wild-eyed, holding up his phone like it was a detonator. “It’s her. Chan, it’s her. She followed me. She echoed my post. She left the—” he shook the phone, as if words alone weren’t enough, “—the little gray heart thing.”
Chan blinked, trying to follow. “Who?”
“The girl. From my seminar. The one I told you about. The one I got paired with for the writing thing.”
Chan’s face stayed blank. “…Okay?”
“I don’t even know how to explain this,” Hyunjin groaned, pacing faster now. “I’ve been like… maybe-sort-of-definitely spiraling about her all semester and now, she’s read my posts. She followed me.”
The last part came out in full caps, despite the fact he meant to whisper it.
Chan just stared. “Wait, wait, wait. Let me see the profile.”
Hyunjin all but threw his phone across the room.
Chan caught it, his eyes darting over the screen. Two seconds in, his eyes widened. “Bro.”
“What?” Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“Isn’t that—” Chan pointed at the profile picture. “Isn’t that Soonie?”
Hyunjin stared, confused, his brain buffering.
And then—
“OH MY GOD.”
He snatched the phone back, squinting at the image. Soft orange and white fur. The smug little face. The faintest tilt of a cat’s head that screamed superiority.
It was Soonie. Minho’s cat.
Minho, who did not casually share cat photos with just anyone. Minho, who only sent Soonie pics to people he liked.
“She knows Minho?!” Hyunjin yelped, his voice pitching high in disbelief.
Chan looked like someone had just told him the world was a simulation. “No way. This is literally a crossover episode.”
Hyunjin dropped onto his bed like gravity had doubled. “I’m gonna cry.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not. I’m emotionally compromised.”
Chan snorted, grinning now. He leaned over to glance at the profile again. “Soooo? What’re you gonna do?”
Hyunjin stared at the ceiling like it held answers. “I have no idea. But whatever I was gonna do tonight… that’s canceled.”
He sat up suddenly. “Wait. What if she knows it’s me?”
“Why would she?” Chan asked, barely phased.
“I mean, not all of them were about her, but like, some of the stuff I said…” Hyunjin started flipping through his own profile, eyes wide with horror. “What if it was obvious?”
Chan raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s not like you wrote her name.”
Hyunjin groaned into his hands. “Okay, but I was so specific. Like weirdly specific.”
Chan snorted. “You mean poetic.”
“It wasn’t even that poetic.”
He shrugged. “It was a little poetic. It just wasn’t subtle.”
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle!” Hyunjin dragged his hands through his hair, still spiraling. “I didn’t think she’d ever see it.”
“But she did,” Chan reminded him, tapping the phone. “She followed you. Echoed your post. Saw it, and didn’t run for the hills.”
Hyunjin peeked at him through his fingers. “Do you think she liked it?”
Chan shrugged. “She didn’t block you. That’s something.”
Hyunjin dropped his hands into his lap, head falling back in defeat. “This is worse than freshman studio critiques.”
Chan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Okay, but hypothetically if she does know it’s you, is that bad?”
Hyunjin hesitated.
Then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe? Yes? What if she thinks I’m weird?”
“So? You are weird,” Chan deadpanned.
Hyunjin glared at him. “Thank you.”
“But like… endearing weird.”
Hyunjin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He sat up slowly, phone clenched in both hands like it might disappear. “I didn’t think she even noticed me. Like outside of class. I always thought she just—” He paused, his throat tightening unexpectedly. “I don’t know. I thought I was background noise.”
Chan watched him for a second, then asked, more gently this time, “How long have you been into her?”
Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped. “Since the start of the semester. She sits a few rows ahead of me in lit. Always looks like she’s about to say something but never does. I don’t know, she just—”
His voice trailed off as he glanced over. “Are you even listening?”
Chan hummed, pretending to jot notes. “Keep going. These are solid lyrics. You’ll thank me when you’re famous.”
“Shut up.”
But Hyunjin’s mouth twitched, the smallest smile breaking through the panic.
He was too busy staring at the screen again. Your profile open, your posts still lingering. The little bio, the voice note that he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, like his brain was trying to burn it into memory before it could disappear.
“And if she knows Minho…” He flung the phone onto his bed like it had personally offended him.
Chan didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, no chance. Have you seen that guy’s side profile—”
“Don’t say that,” Hyunjin groaned, dragging a pillow to his chest like he could physically shield himself from reality. “What if she read everything?”
“She one hundred percent did.”
Hyunjin buried his face in the pillow. “She knows I sketch people in class. She knows about my ex.”
Chan nodded solemnly. “You’re emotionally naked. Congrats.”
Hyunjin flopped onto his back, letting out a strangled sound. “I can never show my face in class again.”
“You have to show your face.”
“I physically can’t.”
“You’re literally writing a poem about her.”
“DON’T remind me.”
Chan lost it at that, laughing so hard he had to pull his hoodie over his face to muffle it.
Hyunjin just groaned louder, sinking deeper into the pillow, fully committed to his spiral. The room settled again. The kind of quiet that hangs when something real is about to surface.
“…Do you think she’d like me?” The words came out small, barely above a whisper, like Hyunjin wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Chan slowly lowered his hoodie, the grin softening. “Why wouldn’t she? You’re a good guy.”
Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced slow circles along the seam of the pillow, thinking, picking at the edge like it could offer a distraction.
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. What if it’s not enough?” His voice was steady, but there was a rawness tucked just beneath it. “What if I’m just this… collection of almosts?”
Chan tilted his head, his gaze steady but soft. “She sat with you. Talked with you. Shared something. Gave you her name. She even followed you.”
Each thing landed quietly, but with weight.
“She didn’t have to do any of that,” Chan added. “But she did. That’s something.”
Hyunjin looked at the screen again. That little gray heart sat there, faint and quiet, like a secret only he knew how to read.
Something cracked open in Hyunjin’s chest.
He exhaled, long and heavy, like he didn’t know how else to carry the feeling. “…What am I supposed to do with that?”
Chan stretched, grabbing the hoodie from his chair and tossing it to him. “You sit with it. You don’t freak out. And maybe…” He smiled a little. “Maybe you think about what you’d say if you weren’t trying to hide.”
Hyunjin caught the hoodie, turning it over in his hands like it could offer an answer. His eyes flicked back to your profile one last time, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t press anything else. Not yet.
But his mind was already rewriting what he might say.
𐪞
“I’m just saying, there’s definitely a hot guy behind that profile,” Chaeryeong insisted, grabbing a small basket as you both stepped into Lunevelle.
The plaza hummed with that easy, midweek kind of life. Lazy string lights swaying above patio chairs, low music drifting from a nearby café, the scent of roasted peanuts and expensive cologne tangled in the air. You tugged your sleeves over your hands, letting Chaeryeong lead the way as you filled her in on the Hotline situation.
Inside, Lunevelle gleamed in that curated, chaotic way: rows of glosses like tiny potions, shelves lined with serums stacked like artifacts, soft bursts of laughter as people swatched eyeshadows and debated undertones. It felt like stepping into another universe. One where real problems didn’t exist. Just hydrating primers and glitter.
“Someone who posts like that?” Chaeryeong said, slipping past a wall of toners with scary precision. "Definitely at least a 7.5. Minimum."
You raised an eyebrow, flipping a hand cream tester between your fingers. “You’re just inventing stats now.”
“Not at all,” she replied, scanning cleansers like she was decoding a map. “Guys who can write? Rare. Like, golden retriever who files taxes rare.”
You trailed after her, amused, as she turned a corner. Everything sparkled here. The floor, the lipstick rows, the mirror-lined shelves whispering buy it, you’ll be a better person. You picked up a random lip balm just to feel less like a bystander.
Chaeryeong stopped in front of a display of perfumes, eyes lighting up. “Wait. You need a signature scent.”
You blinked. "Do I?"
“Yes.” She spritzed a card and handed it to you like she was passing judgment. “You’re entering your mysterious era. Hotline boy requires olfactory intrigue.”
You took a cautious sniff and immediately recoiled. “Chae. This smells like expensive heartbreak.”
“Exactly,” she said, completely unfazed. “Emotional damage, but make it luxury.”
You choked on a laugh and reached for the rollerball version of your usual scent, dropping it into her basket.
Chaeryeong looped her arm through yours, steering you toward makeup like a woman on a mission. “Okay, but be serious. He followed you back. That’s basically a soft launch. You have to get married now.”
“That is not how any of this works,” you said, half-laughing.
She ignored you, already swatching lipsticks across the back of her hand with the intensity of a pro. “What’s his vibe? If you had to guess.”
You thought about it. “Quiet. Smart. Probably has good hands.”
Chaeryeong froze, halfway through swatching. “Pause. What do hands have to do with this?”
You shrugged. “Writers. Artists. Same difference. Nice hands.”
She blinked at you. Then burst into laughter so loud a worker down the aisle glanced over. “You are so gone,” she wheezed.
“I’m not,” you muttered, cheeks warming.
“Denial,” she said, adding a sheer gloss to the basket. “First stage of love.”
Then she found a heart-shaped blush compact and gasped like she’d discovered treasure. “Tell me this isn’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen,” she said, cradling it like a newborn.
You peered at it. “It’s you. In makeup form. Small, dramatic, overpriced.”
She gasped dramatically, clutching it to her chest. “How dare you. I’m at least reasonably priced.”
Your laughter spilled over both of you as you wandered toward the mini skincare section. She picked up a travel-sized moisturizer and squinted at the label.
“Ten dollars?” she hissed. “It’s the size of a single Tic Tac.”
“Capitalism thrives on our despair,” you said dryly, tossing a mini sunscreen into the basket. “If I’m going broke, I’m dragging you with me.”
She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
At some point, Chaeryeong slowed in front of a mirror, pretending to adjust her hair with exaggerated focus. You caught the flicker in her eyes. Strategic.
She wasn’t admiring her reflection. She was scanning.
You followed her gaze, subtle as you could. Near the cologne section, a guy was testing out a line of scents. Tall. Sharp jawline. Long black coat that moved when he did. A baseball cap pushed back over dark hair, revealing enough to catch your attention but not enough to give much away.
Chaeryeong elbowed you so hard you nearly knocked over a display of mini mascara wands.
“Target acquired,” she whispered, dead serious.
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to wingwoman you or…?”
She waved you off, eyes still fixed on him through the mirror. “Please. I just want to observe from a safe, non-humiliating distance.”
“Oh, good,” you deadpanned. “Stalking. The foundation of every stable relationship.”
“Exactly,” she said, beaming. “Academia could never teach me this level of social maneuvering.”
You shook your head, smiling as you guided her away before she developed a backstory and assigned him a name. She kept sneaking glances over her shoulder like she was tracking a rare bird, nearly tripping over a stray basket left on the ground.
At checkout, she dumped both your hauls onto the counter like she was unloading a smuggled artifact. Travel-sized everything. A rollerball perfume. A suspiciously expensive blush you definitely didn’t need but had somehow ended up holding like it had chosen you.
“New plan,” she declared, nudging your arm as the cashier began scanning items. “Post-haul ramen. I’m starving.”
You blinked. “We were in here for thirty minutes.”
“And yet,” she said, solemn, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “My body cries out for noodles.”
You stifled a laugh. “Fine. But you’re buying my drink.”
“Done.” She handed the cashier her card with flair, like it was her credit card and her resignation letter. “Just don’t tell Changbin. He still thinks I’m saving money.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. Somehow, the stress of the week felt lighter, tucked between perfume samples and the promise of warm food.
Outside, the night had cooled.
The sky was clear now, the rain from earlier leaving the pavement damp and gleaming under the soft light of the plaza. Your bags swung gently at your sides as you stepped into the evening air, your breath misting slightly in the cold.
You weren’t even five steps out before someone collided into your shoulder.
Three figures.
You staggered slightly, blinking against the sudden blur, only to hear a gasp so dramatic it could’ve ended an episode.
"Changbin!" Chaeryeong cried, clutching her shopping bag to her chest. “We literally manifested you.”
Changbin looked vaguely alarmed. “That sounds… dangerous,” he said, laughing as he shifted back a step, giving you both room.
Chan was just behind him, hoodie zipped halfway, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’d been waiting to be amused. He gave a polite nod, eyes flicking to your bags.
Hyunjin lingered a few paces back. Shoulders slightly hunched. Hood up. His posture was looser than usual, but his hands were fidgeting with the sleeve of his coat, tugging at a thread that probably didn’t exist.
He looked like someone deciding between walking home or vanishing into the sidewalk now that you’d seen him.
You offered the group a sheepish smile. “Sorry for the collision.”
“All good,” Chan said easily, giving you a grin that felt familiar in the way coffee shops and study playlists were. He nodded toward the haul in your hands. “Retail therapy?”
“At its most expensive,” you joked.
“I regret nothing,” Chaeryeong added, shifting her shopping bags like she was carrying treasure.
Then her eyes lit up. “Wait, this actually works out. We were literally about to hunt for food.”
At the word, Changbin’s head snapped up like someone had summoned him by name. “Food?” he repeated, already halfway invested.
“Ramen,” Chaeryeong said with a nod, like she was offering a sacred truth. “Few shops down. Cozy, life-changing, slightly overpriced. Want in?”
You caught it in the corner of your eye. Hyunjin, still quiet, still standing just outside the circle. His fingers shifted on the strap of his bag, but his gaze flicked up at the mention of ramen. Not quite a smile. Just a flicker.
“I’m in,” Changbin said, already turning in the direction of the restaurant like a man with purpose.
Chan looked between you and the rest, hands still tucked into his hoodie pockets. “You guys mind if we crash?”
You shrugged, already smiling. “The more the merrier.”
“Perfect,” Chaeryeong said before anyone could second-guess it. She looped her arm through yours with flair. “Let’s go.”
So you did.
Just like that, you were all walking down the plaza together, a slightly chaotic little group drifting past late-night shops and glowing storefronts.
The ramen place sat tucked at the far end, half-hidden behind hanging lanterns and a dark wood façade. It looked like it belonged somewhere much fancier than a college plaza. The kind of place that felt secret once you stepped inside.
The door swung open with a soft chime.
Inside, the world shifted.
Warm air hit your face, thick with the scent of slow-cooked broth and toasted sesame oil. Golden light hung low from paper lamps, painting the wooden walls in a honeyed glow. Most of the noise stayed outside. This space held only hushed voices, the gentle clink of bowls, and the soft shuffle of slippers against floorboards.
Some tables sat open near the front, but the real charm was deeper inside. Alcoves tucked behind narrow dividers, each with a sunken table and thick floor cushions. It looked more like a dream than a college late-night dinner.
The hostess greeted you all with a soft smile, hands folded politely. After a few beats of mild chaos—mostly Chaeryeong trying to convince her that “five can totally squeeze into one booth, I swear”—you were led toward the back, past hanging noren curtains and a gently humming heater.
The floor dipped slightly into the recessed area, and the heat beneath your socks was immediate.
“Take off your shoes,” Chaeryeong whispered like it was a secret, already kicking hers off and sliding in with practiced ease.
You followed, stepping carefully over the threshold and tucking your shoes neatly to the side, the warmth of the floor making you relax without thinking.
The seating settled naturally, like a puzzle clicking into place: you in the middle, with Chaeryeong on your left and Chan on your right. Across from you, Changbin spooled out into his seat like a cat, already messing with the paper napkin holder. And Hyunjin slipped in beside him, careful not to jostle the table.
Somehow, it didn’t feel crowded. It felt intimate. The divider muted the rest of the restaurant, turning your corner into a private bubble of clinking spoons and soft lighting. The lamp above your table glowed amber, casting halos across every sleeve and half-shadowed smile.
As soon as you were seated, the chaos started again.
Changbin dove in immediately. “Okay, so explain to me how you almost broke Lunevelle, Chae.”
She exhaled dramatically, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater like it was part of the story. “I almost tripped because I was distracted by love.”
“Love?” Changbin raised a brow, clearly entertained. “What, did a highlighter call your name?”
Chaeryeong swatted his arm. “No, idiot. A guy. And how do you even know what a highlighter is?”
“YAH, I’m not illiterate—”
You snorted into your sleeve, the edges of your menu curling slightly in your hands. Their voices were overlapping now, sparring with ease and rhythm like they’d been doing this forever.
“You should’ve seen him,” Chaeryeong went on, eyes wide. “Tall. Black coat. Hair that looked illegal.”
Changbin gagged. “Illegal hair. Fantastic. I’ll alert the authorities.”
Chan chuckled low beside you, and you turned toward the sound, half-curious. He looked relaxed, arm resting on the low table, eyes squinting a little with the smile.
"Is he like this around you too?" you asked, tilting your head toward Changbin.
“Unfortunately.” Chan leaned into his palm, still grinning. “We’ve known each other too long. I can’t take him anywhere.”
You laughed under your breath, your thumb tracing the edge of your menu. “Figured. You two in the same major or something?”
Chan shook his head. “Nah. Different departments. Just found each other early. Stuck, I guess.”
There was something easy about the way he said it. Like it didn’t need to be deeper than that. And you liked that. The idea that some people just stayed because they wanted to, not because they had to.
“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your major?”
“English,” you said, fiddling with the corner of your napkin. “Technically literature, but same deal.”
“Ahh.” He nodded like something had clicked. “Explains the bookstore energy.”
You blinked. "The what?"
He gave a half-laugh, more like a confession.
“Bookstore energy. You know, like you’re always about to recommend a novel that’ll emotionally destroy me, but in a character-building kind of way.”
You stared at him, then cracked up, half-embarrassed. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a red flag.”
“Both,” he said easily, his grin widening. “But I mean it in a good way.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, another voice chimed in. Quieter, a little hesitant.
"What kind of stuff do you read?" Hyunjin asked.
Your eyes flicked up, surprised to find him watching you.
His fingers played absently with the hem of his sleeve under the table, and his voice, though soft, carried easily in the cozy space.
You tilted your head slightly. “A little of everything. Lately… mostly poetry, I guess.”
Hyunjin nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised. Like he’d already guessed that. Like maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it out loud.
You tried not to think about how still he looked when he was listening. Or how the space between you across the table suddenly felt more noticeable than it had five minutes ago.
“And you?” you asked gently, because it felt right to return the question.
He shrugged, gaze dropping to the table. “Sketchbooks. Notebooks. Whatever fits.”
His voice was light, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Like he was trying not to sound like he cared too much about the answer.
You smiled, soft. "That's fair."
The conversation could’ve ended there. Should’ve, probably. But somehow, it didn’t.
Chan leaned in a little, his shoulder brushing yours. “You guys have the same poetry seminar, right?”
You blinked. "Yeah. How’d you—"
"Hyunjin mentioned it." Chan smiled innocently.
Your stomach dipped, just slightly. The kind of shift you feel before anything’s actually said. You glanced at Hyunjin. He didn’t look up. Just traced the edge of his chopsticks along the table, like they might draw a line he could disappear behind.
Beside you, Chaeryeong popped back into the conversation like she hadn’t just been arguing about the superior gyoza dipping sauce. “Speaking of tragic poetry—do you think Mystery Coat Guy is thinking about me right now?”
Changbin didn’t miss a beat. “He’s probably filing a restraining order.”
“You’re evil,” she said, launching a paper napkin at him with perfect aim.
You ducked your head, laughing softly into your hands as their voices tangled together again, warm and too familiar to fully tune out. Somewhere in the middle of all that, you risked another glance across the table.
Hyunjin wasn’t looking at you. But his hands stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder what that meant.
In the background, Chaeryeong had declared war over appetizers.
“I swear on my mother, Bin, we are not ordering plain edamame again—”
“It’s healthy!”
“It’s depressing!”
Chan raised a hand like a weary coach breaking up a team fight. “Split the order. Half gyoza, half… whatever Changbin’s weird health phase is.”
“I accept these terms,” Chaeryeong said, nodding solemnly like she was signing a treaty.
The waitress returned mid-laugh, clearly amused by the chaos, dropping off thick menus and a wooden clipboard for drinks. Changbin snatched the list with the determination of a man making history.
“Okay, team,” he announced, tapping it against the table. “We have a decision to make. Shots?”
You nearly choked. “Changbin. We haven’t even ordered food yet.”
“Exactly.” He looked dead serious. “Empty stomach. Maximum efficiency.”
“You’re going to pass out before the noodles even show up,” Chaeryeong muttered, raising an eyebrow.
Chan shrugged. “One round won’t kill us.”
You and Chaeryeong exchanged a glance. The kind that spoke in full sentences.
She sighed like she was giving in to fate. “Fine. One round. But we’re ordering actual food first before Changbin’s spirit leaves his body.”
Menus were passed. Orders were shouted over each other. Someone demanded extra broth; someone else lobbied for dessert mid-meal. The entire table fell into a kind of organized chaos that only made sense among people who felt safe with each other.
The heater against the wall filled the alcove with slow, gentle warmth. One by one, people started shedding layers. Chan shrugging out of his thick jacket, Changbin tossing his hoodie beside him, Chaeryeong stretching out her legs with a dramatic sigh as she slid off her fuzzy cardigan.
You pushed your sleeves up, tucking your legs beneath you, comfortably folded into the glow. The playlist hummed softly through overhead speakers. A slow roll of Japanese city pop, syrupy basslines and dreamy vocals giving everything that floaty, out-of-time feeling.
When the drinks arrived, a neat row of shot glasses and a bottle of soju that looked far too unassuming for what it was about to unleash, Changbin clapped once, loud enough to startle a nearby table.
“Alright! Round one, let’s go!” he declared, already pouring like an enthusiastic bartender with zero training.
“Wait—” Chan reached for his glass. “Drumroll. It’s law.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Drumroll!”
Chaeryeong immediately started smacking the table like she was in a percussion ensemble. You joined in, then Chan, the rhythm gaining speed until even Hyunjin caved and tapped a lazy beat with his knuckles, a half-hidden smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
Changbin raised his shot glass like he was about to deliver a campaign speech. “To retail therapy, ramen survival, and future mistakes we can blame on peer pressure!”
“Cheers!” everyone chorused, the clink of glass sharp and bright before the burn hit your throat.
It was smooth. Sweet at first, then sharp as it settled. You winced just slightly, and when your eyes flicked up, you caught Hyunjin watching you, the corner of his mouth quirking into something crooked and unreadable.
Food arrived in waves. Bowls of steaming ramen, plates of crispy karaage, glistening gyoza, and enough side dishes to make the table creak. Everyone leaned in, elbows bumping, sleeves rolled, stealing bites and swapping side-eyes when someone went in for seconds.
Somewhere between noodle slurps and laughter, Changbin struck with zero warning.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning in like this was about to be classified information. “I’ve got tea.”
Everyone immediately went silent, heads snapping toward him. Even Chaeryeong lowered her chopsticks. “What level of tea?” she asked suspiciously.
Changbin looked around theatrically, despite no one in the restaurant paying them any attention. Then, in a voice so serious it could’ve passed for academic, he said, “You guys know Wooyoung, right? Works the front desk at the campus gym?”
Chaeryeong sat up straighter. “The Wooyoung? Trainer, flirts with everyone, weirdly good at dance?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Okay?” you said slowly. “What about him?”
Changbin exhaled, like this physically pained him to hold in. “Apparently, he got caught hooking up with one of the student coordinators. During a wellness event.”"
You choked on your water. “During?! Like, mid-yoga?!”
“Not in the class,” Changbin clarified, “but like, ten minutes before his scheduled shift. In the storage room.”
“No,” Chaeryeong whispered, scandalized. “The one with the mats?!”
“The very one,” Changbin said, solemn as ever.
Chan let out a sharp laugh. “Man really said mind, body, and soul.”
“And the worst part,” Changbin continued, lowering his voice even more, “is the student coordinator was already dating someone. Long-term. Like three-year relationship. Everyone thought they were going to graduate and move in together.”
“Nooooo,” Chaeryeong moaned, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was,” Changbin said, looking deeply pleased with himself.
“Who told you this?” you asked, stunned.
“I have sources,” he replied cryptically, sipping his water like it was wine.
“You’re the worst,” Chaeryeong said, practically vibrating. “But also, give me names.”
“I value my life too much.”
“Coward.”
Laughter crackled around the table again, louder this time, more unhinged. The kind that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest feel warmer than the soju ever could.
As the buzz settled back into the glow, the playlist shifted. Something breezy and sparkling, the kind of upbeat tempo that made your feet itch to move. You barely had time to register it before Chaeryeong turned to you with a gleam in her eye.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing your wrist. “Dance break.”
“Wait—what—no, no—”
But she was already pulling you from the booth, into the small open space near the front of the restaurant where a few other diners were casually swaying in their seats. The lights blurred slightly from the alcohol and warmth, and the air pulsed with synths and sugar-sweet vocals.
Chaeryeong twirled you clumsily, both of you laughing like kids at a sleepover. You stumbled over your own feet, tipsy and too full, dizzy from the sudden movement and everything that had led up to this moment.
From the table, Changbin whooped like a proud father filming his child’s recital. Chan banged his hand on the table like he was front row at a concert.
And Hyunjin—
He wasn’t laughing, but he was watching. Smiling, yes, but not like he was entertained. Like he was remembering. His chin rested in his hand, hair falling slightly into his eyes, and for a long, steady beat, his gaze never left you.
You felt your pulse stutter. You almost missed a step.
When the song faded and you and Chaeryeong stumbled back, breathless and flushed, Changbin immediately shoved his phone in your face. “Behold: cinema,” he said, showing you the wobbly video. “You’re welcome.”
You lunged for the phone. “Delete it right now or I will throw it into the broth.”
“Justice for the arts!” he cried, holding it out of reach.
“You’re both insane,” Chan said, but he was laughing too, his face crinkled with warmth.
More shots were poured. More toasts shouted—to surviving exams, to not texting your ex, to chaotic retail purchases that may or may not fix your life.
It was one of those rare, glowing nights. The kind that doesn’t become a memory so much as a feeling. Soft around the edges. Warm at the center. A small collection of golden hours folded into the corners of your chest.
As the night wound down, shoes were pulled back on with lazy groans and wobbly balance, receipts were stuffed into pockets, and the group spilled out of the restaurant in a loose, slightly tipsy drift.
The air outside was sharp with the bite of early nightfall. It kissed your cheeks, slipping into the spaces left behind by the restaurant’s warmth, making you pull your sleeves down again without thinking.
Chaeryeong and Changbin immediately launched into a half-serious argument about the nearest convenience store.
“I know it’s down this way,” she insisted, already marching in the wrong direction.
“I have the map app open right now,” Changbin groaned. “Trust the system!”
“You are the system, and I don’t trust you,” she replied without missing a beat.
They veered off down the sidewalk, still bickering. Chan lingered behind with you, hands in his pockets, exhaling slowly like he wasn’t ready to break the night apart just yet.
He leaned a little closer, not enough to invade your space, just enough to make it easier to hear his voice. “Hey,” he said, casual. “Let me get your number? Just in case. Group stuff. Or whatever else.”
You smiled, a little flushed from the drinks, a little warm from the moment, and handed him your phone. He typed his number in, then added a little star emoji next to his name, holding it up like it was official documentation. “There,” he said. “Now I sparkle.”
As you slid your phone back into your pocket, something caught your eye. A flicker of movement just past the soft glow of the restaurant window. Hyunjin.
He stood a few feet away, just near a small flower stand tucked between the ramen shop and a dimly lit store. The bouquets were cheap, wrapped in plastic, cellophane crinkling in the breeze, but his hand hovered over them gently. Fingertips brushing along the edge of a petal like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
He looked distant, untethered. Like someone replaying the night in his head before it had even ended.
You hesitated. Then, before you could second-guess it, you walked toward him. “Hey,” you said softly.
He turned, eyes widening slightly, like you’d pulled him back from somewhere else entirely. His hair shifted in the breeze, falling into his eyes before he pushed it away with a lazy flick.
You held up your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. “Mind if I get your number too?”
For a second, he just stared at you. And then he smiled. Not the polite one. Not the cautious, halfway-there version he gave most people. This one was quiet, almost shy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
You passed him your phone, and he typed in his number slowly, like he wanted to get it right. His hands were graceful, slightly cold when they brushed yours as he handed it back. You glanced down. A little black heart sat next to his name.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Chan watching, a barely-there smirk tugging at his mouth, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Couldn’t.
Hyunjin tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket, half-looking at you, half-looking away. “See you in class?”
“Yeah,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “See you.”
And for the first time that night, maybe for the first time since you met, he looked at you like he wanted to. Not like he was trying to figure you out, or keep a distance.
But like the space between you didn’t feel so uncertain anymore.
The others were starting to regroup down the street, Chaeryeong shouting something about chocolate milk while Changbin protested dramatically in the background.
You turned to go, but paused—glancing back over your shoulder. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. But he was still watching.
You jogged back toward the group, where Chaeryeong immediately looped an arm around your shoulders like you hadn’t just had a moment that rearranged the molecules in your lungs.
“Let’s go get milk,” she mumbled, sleepy and satisfied. “And water. Lots of water. I feel like a raisin.”
You laughed, letting her lean into you. But the laughter didn’t erase it. That hum in your chest, that electric thread stretched taut in the space behind you.
Still tugging.
Waiting.
As you walked farther down the street, the sounds of your friends blending into background noise, you heard quiet footsteps behind you. Chan and Hyunjin had fallen into step together.
Chan bumped his shoulder gently into Hyunjin’s, voice low but amused. “You gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”
Hyunjin gave him a small, lopsided smile. “I’m not pretending anything.”
Chan nodded like he already knew. Then, softer, almost teasing. “She’s got bookstore energy, huh?”
Hyunjin looked ahead, expression unreadable, but the smile stayed.
“Yeah.”

゜・.・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?
part two • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works
🏷️ @kkatsvy ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )
#𝐦𝐨𝐧-𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞#hwang hyunjin#hyunjin#hyunjin x reader#hyunjin x you#fanfic#hyunjin fanfic#hyunjin imagines#stray kids#stray kids x reader#skz#skz x reader#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fluff#stray kids imagines#skz fanfic#stray kids scenarios#x reader#fanfic series#fem reader#kpop fanfic
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Chapter 82 of you can really tell the writer got a new art program this week and went apeshit with it instead of doing anything productive: the Mystery Shack is in terrible peril from the government and only one thing can save them:
Teaching Bill Cipher how to flirt with humans!!
####
The Stans explained the plan to Dipper and Mabel as briefly as possible—that Bill had to save them all by flirting with the head fed—and that was about as far as they got before Mabel started squealing. They wished her good luck with Bill, wished him good luck with Mabel, and beat a hasty retreat, with Dipper tagging along after Ford on the pretense of helping figure out how to get the flash drive out of Gompers.
"This is perfect!" Mabel slammed the door closed—and Bill had the sneaking suspicion she'd trapped him on purpose—then grabbed both his hands to drag him further into the room. "I can see it now! He'll fall in love with you, and then he'll realize that living in a small logging town is so much more emotionally fulfilling than his high-pressure fast-paced big city government job, and he'll see what a special, magical place Gravity Falls is and he won't wanna do anything that could change it, and Washington will call him like, 'Your report is late! Have you forgotten your mission?' And he'll go 'I have a new mission now: my WIFE!' And—"
"Hold on!" Bill pulled his hands back. "I think you skipped the part where you married me off to a government agent."
"No I didn't! Because he says that and everyone gasps and then he gets down on his knee in front of you and pulls out a ring and—"
"In your dreams, star girl." He dropped onto Mabel's bed and crossed his legs. "Think a little less cheesy Christmas romcom, and more noir spy movie with a double-crossing femme fatale."
Mabel measured that up against her limited spy movie knowledge, and asked dubiously, "You're gonna drop him in a tank of sharks?"
"Hey, if you have one...!" Bill laughed. "But, no. The plan is just for me to keep him distracted long enough for the nerd squad to get the flash drive, wipe any sensitive data, and leave it somewhere that'll make the agents think the goat dumped it naturally."
Mabel considered that. She inhaled deeply. "Okay," she said. "But. What if it's one of those movies where the evil girl spy has a change of heart because of the good guy's charm and you do fall in love."
"Do you remember who we're talking about?" Bill asked. "Fine! If we fall in love, you can be the ring bearer, best maid, and officiant—but don't start stapling together a white dress just yet."
Mabel completely skipped past his main point. She whispered, "You'd let me make your wedding dress?"
"I'd turn down every fashion designer in Milan, Paris, New York, and London combined."
Her eyes widened. "I've gotta start drawing wedding dresses." She rummaged around the floor for an unused piece of paper and the nearest crayon and/or marker box.
"Draw me as a triangle," Bill said automatically. "So there, you're caught up on the plan!" He slowly slid off Mabel's bed toward the door. "So if you'd let me out so I can prepare..."
"Ohh no. Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford brought you to me to learn how to flirt, and I'm going to teach you how to flirt."
He groaned, but plopped back down on Mabel's bed. "I don't need to be taught how to flirt! I'm a pro! While your universe was still gearing up for a Big Bang, I was fending off marriage proposals from lovelorn generation ships and sentient oceans."
"You're not seducing ships and oceans." Mabel had already flopped onto the floor and drawn a triangle with an eye, and was trying to figure out how to put a dress on it. "You're seducing a man."
"Which is even easier! You people barely last a century, you're desperate! Humans fling themselves at me left and right!"
"Then you'll have no trouble passing my love quiz."
Bill automatically frowned. There was a part of him that still tensed up at the word "quiz" even if he did know more about romance than the entire human race combined. "What, like the one you put the guys through on your dating show?"
"Yes, but with all new questions! So you can't just copy all of Soos's answers to get a perfect score!"
"Psh! Like I need to copy anyone's answers," said Bill, who had never taken a quiz in his life without copying someone else's answers and had been planning to do just that. "All right, hit me."
"Question one! Uh..." She tapped a crayon to her chin as she thought. "What's the best gift to give on a first date? Jewelry, chocolate, a wedding ring, or flowers?"
"Ooh, we're starting with bribery, huh?" When in doubt, the right answer was usually C; but "jewelry" and "wedding ring" seemed kinda redundant. Well—cheating had never failed him before, why stop now? "None of the above! I've got a better answer than all of them!"
Mabel lowered her crayon to give him a skeptical look. "Oh yeah? What?"
"Sneak into their dreams the night before, find out their heart's desire, and surprise 'em with that," Bill said. "That's not even a romantic move. It'll let you win over a human in any context! Birthday parties, baby showers, job interviews, criminal trials, hostage negotiations..."
"What if you don't know their heart's desire?"
"Then you're not me."
She set down her crayon, laced her hands under her chin, and said, "Okay, then. If you were trying to win me over, what's my dream birthday gift?"
"Replacing your bedroom with a bouncy castle with inflatable furniture."
"Ha! No it's n..." She trailed off. "Wait. Ohmigosh."
"Told ya."
"I've been dreaming too small," Mabel whispered. She shoved aside her first drawing and started drawing her fantasy bedroom.
Bill picked up one of Mabel's dolls—a floppy tiger—and started talking to it like he was lecturing it. Forget this whole "taking a quiz" thing; he was much more comfortable in the roll of the teacher than the student. "And if it's a blind date and I can't stalk 'em beforehand, nobody's ever disappointed by a solid gold brick," he told the doll. "It's both practical and pretty, and it appeals to humans' natural greed without making them feel sleazy about accepting a wad of hundreds from their date."
"What's Agent Powers's heart's desire?"
Heck. He didn't actually know. He'd ducked in on the guy's life a handful of times, but he'd never needed to pay that close attention to him. What did boring people like? "A really nice leather wallet," Bill said.
"Okay, you're off to a strong start," Mabel said. "Question two: what's the ideal location for a first date?"
"What are my options?"
"Fooey to the options! I wanna hear your thoughts."
"Then that's easy: anywhere they can't escape from until they love you," Bill said. "Even better if you can serenade 'em."
Mabel nodded in approval. "Perfect answer, full points! Every Inkwell princess movie and vampire novel on the market agrees! Question three: best first date outfit?"
"Sexy."
"Okay—yeah," Mabel said, "But specifically, what does that look like?"
"Tallest hat you can find," Bill said.
Mabel waited. Bill didn't say anything else. Mabel said, "What about the rest of the outfit?"
"Bow tie. Outfit complete."
"That's just what you wear."
"And it's always sexy!" Bill insisted.
"Maybe in Flatworld, but this is earth! If you go out dressed in nothing but a hat and a bow tie, you'll be having your date in the back of a police car!"
"Fine," Bill huffed. "Fifty pairs of gloves—and the more of them you have hands to fill, the better! A dress made out of blank checks! Two snakes! A fur coat made out of live kittens!" Bill shook the stuffed doll emphatically with each point. "Good enough?!"
Mabel squinted thoughtfully at him. "The kitten coat has potential."
"Damn me with faint praise, why don't you."
"What about more traditional romantic outfits? Like... a red velvet suit with a leopard print shirt? Or short shorts that say 'too hot' on the butt?" Mabel asked. "Or a t-shirt with your date's face on it in a heart! That shows your date 'I'm here to focus on you!'"
"What if my date's face is ugly, did you think about that?" Bill asked, mainly to cover up the fact that he was chagrined he hadn't thought of the velvet suit himself. "Forget about fashion. Next question!"
"Okay, how would you prepare yourself for the perfect date? Aside from finding a tall hat and stalking your date's dreams."
"Hygiene's the most important thing," Bill said. "Humans are very attuned to pheromones. It's one of your base instincts."
A look of relief cross Mabel's face. "Yes! Good start. So we're talking a shower, or...?"
"Oh yeah, if you're going on a date in this country, you've gotta scrub that skin raw. There is no smell Americans hate more than the natural smell of other human beings."
Mabel nodded enthusiastically. "Right!"
"And once you've gotten rid of your real scent you've got to make sure you smell appealing. And that means making sure you smell the most! Cover up any competing suitors' scents with your own!"
Mabel made an uncertain hum. "Okaaay, sooo... what would you call an appropriate fragrance for a first date?"
He wasn't sure he liked the sound of the hum. "First date? You've got to make a strong impression, and set the mood for romance," he told the doll, so he didn't have to watch Mabel pass judgment. "So, I'm thinking... decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris."
Mabel was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Bill glanced at her. She immediately pulled her sweater up to hide her mouth. Voice strained with suppressed laughter, she said, "You don't think, maybe... floral scents...?"
Who did she think she was laughing at! He directed his attention back to Mabel's doll. The tiger didn't judge him. The tiger thought all his ideas were brilliant. "Is this guy looking for a garden or a girlfriend? I know ninety percent of the soaps and shampoos on the market are designed to make you smell like a fruit salad on the beach, but you humans don't know the first thing about what activates your own monkey-brained reproductive urges! Trust me: decaying salmon, deer pee, and ambergris! They reek of raw sex appeal!"
"What's ambergris?"
"It's a staple fragrance in the perfume industry! Some of the most popular scents in Hollywood have ambergris base notes!"
"Okay," Mabel said, "but what is it?"
"Okay so," Bill said, "when a sperm whale gets so constipated it kills 'em, the rest of its body rots off while the turd floats to the surface, and after it's bobbed around baking in the sun for a few decades—"
Mabel lay a hand on Bill's knee and gently said, "No."
"Hey, I'm not the one who invented ambergris, that's your species's idea!"
"Bill, I'm sorry. But you've got the best and worst romance ideas with no in between, and you don't know the difference," Mabel said. "But I promise you're in good hands! I'm the best matchmaker in Gravity Falls! I helped hook up Soos and Melody, Robbie and Tambry, Waddles and Gompers, the Hand Witch and that hunky hiker guy..."
He threw Mabel's doll down on the bed, slumped back against the wall, crossed his arms, and sulked. Then he muttered, "But I've got the best ideas?"
"Oh yeah. You're like an untrained romance prodigy! You just need a liiittle help filtering out the diamonds from the coal."
He grunted. Then he grudgingly admitted, "Getting Waddles and Gompers together is pretty impressive. They have complete opposite political opinions."
"See? I'll have you date ready in no time!"
Bill heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But I'd better at least get a killer makeover out of this."
"Definitely! I'm getting an expert on the case!" She pulled out her phone to send a text. Plus, whatever you're wearing tomorrow? I'm bedazzling the crap out of it."
"Good!"
"But first," Mabel said, "Let's talk about your technique."
####
"Lesson one of Mabel's Guide to Flirting With Humans: pick-up lines! First impressions are super important!"
"Pick-up lines are easy," Bill said. "I know a million of them!"
"That's great! Then this should be easy." Mabel pointed at the picture of Creggy G in the middle of her Sev'ral Timez poster, whom she'd designated as their attractive human for Bill's flirting practice. "Try one out."
Bill sized up Creggy calculatingly, and said, "You know, your eyeballs are so beautiful."
"Yes!" Mabel cheered. "It's romantic! I love it!"
"—and they'd look even better in my mouth."
Mabel stared at Bill.
"What?" Bill asked. "Too forward? Should I save that for the second date?"
The flirting lesson quickly switched track from teaching Bill how to use a pick-up lines, to teaching Bill what pick-up lines not to use.
And from there, the conversation drifted to a list of subjects Bill wasn't allowed to discuss with the federal agent, which necessitated relocating to the living room so Mabel could set up an easel pad and record all the banned topics. Partway through, Stan drifted in and started throwing in his two cents.
The list of banned flirtation topics included: eyeballs; cannibalism; squid kings; dragonfly mating habits; mandibles; the time and method of living people's future deaths; the cold and lonely heat death of the universe ("Why?! It's a perfect excuse to suggest cuddling for warmth!"); fun get-to-know-you questions like "would you rather kill your mother or your father" or "which conspiracy theories would you most hate to be true"; which conspiracy theories were true; the agent's embarrassing middle school secrets that Bill shouldn't have known about but did; the agent's bald spot; cancer flavors; pending global disasters...
Bill flung his hands in the air. "So what does that leave to talk about?!"
"Anything else," Stan snapped.
"The Chuquicamata open pit copper mine."
"Anything normal."
Bill gave him a look akin to that of a vegetarian who'd just been asked to discuss his favorite cuts of beef. "Have you metme?"
"Try topics that get him in the right mindset for romance," Mabel said. "Like, 'what do you want your future wife's favorite color to be?' Or 'you look like dad material!'"
Bill nodded slowly. "So we're aggressively leading him on. I can work with that. I've never been a fan of subtlety."
"And call him charming," Stan said. "Guys love hearing they're charming. Oh, and tell him his jokes are funny."
"What if he doesn't tell jokes."
"All guys tell jokes when they're flirting! If he's not telling jokes, you're doing something wrong."
"It's true," Mabel said. "Watch any high school romance!" Bill gave them both a dubious look.
Stan glanced up as Ford and Dipper walked by the doorway with Gompers. "Tell 'im, Ford."
"What?"
"All men tell jokes when we're flirting! It's probably in our DNA or something."
Dipper thought about that, and nodded. "I tell jokes when I'm flirting."
Mabel shouted, "You try to tell jokes when you're flirting! Heyooo!"
"Hey."
Ford grimaced. "Usually when I'm flirting, I forget every joke I've ever heard and start asking as many questions as I can think of."
Bill said, "That's because you only flirt with things you want to add to your bestiary!"
"The point still stands."
Dipper had leaned into the room to read the banned topic list. "Why are conspiracy theories off-limits? He came to Gravity Falls in the first place because he was looking for a paranormal conspiracy."
"Dipper's right," Ford said, "he'd probably be interested in the topic."
Bill flung his hands in the air. "Thank you! That's what I was saying!"
Stan shook his head, "Too close to discussing politics. What if they believe in different conspiracies!"
"Plus, watch this," Mabel said. "Hey Bill, what do you think about Flat Earth theory."
Bill groaned. "I was drunk, those statements were taken out of context, and I can't be held responsible if some idiot with a boat misinterpreted me."
Mabel looked at Ford and Dipper.
Dipper grimaced. "Got it."
Ford nodded. "Conspiracy theories are off-limits."
"This is why you're all single," Bill said.
####
Stan said, "And if you're gonna lie about your job—"
"Which you always should," Bill cut in.
"Obviously! But make sure it's not something too easy to verify. Like, you can't claim to be the governor, what if your date actually voted and knows who the governor is?"
"That's a good point! Margaret was not impressed."
"You're telling me! My suit smelled like broccoli cheese soup for weeks!"
"You shoulda suggested she get the house salad."
"Yeah, I—" Stan cut off. "Wait. How do you know about Margaret? That was twenty years ago!"
Dipper and Ford were in the kitchen, looking for every ingredient they could find that might coax Gompers to release the flash drive the old-fashioned way and listening to the discussion in the living room. Gompers nibbled at a dish towel, oblivious to the fate awaiting him.
Mabel trotted in and patted him as she passed. "Hey, you! You're giving us major trouble, you rascal!"
He bleated at her.
Mabel pushed up to the open fridge next to Dipper, and when he stepped aside to make more room for her, she stepped into his personal space again and leaned into him with her shoulder. "Why are you in the way, bro, jeez!"
"You're in the way!" He leaned against her in turn. "What are you doing in here? Aren't you supposed to be training Bill?"
"Grunkle Stan's taking the lead right now," Mabel said. "My talent is helping people find true love! But his talent is suckering someone into liking you for a day. So I think he's better suited to the task at hand."
"Oh, yeah." Dipper chuckled wryly. "His advice will get you a first date, but not a second date."
Ford muttered, "His technique hasn't changed since high school, I see."
Dipper found the bottle of prune juice he'd been looking for, pulled it out, and stepped back. Mabel yelped when her counterweight disappeared and stumbled sideways into the fridge door.
As Dipper emptied the juice into a mixing bowl, he said, "I'm not sure about this plan. Even with both you and Stan helping. I know Bill's good at tricking people, but... he's so annoying. And not in a lovable way."
"Don't undersell him!" Mabel said. She'd retrieved a pitcher of Mabel Juice and was dumping a full bottle of sprinkles into it—hardcore romance training required high stamina. "He has the potential to be a dreamboat!"
Ford muttered, "He's a manipulative, murderous monster." He was searching through all the cans they'd moved to the kitchen counter for beans.
"Those don't have to be mutually exclusive," Mabel insisted. "Serial killers get girlfriends. Sometimes after they're arrested!"
"I'mmm not seeing a dreamboat," Dipper said. "More like a shipwreck. I mean, when you were trying to come up with a list of romantic date foods, he suggested blood licked off your date's teeth."
"And he was right!" Mabel said. "Vampires, bro-bro!"
"Okay, but I don't think he was talking about teeth that were still attached to his date's skull!"
"He didn't say they weren't attached," said Mabel, with flagging conviction that suggested she hadn't considered that and was realizing Dipper was probably right.
"And five minutes ago you and Stan told him he should pretend to be a princess, and he told you he'd be great at that because he started an Internet dating service that matches up lonely widows with overseas con artists pretending to be deposed princes."
"Well," Mabel said sheepishly.
"And then he tried to talk you two into investing in a pyramid scheme to fund his dating service."
"But we didn't invest!" Mabel said.
"Only because you looked it up on your phone and discovered he'd made it up!"
"I mean, until then, it sounded romantic!" Mabel flung her hands out in a wide shrug. (Something about the gesture looked strange to Ford.) "Finding a second chance at love with a mysterious foreign criminal with a glamorous false identity? That'd be great if it was real!"
"Mabel, it's a scam," Dipper said exasperatedly.
"And do scam artists not deserve love, too?!" Mabel pounded a fist on the table emphatically. "What about Grunkle Stan! He deserves love! A rich overseas widow would be perfect for him!"
"That's not— The point is, Bill's not romantic!" Dipper said. "This plan isn't going to work!"
Ford set half a dozen bean cans next to Dipper's mixing bowl. "He doesn't need to be romantic," he said. "He only needs to be charismatic. And for all his flaws, he's certainly that." Planets will orbit stars and black holes just the same—and not even realize the difference. "He doesn't have to actually win Agent Powers's heart. He only has to keep his attention for a few hours. By the time Bill stops dazzling Powers long enough for him to see the red flags, we'll have the flash drive." He nodded toward Gompers. "If we get it before the agents return with a warrant, we might not even need Bill to distract him."
Dipper sighed. "Then let's hope Gompers likes prunes."
"Come on! Show a little faith!" Mabel said.
Ford muttered, "The last time I put my faith in Bill..." Dipper gestured emphatically at Ford in agreement.
"Not in Bill! In me! Mark my words, Grunkle Ford—I'll get this Cinderella ready to meet his Prince Charming if I have to summon every mouse in Gravity Falls to help sew his ballgown!"
"Please don't summon the wildlife again," Dipper groaned. "The last time you did that, huge spiders kept appearing in our room for a week."
Mabel's pocket vibrated; she pulled out her phone and gasped. She chugged down the rest of her juice in three sickly sweet gulps and bolted from the room. "Biiill! Your personal style consultant texted back!"
"My who?"
She dragged him out of the living room by the wrist. "Come on!"
Ford watched them run up the stairs, then started searching through their cereal boxes for the high fiber one. Tentatively, he asked, "Mabel doesn't actually think we're trying to get Bill and the agent together, does she?" The Prince Charming comment was concerning.
"I don't know," Dipper sighed. "A few days ago she started talking about trying to get Bill a love life? Maybe she sees this as a practice round."
"Really? Why, did he say he wants to date people?" If he wanted to get out of the shack to emotionally prey on the locals one-on-one without supervision...
"I don't think she's even told him yet. It's part of her project to... reintegrate him into society? She probably thinks the power of love can rehabilitate him." Dipper sighed. "She's setting herself up for disappointment. He's been conning people into thinking he's a good guy for billions of years, right? If being loved could fix him, he'd be an angel by now."
"Instead, he's just gotten better at pretending to be an angel," Ford said ruefully. "I'm inclined to agree with you." He found the cereal he'd been looking for and set it on the table by Dipper. "But then... we let him live, didn't we? Because we all hope we're wrong. I suppose that doesn't make us that different from Mabel."
Dipper shook his head emphatically. "Not me." He dumped one of the cans of beans into the prune juice a little harder than necessary. "I let him live for two reasons: because of Mabel, and because of that prophecy. And he doesn't have to change to fulfill some prophecy to save us—when it comes, he might just be trying to save his own stupid butt, too."
"I suppose so." Right—of course, even if he'd agreed to spare Bill, Dipper still didn't have any real hope for him beyond his usefulness.
Over the past month, Ford hadn't seen anything more sympathetic out of Bill than Dipper had. He wondered at himself for even being willing to consider Bill might change. When had Ford changed enough to consider it? Or was he just more susceptible to Bill's same old tricks?
"You don't remember the whole prophecy yet, do you?" Ford asked. "What if this is what it was about? Saving our family from the government because he's the only person the lead agent finds attractive enough to distract him?"
Dipper pulled a face. "I hope not," he said. "After everything he put us through? He owes us a fight to the death with an interdimensional eldritch god."
"Now that's a sight I'd pay to see."
####
MABEL: Heyyy Paz, can I ask for a small favor. I have a friend that needs a MAJOR MAKEOVER!! 😿 Like the FULL PRINCESS TRANSFORMATION treatment!! Can you help him?
PACIFICA: Can't, I'm suuuper busy today. I have the lunch shift AND grooming day at the ranch.
PACIFICA: Plus, why would I help some total rando? 😒
MABEL: Because it's my friend with the beautiful golden hair.
PACIFICA: asldkfggh
PACIFICA: OK fine come by the ranch after work
PACIFICA: and send me a picture of his skin next to a white paper so I can grab some foundations to try out.
####
Bill took a piece of paper and a marker, wrote "Make me beautiful!" and dotted the I and the exclamation point with hearts, flopped the least sunburned part of his arm next to the paper for Mabel to take a picture, and leaned away to keep his face out of it.
As Mabel snapped a couple pictures, she said, "Okay, before we visit Pacifica, I have to warn you. She can be a liiittle bit mean when it comes to fashion. So don't get mad at her, okay? It's how she shows she cares!"
"No it's not," Bill said.
"No, it's not," Mabel conceded. "But it doesn't mean she doesn't care. That's just... how she relates to other people! By insulting their fashion, style, and body. And family. And finances."
"Don't worry, star girl. I can take it."
"But I mean, she might be really, really, super mean about your looks," Mabel said. "And you cannot curse her or threaten to turn her bones into flutes or do anything Bill-ish like that. Promise me."
"Hey, bone flutes! That sounds like a fun arts and crafts project, right?"
"Bill!"
"Re-lax, it'll be fine," Bill said. "She's just your garden-variety pageant girl with an overly-critical mom who tried to relive her glory years through her daughter! I can handle a teenage ex-beauty queen. I'm an expert on those types."
Skeptically, Mabel said, "Really?" She was slowly coming to realize that, in Bill's opinion, he was the expert on everything.
"Oh yeah. I spent years eyelid deep in the pageant scene."
"You did?" she said, surprised. "How come? Did you try to trick a beauty pageant into building your portal or something like that?"
Bill stared at Mabel.
####
Outside the flat hospital, it was a beautiful, peaceful morning. The air was clear, the unseen sun was shining brightly from some unknown dimension, and some 2D equivalent to a bird was chirping in some 2D equivalent to a tree.
And then the hospital doors crashed open with such force that passing shapes momentarily suspected that someone had set off a bomb.
"—don't give me that look, if you'd hustled your hypotenuse and had your birthday yesterday, we wouldn't be in such a rush! You're just lucky you came out so cute, or—" An exhausted, dull pinkish triangle charged out the doors with a very tiny, squishy yellow triangle in her trembling arm. She turned to shout behind her—"Hurry up! There's only two hours until the Best Baby Pageant and he is not going to miss it!"
—and was followed closely by a horrified blue triangle carrying a hat in one hand and a cane in the other. "But Scalene, the doctors still have to do those tests to check for—"
"They can test him later! If he's got some horrible birth defect, he'll still have it after he's won a trophy!" Without slowing, Scalene turned and held the baby out toward the other triangle. The squishy new shape gawked at him in mild befuddlement. "Look at this kid, Euclid! Most newborn brats look like cranky raisins, but he's less than an hour old and he's already bright-eyed and smooth-sided! He was born with the face of a pageant winner—"
Not looking where she was going, she ran into a tree. The bird flew off in a panic, Scalene lost her balance, and she nearly dropped the baby. Euclid caught him, caught her, and held her steady while she leaned dizzily against the tree. "Lene. You should be on bedrest right now. Maybe we should just, you know, take a moment to process..."
"Process what! We have our little angle. Am I supposed to sit in a hospital bed staring at the afterbirth?!"
While Euclid stared at her in shock, she snatched the child back, pushed him away, and wobbled back upright. "What kind of a lazy mother would I be if I was sleeping instead of making my child a winner! You want him to start off life on the right foot, don't you?"
Defeated, Euclid said, "All right. I'll take care of the... the paperwork. At least bring your cane."
"I don't need it. I'm fine."
"Fine?! You just..." He gestured at her, gestured at the brand-spanking-new baby, gestured at her again, then flung his hands up in defeat. "If you drop our baby, I'm divorcing you."
She sighed huffily. "You're so dramatic." But she snatched the cane out of his hand anyway and stormed away, declaring loudly enough that shapes on the other side of the street turned to stare: "If the mayor doesn't declare my Billy the greatest baby in the whole godforsaken world, I'm grabbing the biggest trophy in the room and bashing his eye in!"
####
Bill shrugged at Mabel. "Sure," he said. "Something like that."
####
Gompers stared down at the bowl set on the floor in front of him.
It contained black beans, broccoli, coffee grounds, fiber-enriched whole-grain cereal, oatmeal, and an avocado and half a sweet potato mashed together into an orange-green mush, all stewing in a prune juice soup.
Gompers looked up.
Dipper and Ford were crouched across from him, watching expectantly.
Gompers bleated balefully at them.
"Go on!" Ford nudged the bowl closer. "It's good for you."
Gompers knew a lie when he heard one. He turned his nose up at the mix.
"I don't get it," Dipper said. "He eats everything. What's wrong with this stuff?"
"I haven't a clue."
"Maybe it's the broccoli?"
Ford gave him a quizzical look. "Why broccoli?"
Dipper shrugged. "I don't like broccoli, I don't know why he would."
"Hmm." Mystified, Ford propped his chin in his hand and stared into Gompers's eyes. Gompers stared back. Gompers stared into his soul. Gompers didn't blink.
Ford was dragged from this session of nonconsensual soul-searching by the sound of footsteps and Mabel's voice drifting down the stairs: "Listen, you know I love your sense of fashion! All I'm saying is everyone loves kittens, but snakes? That's a pretty niche fashion market! You're not gonna get a lot of takers."
"No, hey, hear me out," Bill said. "I listened to your professional matchmaker advice, now you've got to listen to my professional heartbreaker advice. You'll thank me for this one day! This is my number one romance tip: if you wanna impress a date, strap cobras to your arms and call yourself 'Johnny Cobra-Arms.' It works every time. Guaranteed."
(Dipper snorted.)
"Whaaat? No way," Mabel said. "Seriously, what?"
"It's true! I workshopped this! I've experimented across parallel timelines! It works."
"Quit messing with me, Bill."
"You think I would ever mislead you? No. Picture this." As the pair turned the corner on the stairs, Bill was spreading his hands in front of himself as though gesturing to the scene he wanted Mabel to imagine. "You see a guy, maybe a year older than you, kinda cute but nothing to write home about, maybe a 6/10. Got him in your mind's eye?"
A look of intense concentration crossed Mabel's face as she engaged her Imagination. "Yeah?"
"Okay, now imagine he—" Bill reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. "Where are my shoes." He raised his voice, "Who moved my fisshoes! I left them right— oh, there they are." He disappeared into the living room. "Imagine your 6/10 has two big snakes wrapped around his arms. And he catches your eye from across the club, comes up to you, and says..." Bill's voice dropped to a pitch that was nearly in the range of an average adult human male, "'Hey. Name's Johnny Cobra-Arms. What's yours?'"
Mabel thought about it. Her eyes slowly widened in amazement. "Oh my god, it would totally work on me."
Bill re-emerged into the entryway, fish shoes donned. "See?"
"It made him hot! What the heck, how did that happen!"
"See?! It works every time!" He shouted toward the kitchen, "Hey, we're leaving for Alpaca's! I'm taking the car!"
"No you're not," Ford said.
Bill spread his hands in a shrug. "Worth a shot!" He grabbed his umbrella and the magic friendship bracelets from the coat rack and waited for Mabel to open the door. "See, it's the best possible first impression. It shows he's got a sense of humor, he's quirky, he's a little bit dangerous, he's got a great sense of fashion, he's a world traveler, he's good with animals..." The door swung shut behind them.
The way Bill had shrugged stuck in Ford's mind.
In his true form, Bill didn't have shoulders. His arms extended out of his sides like the trunks of saplings extending from the surface of flood waters, and they glided around his perimeter in a way that defied conventional physical biology. No joints.
When he shrugged in his human body, sometimes he'd bob his shoulders up and down in a deliberate mimicry of how humans performed the gesture; and lately, as Bill got used to moving his new body, Ford had seen him sluggishly raise a shoulder when he was too exhausted to gesture more expressively. But most of the time, he shrugged like he still didn't have shoulders. He'd spread his arms, bend his elbows, usually forming a W shape but sometimes when he was particularly emphatic forming a shape like football goalposts, and if he really wanted to make his meaning clear he'd twitch his upturned palms up the way a human would twitch their shoulders.
He did it all the time. He'd done it just now. The gesture was so natural on Bill that Ford had never realized how unnaturalit was on a human—until he'd seen Mabel make the exact same gesture earlier.
She was copying Bill's body language. He wondered if she knew.
He'd have to keep an eye on that.
"Hope Agent Powers is into snakes," Dipper muttered.
Ford laughed—then wondered whether someone pulling the Johnny Cobra-Arms trick would've worked on him. If by now nothing had made him take an interest in a basic, garden-variety human being, he doubted anything could... but, admittedly, he'd at least consider hanging out with Johnny. He sounded like an intriguing character. "If that's the worst thing Bill subjects him to, he'll be getting off light."
With a twinge of guilt, Ford realized just how true that was. Ford was no stranger to having to turn down the volume on his conscience for the greater good—and there were few greater goods than protecting his family—but...
He might not know Powers, but he did know that, whether Bill succeeded in seducing him or not, the man didn't deserve what he was about to be subjected to.
####
(Now that this chapter's finally out, may there be no further delays for a good long while, ugh.
Here's your "what was changed in the wake of TBOB" update: obviously, since we got five whole pages on Bill's beliefs about romance, a lot of that got incorporated into this chapter—the first and last scenes were basically written entirely in response to TBOB.
The scene with Scalene & Euclid, obviously, got their names & descriptions from TBOB & TINAWDC (and yeah, yeah, i'm eventually gonna go back to earlier chapters and edit out Bill's mom being a line so it matches up with canon), and it's obvious what the "best baby pageant" is a reference to (so you can guess whether Bill won)—but Bill being a pageant kid due to his mom was already part of the plans long before TBOB, so I just stuck a couple canon details into the story I was already writing. We were already gonna get into Bill's childhood this chapter & next (as you'll see next week).
Beyond that, most of the chapter was already in its present form before TBOB—up to & including Bill having a list of topics he thinks are acceptable for dates that no rational human would agree with—and all TBOB added was a couple tiny details (like... "mandibles".)
The fact that the list of things that were influenced by TBOB is so much longer than usual is part of the reason this chapter's two whole weeks late lmao.
Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed, happy new year, and I'm looking forward to (finally) hearing your thoughts on the first fresh chapter of 2025!
#bill cipher#scalene cipher#euclid cipher#mabel pines#human bill cipher#gravity falls#gravity falls fic#gravity falls fanart#fanart#my art#my writing#bill goldilocks cipher#(tbh i'm still not 100% on euclid's design. He looks too plain without the brick stripes but they aren't quite doing it for me)#(he's got a brother he's gotta be matchy with—maybe i'll toss up some concept art later—which is why i'm tilting toward green)#(but THAT shade of green? and the stripes? not convinced)#(but it's good enough for now)#(also as u can see i decided yes i do wanna give Mabel sweaters without collars to indicate she's 6% older now)#(i'll prob be editing art in earlier chapters at some point to reflect that)
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yes Ollie fics I BEGGG🙏🏻🙏🏻
sweet as sugar ⟡ ݁₊ . - ollie bearman
summary: it isn't everyday you see a classmate shopping at the grocery store you work at, especially not when he's buying the most expensive ingredients possible. w/c: 3.4k
a/n: your wish is my command !!! been binging the bear necessities vlogs so i felt verrrryyy inspired for this one (also bc i recently started a second job as a checkout chick HAHA)
Working at a grocery store was far from glamorous - but given that it was close to your university, you figured it was definitely far from the worst part-time job you could've taken up. In between stocking shelves and dealing with rude customers, it hadn't been too bad, and that was the reason you had stayed for over a year.
In that time, you had seen your fair share of things. Given that the dorms were so close by, it wasn't uncommon for you to recognise people from class. Often they were polite enough to start up some small talk or ignore you completely, leaving with several bags of instant ramen and frozen garlic bread, more than enough to last them the week.
But this, this was new.
"Oh, hi," he lets out, polite and a little shy as he piles his groceries onto your conveyer belt.
"Hey," you let out, a little drawn out to show your confusion at the multi-coloured produce headed towards you. You spot a couple radishes, a whole head of cabbage and several jars of spice amongst everything else. "Do you have your own bags?"
"Oh, yeah," he mumbles, reaching into his back pocket and producing several reusable bags, most of them from your grocery store chain - you find it a little cute, though you don't say anything.
"I think I've seen you around, you know," he says quickly, refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room as he positions the bags. You drag your focus away from the items you're scanning and study his face instead - he's tall but boyish, and his eyes are round and innocent as he looks at you.
"Right, Professor Royce's class, stats right?"
His expression lights up, almost out of relief at you not asking about the groceries. "Yeah! It's tough, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and he marks really strict as well, a friend of mine got a quarter mark taken off because her power wasn't written high enough."
"Jeez, that's rough," he laughs, and his eyes flicker between yours and your hands as you bag the last of his things.
"Your total will be $75.80," you announce, pulling a face to show that you don't envy how much he's going to have to pay - but to your surprise, his expression doesn't falter as he reaches for his wallet, pulls out his credit card and taps it without another word.
"Thanks, see you around," he smiles, as he takes his several bags with ease and leaves, the automatic doors closing behind him. You find yourself watching him, gaze lingering as his lean figure grows smaller and smaller in the direction of the dorms. What could he possibly be using that kind of food for, how many people was he planning on feeding - and most importantly, what sort of dorm fridge would fit all that?
You hear an annoyed grunt from in front of you as you're once reminded of your job, turning to face a stern-looking woman. "Sorry ma'am," you let out, beginning to scan her items - though your mind doesn't leave him, not for a while.
Given how much he had bought, you didn't think you'd run into your classmate at your job for a while. To your surprise though, it's less than a week until you see him again, and for about a month he continues showing up weekly - and as fate would have it, always when you were on shift and at your register.
What's even weirder though, is the fact that the two of you barely make it beyond awkward small talk about the singular class you share in common or the weather lately. Still, you manage to glean some information - his name (Ollie), his major (marketing) amongst other, smaller, details like the fact that he normally comes in the mornings to get the freshly baked loaves of bread, or that he has an unusually large collection of reusable grocery bags.
For the most part, you don't mind, working at a grocery store register has made you vulnerable to over a year of awkward conversations. What seems to actually get to you though, is the gnawing curiosity of just what on earth he could be using all this for because, at the rate you see him, he can't be the only one eating it.
You're busy pondering this thought, mindlessly stocking shelves mere minutes before closing one night - until you notice a familiarly lanky figure creep up behind you.
"Oh!" you gasp out in surprise, but when you spot the full grocery basket in his hand you dart quickly behind the register to help him. For a minute it seems like your opportunity to get to the bottom of this mystery has reared its head.
However, from the awkward smile he gives you in greeting and the way he nervously shoves his hands in his pockets while he scoots up to your register - you're inclined to just mind your own business and leave the poor boy alone. That is until you break eye contact with him and turn to the items now moving towards you.
He seems to have replaced his normal fresh produce and meat for dessert ingredients, and you watch as several bars of dark chocolate - the most expensive brand your store carries, at that - cartons of eggs and sacks of flour make their way towards you.
"Okay Ollie I'm sorry, but I have to ask," you hold your hands out as you preface your question, "What on earth do you do with all this stuff?"
"Oh, I mean, a boy's gotta eat right?" He laughs shyly, causing you to furrow your brows to show your doubt.
"I don't mean to judge but, surely that's a lie."
He looks almost disappointed at the fact that you don't believe his obviously made-up excuse, as he looks down at his feet to avoid eye contact.
“Well, you see,” he starts, and you can hear the squeaking sound of his sneakers against the store floor. “It’s sort of embarrassing.”
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” you reply, waiting for him to hit you with it, only to be met with a moment of silence as the two of you just stand there, even the conveyor belt refusing to move.
“What, you cooking for a roster of girls every night?” You joke, desperate to diffuse the suffocating silence.
“Wh- no!” he replies immediately, hands springing up in defence, causing you to let out a low laugh.
“Well?”
He takes a step closer to the register, looking around as if to make sure no one will eavesdrop - despite the two of you being the only ones in the store - before whispering to you. “I’m an influencer, like, a cooking influencer.
You hear yourself let out a shocked laugh, and Ollie’s eyes widen in response as his cheeks burn up.
“Sorry, that sounded mean, but that’s actually really cool!” you blurt out.
“Oh,” he laughs in relief, “I mean it’s not that cool.” He shuffles around awkwardly to help you bag his groceries, though you’re pretty sure he’s just eager to avoid eye contact.
“Home come I’ve never heard of you before?”
“Well, I keep it anonymous,” he sighs, “not many people in real life know.”
“Wow, you’re a proper Peter Parker.”
“Yeah, if his superpower was stuffing up puff pastry for the third time.”
“$32,” you read out his total, pausing before following up, “you know, I don’t know if I completely believe you.”
“Wh- why would I lie?” he asks as he taps his card.
“I don’t know, to hide the fact that you’re actually cooking for a never ending rotation of girlfriends.”
“Oh please, I wish that was the case,” you quirk your eyebrow at his response, showing just how much you’re struggling to believe him. As he loops his arms through the several grocery bags, he catches sight of your expression.
“Wh- look me up then!”
“Alright, what’s your username,” you say, whipping out your phone.
He seems to regret his words, his voice immediately shrinking to a shy tone, “promise you won’t make fun of it.”
“Just tell me Ollie.”
“It’s, @ bear in the kitchen.”
You have to fold your lips together to stop yourself from letting out a laugh as you type the user into your search bar. However, once it pops up your eyes widen in shock instantly.
“Ten thousand followers? Ollie, holy shit!” He lets out a little chuckle as you continue to scroll through his posts. “God this stuff looks amazing.”
“Alright, just don’t tell anyone about it okay? I don’t need this spreading around,” he sighs nervously.
Lowering your phone, you feel an idea coming to you, “well what’s in it for me?”
Once again, you watch his brows rise in shock as he chews on his bottom lip, thinking. You’re about to break the silence to tell him you’re only kidding, and that of course you wouldn’t tell anyone and that it’s totally f-
“What time do you get off?”
“Wh- in about five minutes?”
“Do you want to come watch?”
“Watch what?”
“Me cook, duh,” he says, making it seem like you’re the one being crazy here.
“Huh?”
“I live in the dorms so it isn’t too far and you could even try some of it if you want, unless you’ve got something on after this that is.”
“I mean, not really.”
“Great, then, help me with these will you?”
So that’s how you ended up closing up a little earlier, and then helping your classmate Ollie - who a couple weeks ago had been little more than a stranger - carry his ingredients back to his dorm. If you had told anyone that, they probably would’ve called you crazy, and you would’ve agreed. But still, no matter how many times you tried to wake yourself up from this strange dream, you were still there - closing the store, in the elevator with him, even watching as he struggled to use his keys to open his dorm.
“I got lucky with the dorm lottery this year,” he explained as he finally managed to get the door unlocked, “I think it’s supposed to be for special accomodation students but no one took it so, I figured I would.”
“Woah,” was all you could say as he ushered you in and shut the door quickly behind you. And woah was correct, given that his 'room' was the size of a small apartment, and much much bigger than any of the other shoeboxes most students got. Aside from the usual bed and desk, he also had his own small lounge room and bathroom - and of course, a kitchenette, which you recognised from the background of his videos. "Lucky is an understatement."
All he does is let out a low laugh in response as he lifts the grocery bags onto the counter, prompting you to do the same. "Do you want my help?" you ask.
"No, I mean you're my guest if anything, so you can just pull up a chair and watch," he offers you a warm smile before turning to unload the bags, stuffing condiments into cupboards and tossing things into the fridge. You do as he says, finding yourself a stool and scooting it over to the counter so you can watch him.
You're amazed, obviously by the fact that someone as unexpected as a boy from your statistics class has a cooking page, but more so by the nature of his movements. After setting up his phone on a small tripod and clicking record, he falls into a rhythm that's mesmerisingly beautiful to watch. Every grab of a bowl or flick of his wrist as he whisks this and stirs that, like a conductor bringing together a symphony.
You don't realise how long you've been silent until he looks up at you, almost as if to silently ask if you have any questions, all the while he's separating a couple egg yolks from their whites.
"So, what exactly are you making?"
"Mille-feuille," he responds.
"Milly- huh?"
He laughs softly at your attempt to mirror his pronunciation. "It's a French dessert, basically just puff pastry with some cream but it's a pain to make."
"So why are you making it?"
"Well, it's fun, I guess? It's nice to challenge myself to do things, even if it takes me a while, the satisfaction of mastering it is really like nothing else." He turns to you, a slight sparkle in his eye and you're taken aback by the pure passion in the way he talks.
"Wow, you really enjoy this, why are you studying at university then? Why not do this full-time as a chef or something?"
"Don't be silly, this is just like a hobby there's no way I could make it a job."
"Ten thousand people seem to say otherwise," you say, and as he pulls a couple things out of the oven and places them on the counter he turns to look at you with an expression that's equal parts confused and surprised. "Well, ten thousand people plus me."
He smiles earnestly, though you can tell you've made him a little shy by the way his cheeks are flushed. "Well, you haven't even tried it yet."
"You're right, how much longer?"
"Maybe another five minutes, why do you need to go?" His expression morphs into one of worry, almost as if he's pleading you not to leave.
"No," you laugh, "I'm fine to stay for as long as you want me to."
"Okay, good, I just," he says, searching for an excuse, "I just want you to taste it before you go."
"Right," you hum, looking around his dorm, or more his apartment complex. "If I had a space as big as this I'd probably throw a party every second night."
"Oh nah, parties aren't really my thing." You watch as he looks down shyly and for the first time, you notice the way the dim kitchen lights illuminate his soft brown curls.
You notice that the only thing separating the two of you is a couple inches of marble countertop and that this is the longest conversation you've had with him, ever. You notice, when his brown eyes rise to meet yours, that the bashful smile spread across his face makes your heart rate quicken a bit more - and for the couple of seconds you're able to hold eye contact with him, you're thinking about how oddly intimate this moment is.
A loud ringing sound brings you back to the current moment - the timer that Ollie set a couple minutes ago signalling that his dish is ready to plate. You straighten up on your stool, eyes darting around as the boy across from you hurries to take out a plate. You pull out your phone, just to have something to do with your hands, but as you do you hear a couple soft groans coming from Ollie's direction.
"Hey," you hear his timid tone call out to you, "could you help me?"
Hopping off of your stool, you pad your way over to where he's bent at an awkward angle, trying his best to hold a broken sheet of puff pastry together.
"Just put your hands where mine are," he instructs you, and you do as he says, allowing him to let out a sigh of relief as he reaches for a piping bag. As he does, you notice the phone camera pointed directly towards you.
"Won't I be in your shot?" you ask nervously.
"Don't worry, your face won't be in it and I can edit it out if you want," he brushes you off, clearly more concerned with the structural integrity of his dessert.
"Oh, right."
"Wait, just-" his voice is just above a whisper and before you realise what's happening you feel his warm touch on yours as he nudges your hands slightly into position. You try not to overthink the fact that his touch alone makes you feel so flustered that you almost drop the pastry. "Okay, hold still."
"Yes, chef," you joke in as serious a tone as you can, trying to alleviate the suddenly intimate tension between you two. You watch silently as he pipes a couple of dollops of custard onto the pastry then nudges you once more to let you know you can let go as he reaches for the last piece of pastry to place on top.
The two of you stand back, and you hear him let out a proud huff as he rests his hands on his hips. "Finally," he breathes, reaching into a drawer to retrieve a spoon.
As you watch him break apart the pastry he spent the last hour trying to perfect, you catch the tender smile he gives you and feel your heart warm at the fact that he seems so different to the awkward, shy boy you first served a couple weeks ago. The image of your classmate, who you only ever saw shuffling out of class as soon as possible, melts away as Ollie confidently scoops some of the custard onto the spoon.
You wait for him to bring it to his own lips, but instead watch it take a turn towards you, his eyes catching yours.
"Here," he smiles, "a payment for your help."
"Wh-" You're taken aback, partially by him not wanting to taste his own food first, but mostly by the fact that he seems to be insisting on feeding it to you. Obediently, you open your mouth and he feeds you the dessert, other hand cupping your chin to catch any crumbs that fall - and you can only hope he doesn't feel how hot your face gets when he does.
"Holy shit Ollie, that's delicious!" You exclaim, watching as his eyes survey your expression.
"Really? That's a relief then," he laughs, taking his own serving of the dessert, nodding thoughtfully as he tastes it. For the thousandth time that night, the two of you stand in silence, just looking at each other - though it's less awkward than you thought and more comfortable.
Until you see your phone on the countertop buzz awake and you catch sight of the time.
"Oh crap, it's past midnight!" you gasp, reaching for it and sending a text back to your roommate, who's probably wondering where you are.
"Do you need to get back?" Ollie asks, brows furrowed.
"Yes, I'm sorry, and thank you for all this it really was amazing-" you ramble out as you try your best to shove your feet into your shoes by the doorway. He seems a little lost by your sudden movements, dropping the spoon and padding his way over to you.
"Do you need me to walk you home?"
"No, no it's fine, I'm just in the next building and you should probably get to cleaning up all this anyways," you gesture to the small mess of used pans and bowls waiting for him in the kitchen behind.
"Right," you catch a tinge of disappointment in his tone, "well get home safe okay?"
"I will," you insist, letting out small grunts as you finally manage to get your second shoe on, "oh, and send me the video you post about this, I want to see my cameo!"
He laughs, "of course."
You're just about to reach for the doorknob and bid him farewell when you hear his voice pipe up again, a little less sure this time.
"Oh and hey, do you think you'd want to do this again?"
"Come over and watch you cook?" You're a little confused by his request since you were sure you had just been in his way all night.
"Yeah, I mean it's nice to have someone keep me company, and help me out when I need it," his hand rubs the back of his nape as he looks at the floor.
"Sure, I'd love to Ollie, you know where to find me anyways."
"Checkout number 4," he laughs, "goodnight."
"Goodnight Ollie," you respond with a smile and a wave before opening his dorm door and leaving.
It's only once you're out in the night air, frantically rushing from his building to yours - that you notice the smile hasn't left your face.
(and as a little something extra, a mockup of ollie's account :)) )
taglist: reply/send an ask to be added!
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#ollie bearman#ollie bearman x reader#ollie bearman x you#ollie bearman imagine#ollie bearman fanfic#ollie bearman fluff#ollie bearman oneshot#formula one#formula one fanfic#formula one x reader#purinfelix#jet writes ★#jet answers ✧
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Injured on Duty Part 3
Summary: she’s discharged the next day, and Robby insists on her staying home for a couple weeks til he clears her to come back to work. he ends up in her bed.
SMUT WARNING (D-word kink)
"No arguments," he says firmly but with a slight smile as he hands her the discharge papers. "I've written you out for the full two weeks. No work, no lifting."
she nods, “got it”
He walks her to the exit, his hand lightly touching her lower back as he guides her through the bustling hospital lobby. Once outside, he turns to face her, his brown eyes serious. "And if you need anything at all while you're off, you call me. Day or night."
He hesitates for a moment, his hand still resting on her back. Then, before he can think better of it, he leans in and presses a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
she nods “I will. Don’t lose your mind in this hospital working doubles.”
He chuckles softly, his fingers brushing against her cheek. "I'll try not to. But someone's gotta keep this place running smoothly." He smirks, but there's a warmth in his eyes. "I'll check in on you later. Make sure you're following orders."
she follows his orders and goes easy on her once dislocated shoulder. Laying around with her cat all day. Robby comes over against his better judgement one night late after his shift.
He lets himself in with the spare key he always keeps on him, locking the door behind him. He finds her curled up on the couch with the cat, looking far too comfortable and relaxed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern. "You're supposed to be taking it easy,"
she’s in a tank top and pj pants, “does this not look like taking it easy?”
His eyes inadvertently drift down her tank top clad form before he catches himself. He clears his throat, trying to ignore how attractive she looks even in pajamas. “You know what I mean. No strenuous activity.”He uncrosses his arms slowly“Is that cat heavy?”
“She’s just a baby she’s like 10 pounds”
He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Good. Just making sure you're not overdoing it." He walks over to the couch and sits down on the edge, close enough to her that he can see the faint bruises still lingering on her shoulder. "How's the pain?"
“Managed with Tylenol”
He nods, satisfied with her answer. He reaches out slowly, his hand hovering near her shoulder for a moment before he gently begins to examine the area, his touch light and careful. “The bruising looks better. That’s good. How’s your range of motion? Can you lift your arm for me?”
she lifts her arm, “you come here as a friend or as my resident.. or…” she wanted to say something more.
His fingers pause in their examination as he looks up at her, his expression softening slightly. He knows exactly what she's implying, and the way she's looking at him makes his heart skip a beat. He swallows hard, trying to maintain his professional demeanor. "As your friend,"
He finishes examining her arm, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. He sits back and looks at her, his eyes searching hers for a moment too long before he pulls back and clears his throat. "Your range of motion looks good. You're healing faster than I expected,"
“Robby?”
His nickname slipping from her lips makes his stomach do flips. "Hmm?" He finds himself caught in her gaze, unable to maintain the professional facade he's been trying so hard to keep up. "Yes?" He asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you- nevermind..”
He leans in slightly, brows furrowing with genuine curiosity. "What were you going to ask?" His voice is gentle, encouraging her to continue. There's a palpable tension in the air, hanging between them like the unsaid words she bit back.
“Do you feel the way I feel?”
His breath catches in his throat as he stares at her, the question hanging between them. He knows exactly what she means, and the answer is yes. He feels the same way she does - attracted to her, drawn to her, wanting her. "Yes,"
He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Yeah, I do." His voice is low and husky, filled with a blend of admission and restraint. He shifts closer on the couch, close enough now that their knees nearly touch. "But I can't. Not officially."
"As your chief attending... I could be breaking every professional boundary if I were to admit what I really want to do right now." His voice carries a hint of frustration mixed with desire. "I could lose my license, and..." He pauses, his eyes meeting hers intensely.
“I’d lose my spot in the program..”
He nods solemnly, his thumb absently brushing over her uninjured arm. "Exactly. The consequences would be devastating for both of us." His face inches closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But God, do I want to kiss you right now."
“What if we don’t tell anyone?”
His pupils dilate at the suggestion, his voice hoarse. "Your... boyfriend? Outside the hospital?" He searches her face, looking for any sign of hesitation or jest. "And what about inside the hospital? I'd still be your attending, expecting professionalism from you."
He takes a deep breath, his mind racing with the implications and the temptation. "And you understand that it would be strictly professional between us at work? No special treatment, no favors?" He wants to make sure she understands the gravity of what she's proposing.
“Absolutely. I’d still be your favorite resident but no favors.”
He turns to face her, his eyes glinting with unspoken agreement. "Alright, deal. But if anyone ever suspects, the arrangement ends immediately."
He moves his hand to cup her face gently, his thumb brushing across her bottom lip. "Just so you know... even with this arrangement, if anyone hurts you or makes you feel uncomfortable, I'll lose my shit." His voice is serious, protective. "But working on patients with you, Complete professionalism."
she nods.
He leans in slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away, but she doesn't. Their lips meet in a soft, gentle kiss - a promise more than passion, though there's definite heat beneath it. When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against hers.* "No PDAs at work."
“I hate pda anyways” she smiles.
His lips pull into a small smile against hers. "Good. 'Cause professionalism is sexy as hell." He pulls back slightly, but his hand remains on her face. "And just one more thing..." His expression turns playfully serious.
"If we’re doing this, you better be prepared for me to be insanely protective and ridiculously sweet when we’re alone. But at work? You’ll get the same stern, demanding attending you’ve always had." He raises an eyebrow, gauging her reaction. "Can you handle that?"
“Yes sir”
His lips twitch at her response. God, she was going to kill him with that mouth. He cleared his throat softly. "And one last question." He drops his hand to her waist possessively, though the touch is gentle. "Do you have a problem with dirty talk in the bedroom?"
“No it’s definitely incouraged” she purrs.
His eyes darken, crinkling at the corners as he suppresses a grin. "Good to know." He pulls her closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because I have a tendency to get... vocal. And I like to use my authority..."
she nods and kisses him more, “should I show you my bedroom?”
He groans softly into the kiss, his arms wrapping around her to pull her flush against him. When they break apart, he's breathing slightly heavier. "Lead the way." He winks, giving her backside a gentle squeeze as she turns to head upstairs.
He follows her into the bedroom, his imposing frame seeming even larger as he looms over her seated on the bed. He pauses, taking in her delicate form—she looked almost fragile compared to him. His expression softens with a tender smile. "Jesus, you're tiny."
she blushes.
He sits down next to her, his large hand covering her small one. He brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "I'm going to have to be careful with you." His other hand reaches up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
He leans down to take one of her nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it gently. He sucks softly, testing her reactions before switching to the other side. His large hand cups her small breast, thumbing the nipple he isn't suckling making her moan.
He releases her nipple with a wet pop, smirking at her moan. His hand trails down her stomach as he leans back to admire her half-naked form. "Such a sweet little moan from such a sweet girl." His fingers play with the waistband of her skirt teasingly.
“Please Robby” is all she can manage.
His eyes flash with hunger at the pleading tone in her voice. He quickly unbuttons her skirt, pushing it down her legs along with her panties. He spreads her thighs gently, his breath hitching at the sight of her bare pussy. "Fuck, you're so wet already."
He groans softly, his fingers tracing the soft folds gently. "I need to taste you." Without waiting for a response, he leans down and presses his mouth against her clit, sucking gently. His tongue flicks out, exploring her wetness with slow, deliberate strokes.
she moans and grinds softly against his face. His nose against her clit, his beard rubbing against her.
Robby lets out a muffled groan against her pussy, the vibrations sending pleasurable shocks through her. He grips her thighs tighter, holding her in place as she grinds against his face. His tongue delves deeper, fucking her small hole while his nose rubs circles on her clit.
she gasps, “oh fuck…”
Robby's fingers spread her lips open wider, giving him better access. He can feel her getting wetter and wetter against his face, her juices dripping down his chin. He pulls back slightly, spitting on her pussy before diving back in, his tongue lapping up her wetness.
she whines at the spit on her pussy, it was kinda erotic.
Robby hears her whine and smirks slightly. He spreads her legs wider and spits on her pussy again, watching as his saliva slides down her slit. He collects it with his tongue, pushing it back inside her.
gasps and rolls her hips, “fuck yes.. that’s so”
He cuts her off by sucking her clit hard into his mouth, his fingers finally pushing inside her tight pussy. He curls them, hitting that spot deep inside that makes her eyes roll back. "Mmm, you like that? You like me spitting on your pretty little cunt?"
she nods and mewls and her buck against his hand.
Robby keeps sucking and fingering her, his other hand reaching up to grab her hair and pull her head back. He loves seeing her like this, helpless and wet and fucking gorgeous. "Keep bucking that pretty pussy on my hand, baby."
she nods eagerly and keeps pace with his fingers.
He groans in approval, his fingers moving faster and harder inside her. He adds a third finger, stretching her tight pussy wider. His mouth never leaves her clit, sucking and licking with fervor. "Fuck, you're so sexy when you fuck my hand like that."
Feeling her pussy clench around his fingers, Robby knows she's close. He curls his fingers upwards, hitting her G-spot perfectly while his thumb presses down on her clit. His mouth releases her pussy with a wet pop as he commands, "Cum for me, baby."
she cums hard making Robby groans in satisfaction as he feels her pussy clench and pulse around his fingers. He keeps moving them inside her, drawing out her orgasm for as long as possible. Her juices flow freely, coating his hand and dripping down his wrist. "That's it, baby."
Robby leans back on his knees, pulling his fingers out of her pussy with a wet sound. He brings them to his mouth and sucks her juices off each one, his eyes locked onto hers. "You have the sweetest little cunt, you know that?"
His eyes darken as he watches her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes. He suddenly has an idea. He smirks and spreads her legs wider apart. Without warning, he spits right onto her pussy.
she gasps softly, “getting it slick huh”
Robby chuckles darkly. "Something like that. Though really, I just wanted an excuse to get my spit all over this gorgeous fucking pussy." He runs his fingers through his saliva coating her slit, spreading it around. "Mmm, even slicker now."
Robby's smirk widens as he sees her blush. He loves that she wants to fit him so badly. He keeps spreading his spit around her slick folds, getting them even wetter. He looks up at her, "You really want to take all of me, baby?"
Mhmm.
Robby's eyes gleam with possessive desire as he sees her eager nod. He adds another layer of spit to her pussy, making sure she's absolutely soaked. He grabs his thick, hard length and starts slowly pushing the head against her entrance. "Alright then, baby."
she nods and gasps as he slides in with ease.
Robby groans deeply as the head of his cock slides into her wet, tight pussy. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him. He watches her face for any signs of discomfort, but all he sees is pure pleasure and desire.
she’s so slick it’s almost too fast the way he slides in.
Robby's eyes roll back as he feels her incredible wetness and tightness. He's halfway in and already feeling like he could come. He pulls back slightly, then pushes forward again, going deeper this time. The way she's so slick makes him slide in almost too easily.
He's three-quarters of the way in now, and it's getting harder to go slow. He can feel her stretching around him, taking him deeper than anyone else ever has. He looks down between their bodies, seeing his thick, long shaft disappearing into her tiny, wet opening.
Feels so good Robby.
Robby's chest swells with pride and lust at her words. He loves how perfectly she's taking him, squeezing him so tightly. He gives a final hard thrust, burying himself balls-deep inside her. "Fuck- I'm all the way in. feels incredible,"
“Mmm so full.” She mumbles.
He starts to slowly pump in and out, maintaining deep eye contact. The sight of her taking his full length makes him breathless. "Too much for my little good girl?" He teases, though his voice is already strained from holding back his own pleasure.
she arches, “perfect..”
He watches her arch her back, taking him even deeper. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her down onto him harder, filling her up to the brim. He can feel her tight opening stretching around his thick head every time he pulls out slightly. "My perfect, perfect girl,"
He starts to pick up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder into her tiny opening. He can feel his heavy balls slapping against her backside with each thrust. He's never fit so perfectly inside anyone before, like she was made just for him.
“Mmm daddy” it tumbles outta her lips before she can stop it. The age gap between them was always hot to her. Being his resident and he’s her attending. The power dynamic is almost same as dom and sub.
He freezes mid-thrust, his eyes darkening as he hears the word "Daddy" escape her lips.
His smirk widens. He finds this conversation way too hot. He nuzzles her neck, his hands gripping her hips possessively. "Do you like callin me daddy?" He asks softly, thrusting slow and deep again.
A low rumble of approval escapes him at her admission. He captures her lips in a hungry kiss, dominating her mouth like he's dominating her body. "Dirty little resident, getting off on calling your attending Daddy," he teases between kisses, his hips maintaining a steady, rhythmic thrust.
she whines and nods against her bed.
He breaks the kiss to watch her face as he thrusts deep and hard, his thickness spreading her wide. He knows she's never been stretched like this before.
He starts to move faster, his hips slapping against hers with a wet, rhythmic sound. He knows she's close to the edge, and he wants to push her over it. "Daddy's big cock feels good in your little pussy, doesn't it?"
she nods and whines “yes.. yes”
"Fuck, you're gonna make Daddy cum so deep inside you." He reaches down between them, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in firm circles. "Cum on my dick like a good girl. Show Daddy how much you love his big cock."
"Jesus Christ." He watches as she throws her head back, tits bouncing, back arched. She's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He loses control, his hips stuttering as he releases hot, thick ropes deep inside her. "Damn it."
He slowly pulls out and props himself up on one elbow, studying her flushed face with a mix of satisfaction and something almost tender. His fingers trace patterns on her collarbone. "Look what you did to your daddy." He nods down at his glistening cock, still semi-hard.
she smiles lazily “mhmm”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "You've utterly ruined me, you know that?" He leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then rests his forehead against hers. "How am I supposed to concentrate on work tomorrow after this?"
she smiles.
"And don't even get me started on how I'm going to sleep tonight, knowing your sweet little pussy is soaking wet with my cum." He groans, shifting his hips slightly, his cock twitching against her thigh. "Fuck, I'm getting hard again."
He rolls his hips against her, letting her feel his growing erection. "You little minx. You know what you do to me." He kisses her deeply, his hands roaming over her curves possessively. "I should probably let you rest, but fuck if I can resist this pussy."
“We could cuddle with it in?”
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, pulling her close against his chest. "You're too fucking perfect." He spoons behind her, allowing his hardening cock to nestle between her thighs from behind. "Cuddling with my dick inside, hmm?"
she puts her leg over his thigh to open herself more.
He groans deeply, feeling his cock slide deeper into her wet heat. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. "Fucking hell." He kisses her shoulder gently. "This is the best kind of cuddling." His cock throbs inside her.
they both fall asleep. Robby doesn’t mean to til he wakes up to his alarm for work. Shit.. he spent the night…
He jolts awake, his alarm blaring loudly. He blinks rapidly, realizing he's still buried deep inside you, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. "Shit," he mutters, glancing at the clock. "I have to be at the hospital in an hour and a half."
she nods, “you can shower here.. put on your scrubs and go..”
“Mhm." He carefully pulls out, wincing slightly. He swipes his thumb between your legs gently, checking if you're sore. "Damn," he mutters softly, then heads to the shower. He quickly washes up, then pulls on his scrubs.
she stays asleep since he’s making her take the week off after her shoulder Injury, “have a good day”
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at you sleeping peacefully. He smiles softly, shaking his head. "You too," he murmurs softly. He grabs his bag and headphones, then leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him. He walks to the hospital, listening to his favorite playlist.
#dr robby x reader#dr michael robinavitch#dr robinavitch#dr robby#dr robby smut#the pitt fic#the pitt
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Oh my gosh I will give you anything for more Jungwon

Honestly as I've said before something about jungwon and making out is just 🤝
OK hear me out.
Fwb jungwon x fem reader
It was supposed to be just a casual thing.
No strings. No expectations. Just heat, release, and the quiet agreement to pretend it didn’t mean more.
But right now, with your back pressed to his bedroom door and Jungwon’s mouth on your neck, that line was starting to blur.
“You came over late,” he murmured against your skin, lips dragging down to your collarbone. His voice was low, rough—laced with that tone he only used when you were alone. “Guess I’ve got you trained now.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands were already in his shirt, tugging it up, fingers grazing over warm skin. “Shut up, Jungwon.”
He smirked, then caught your chin and kissed you—hard. His mouth was confident, all lips and tongue and just the right amount of bite, the kind of kiss that stole your breath and left your knees weak. You gripped his hair, pulled him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, deep and low.
“You missed me,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “I can feel it.”
“Cocky much?”
His hands slipped under your shirt, sliding up your waist, thumbs brushing over bare skin. “Only when I’m right.”
You answered him with a kiss that shut him up—grabbing his face, pulling him in, letting everything you didn’t want to say bleed into it. The way his hands gripped your hips, the way he pushed you back against the door like he needed you right now—it was always like this. Fast, hot, greedy. Like both of you were trying to forget the way it felt when it stopped.
He kissed down your jaw, sucking a mark just under your ear that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Bed,” you whispered.
But he didn’t move.
He just pressed harder against you, lips dragging down your throat again, voice hot and teasing. “We always make it to the bed eventually.” Another kiss, lower. “But I like you right here.”
You weren’t supposed to feel anything. Not from just kissing. Not from Jungwon’s breathless laugh when you tugged his hair. Not from the way he looked at you when you weren’t looking at him.
But it was there. In every kiss. Every groan. Every touch that lingered too long.
And you knew, deep down, this wasn’t just about fun anymore.
Not when he kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
The air between you thickened, humming with tension as Jungwon’s hands roamed your waist, his thumbs slipping just under the band of your shorts. But it was his mouth—God, his mouth—that had you unraveling.
He kissed like he meant it.
Like he was trying to tell you something with every slow pull of his lips against yours. It wasn’t rushed—he wasn’t chasing the finish line. He was savoring you. Devouring you. Giving you every ounce of his attention like the rest of the world could wait.
Your hands gripped his jaw, tilting his face just right, deepening the kiss until your lips were slick and swollen, breaths coming faster between each drawn-out press of mouth to mouth. When he bit your bottom lip—just enough to make you gasp—he growled low in his throat and chased the sound with his tongue, soothing the sting.
“You drive me crazy when you do that,” he muttered, his voice nothing but heat and hunger as his forehead pressed to yours. “Look at you.”
Your legs bumped the edge of his bed, and this time, he didn’t tease—he walked you back, mouths never parting, until you were falling onto the sheets with him above you, propped on his elbows.
And then… more kissing.
Slow at first—lazy, drugging kisses that made your body melt into his. His lips dragged over yours with maddening control, tongue dipping between your parted lips to taste you deeper, better. You could feel him smile against your mouth when you whimpered softly, one hand threading into his hair and pulling him closer.
“Addicted,” he murmured, breath hot against your lips. “Can’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t even matter if we go further—I just want this.”
And he proved it.
He kissed down the side of your mouth, your cheek, across your jaw, then back—like he couldn’t stay away. Over and over, his lips met yours again with growing need, like he was imprinting himself on you one kiss at a time.
Your bodies were pressed together now, tangled in sheets and heat and tension so thick it was dizzying. Every shift of his hips, every low moan into your mouth, every slow grind of his lips on yours was a silent confession neither of you wanted to say out loud.
But it was there.
In every kiss.
And neither of you wanted to stop.
You lost track of how long you’d been kissing.
Jungwon’s mouth moved over yours like he owned it—slow, coaxing, and then suddenly deeper, rougher, like he couldn’t get close enough. His body was heavy over yours, chest to chest, heat radiating through thin clothes and the sheets now twisted around your legs. Every kiss made your pulse stutter, and every time he pulled away, just barely, you chased his lips like you needed him to breathe.
Then he rolled his hips.
A slow, subtle grind, just enough to make your breath catch and your fingers tighten in his hair. He groaned against your mouth, and that sound—that deep, hungry, breathless sound—sent a pulse of heat straight through your core.
“Feel that?” he whispered, lips brushing yours, hips rocking again. “That’s what you do to me.”
You whimpered, the friction sharp and perfect through your thin shorts, and you arched into him instinctively. He kissed you harder in response, tongue sliding into your mouth, one hand gripping your hip to hold you still as he moved against you again—slow, grinding, like he was savoring every second of the pressure between you.
Your bodies fell into rhythm, lips locked, breathing ragged. Each slow roll of his hips made your legs tighten around him, every kiss more desperate than the last—messy, open-mouthed, wet with need. You could feel him now, thick and hard against you, and the way he moved—like he was barely holding back—only made you want more.
His hand slipped under your shirt, splaying across your stomach, fingers warm and firm. But he didn’t rush. He just kept kissing you, grinding into you, letting the heat build until you were gasping into his mouth.
“Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice breaking between kisses.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, breath hot against your lips. “Yeah, baby?”
“Don’t stop.”
His lips curled into the faintest smirk before he kissed you again—deep, slow, and unrelenting—rolling his hips in time with the soft, desperate sounds he pulled from your throat.
The night was still young and the both of you were nowhere near done.
#enhypen#enhypen smut#enhypen hard hours#enha smut#sunghoon#jake smut#jake sim#sunghoon smut#lee heeseung#anon ask#jay enhypen#jay smut#jungwon smut#jungwon
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≡;-꒰ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕
╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | VALENTINE'S EVENT !
tags : established relationship, general teasing and banter, kisses, cuddles, lots and lots of fluff, xavier glows when he's happy <3
wc : 2k
an : I MISS HIM. I MISS HIM I MISS HIM I MISS HIM I MISS HIM I MISS HIM AHUHUHUHU i needed to get this out of my system omg,,, this is the happiest i've been with writing for a while tysm @bunbunnies for the request AND HAPPY WHITE DAYYY !! (p.s. please listen to the song i swear it adds to the vibes) (p.p.s. additional tag @ourlittleuluru for also inspiring this hehe)
taglist : under the cut! (SIGN UP HERE)
ko-fi jar / commissions
Everyday is enough of a special day as long as it's with you.
Your eyes blinked open.
The advantage of sleeping in Xavier's room was that the blinds were drawn—it was the perfect environment to be conducive for sleep, so much so that the peaked, late-afternoon sun, did little to stir you awake. The sheets were warm, and cozy, and soft… You could sink into the mattress, so cloud-like and weightless.
It was dangerous, in a sense. Staying here made you forget what other things you had on your to-do list for the day. But turning your head to the side to rest your eyes upon the soundly sleeping figure next to you made everything worth it. Warm sunlight peeked in slightly through the blinds, illuminating the room in a soft, dim glow, but you didn't really need it. If anything, the only light you felt that you needed was right here, right next to you.
You noticed faint, barely-noticeable particles of light floating around the crown of his head, and you smiled.
Those weren't from the sunlight.
He must be having a good dream…
You shifted slightly. The movement pulled you away from his embrace just a little bit, but it was enough to get him to stir.
"Mmmnh…"
He didn't open his eyes, but his arms tugged you closer by the waist. An instinctive reaction, you could only assume, and a soft laugh fell from your lips in response. Something about the way he held you made him feel akin to a weighted blanket; despite being clearly asleep, his grip on you was firm enough that you could barely wiggle free from him this time.
You felt sleepy nuzzles into your shoulder, and you smiled and pat his arm.
Pats wouldn't work, of course.
Gently, you shook him, trying to nudge him off of you.
Bleary eyes opened, vision unfocused.
"What… time is it?"
A playful scoff on your end. "Gee, I dunno, Xavier. I'm kinda stuck here."
He blinked, for a moment. Once, twice. It took a while, and you patiently waited, eyebrow raised as your words—and the way he was hugging you so firmly—finally registered in his head. A hint of sheepishness was present on his gaze as he allowed you free from his grasp. You were quick to soothe with a kiss to the tip of his nose.
He sat up with you as you moved to reach for your phone, and out of the corner of your eye, you could see him rubbing his eyes as if it would do anything to help the sleepiness subside.
12:30 in the afternoon.
This was new—you never got to sleep in this much when you were alone, but sleeping with Xavier seemed to bring out newer, sleepier, admittedly lazier sides to you that you didn't know you could have. It was a good thing, of course; at least this time, you could actually rest. There was something freeing about it. Xavier never judged you for sleeping in with him; in fact, he'd much rather have you do just that than wake up without him.
And then your eyes drifted towards the date.
February 14th.
A moment of realization dawned.
You'd gotten so caught up in this just being another simple, restful day off, that you'd completely forgotten…
Slowly, sheepishly, you set your phone down and turned to Xavier.
Still clearly a little out of it, he was sitting up, staring blankly in your general direction. It seemed as if his mind was still asleep, slow blinks not particularly focusing on even you, or anything else. His hair was a mess, a few strands sticking out. His pajama top looked a little skewed—no doubt, if he could still be under the covers at this very moment, he certainly would have been.
But he also looked so freaking cute.
A moment of silence passed like that, a silly smile on your face as you tilted your head—because how could you look away from that? Few others would have the privilege of seeing the Association's most formidable Hunter doing adorable little eye rubs and trying to stay awake in his own bed. In fact, no one else probably did aside from you. And it was a sight to appreciate.
It didn't take too long for his gaze to focus back on you, and, whether out of another instinctual pull or out of a slight sense of embarrassment for realizing you'd been staring at him this whole time, he pulled you back against his chest. Automatically you curled your figure into him, ear resting against his heart as you listened to its ever-steady thrum.
"…It's almost one in the afternoon," you huffed. Yet there was no resistance in your voice; your arms wrapped around him in a reciprocal manner.
"Mhm. But… I want to stay like this a while longer."
"This is unfair, you're just too comfy…"
He shifted, coaxing your head up to look at him. Upon meeting his gaze, you could see that most of the sleep had since melted away to give way to a certain sense of fondness. "We don't have plans today," he murmured. "Can't we stay in a little longer?"
It was so difficult to say no.
A smile peeked at the corners of your lips.
"Well… how about, what do you want to eat later? We've missed breakfast, so this might as well be…"
"Brunch… right?"
"Mhm!" Your eyes fluttered as he reached over to trace your cheek, light, gentle touches that lulled you into a sense of comfort. "We could… order some takeout, maybe? It's been a while…"
"Sure. We can order from that place you like."
You watched, your own gaze softening, as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.
"Xavier…"
"What do you want to do today?"
He tucked an awry strand of your hair away from your face this time, but the question made your eyes light up. Something in you knew what he wanted to hear—that he probably, likely wanted to just stay in and sleep.
Yet, you sat up, and you could have laughed at his expression. He blinked, taking another moment to process, and his brows furrowed ever so slightly. Unlike last time, he didn't sit up with you.
"I… I have an idea!" you nudged him. "Listen, you said so yourself. We don't have plans today… And, remember all those movies we said we'd watch together? Isn't this the perfect time for us to—"
He cut you off.
Another second had you practically yanked back down to him, and you let out a laugh.
"Five more minutes…"
—
You wondered if it was supposed to end up this way.
Messing around in the kitchen turned brunch into an odd combination of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, another reminder of just how easily things could flow into their own thing, when it was just the two of you. You could argue about how unhealthy your habits had been today, but one day was just one day, wasn't it? You had no real plans today—in the end, what it settled into was a mutual agreement to indulge in the day a little.
But what you hadn't expected was to walk into a living room that no longer… looked like the living room that you knew.
You didn't think you'd spent that much time fixing up the kitchen, but the stark change to the living room space proved otherwise.
Prepped for your little home theater date, the room had been dimmed, lights switched off—except, even with the lights on, you wouldn't have been able to pinpoint where exactly the television was, or where exactly the couch was, or where exactly Xavier was. Instead, what stood in front of you was a large amalgamation of blankets, and bedsheets, and pillows… Not quite organized in the least, nor matched in shade or size, but certainly very… big. You knew that these were all the extras that you had stored, and you couldn't quite describe what was in front of you.
A canopy?
A castle?
A… fort?
You stood there for a while, head tilted, noting a rummaging going around on the inside. It took a moment before you heard a little click, and the inside of the pillow fort glowed a warm, inviting orange.
Xavier poked his head out from under one of the blankets.
"Hi," he nodded at you.
The sparkle in his eyes told you that he was quite proud of yourself.
"…Hi," you laughed. "What's with the living room, Xav?"
"You… said you wanted to watch some movies. I figured I could turn it into something cozy."
"Except I'm always cozy with you."
"Then, extra cozy."
"Did you just want another place to fall asleep in?"
"…No…"
With a laugh, you waved your hand, and crawled under the fort with him.
The space was smaller inside than you'd expected it to be, all fluffy and warm and, true to his word—cozy. It certainly didn't look like much from the outside, but snuggling with him under a separate blanket of your own, leaning against the foot of the couch, the television settled in front of you… truly did make it feel like a personal little theater for the both of you.
Once again, perhaps instinctually, you curled sideways into him and lay your head on his chest. With one arm wrapped around you to keep you securely tucked into him, he used the other to point upwards.
Fairy lights.
Several strings of them, the very source of the little glow you'd been seeing from outside. The lights emitted from them weren't particularly strong, but all of it turned this whole thing into something that was—again—cozy.
A hand reached out, and you let out a soft laugh. "They look like stars."
He followed your motion, reaching out with you. His hand placed next to yours made yours incredibly small, but it made you smile. "Yeah," he agreed, "but they're also stars that don't feel too far away from us."
"Kinda like we're stargazing, huh? Without the cold…"
Your fingers intertwined with his, and he brought your hands down towards his mouth. A soft peck to your knuckles, before he nuzzled your hands against his cheek.
"Well… Anywhere with you feels like stargazing. Since the only star I really want to be looking at… is right here."
His words drew out the air from your lungs. Your eyes met—there was a certain shine in his, blue eyes glowing beneath the strings of light hanging above you. Even this alone, the way he looked at you, could have been enough to drown you. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks; such simple words had you floundering in an instant.
"You're so unfair," you murmured.
There was no bite to your words.
"Am I?"
He shifted to dim the fairy lights, and a flick of his hand had his evol playing around with the lighting. Barely a couple of tries were needed for him to secure a spot on the 'wall' of your little safety fort, where shadows danced along the lined sheets. Slowly, he brought his pinky over to draw your hand back to his, and the shadow of a rabbit formed on the wall.
A giggle fell from your lips. "Hey, that looks like Bunbun!"
"That you've gotten three of in a row just last week…"
You nudged him, pulling your hand to make another, smaller rabbit. "Weeelllll, it kind of looks like you, too~"
Sneaking a glance at him showed a little smile spreading on his own features, but you had little time to recognize the brief flash of mischief in his eyes before the rabbit he'd been projecting to the wall swiftly turned into the head of a wolf.
You gasped, drawing your own rabbit away. "Xavier!"
"I thought you were more sensitive to traps."
"But they're cute—!"
"Sometimes… you should expect the unexpected."
You let out a squeal as the 'wolf' began to advance towards your rabbit, and you immediately draw your hand away and buried your face into his chest. "Silly!" Laughing, you made light punches at his arm. "Take your wolfie away from me!"
And it was silly, but something about it made you feel all fuzzy inside. He laughed in return; it was the sound of it that made you stop, pausing to cherish the warmth that spread through you as a result of it.
Yet the more you look at him, the more you realize that the glow within your little blanket fort, pillow fort, castle whatever it was—wasn't quite coming from much of an external source, but from… him. Specks of those same little sprinkles of light scattered around him, and you could have sworn the very outline of his figure felt like it was glowing.
Smiling, you shifted closer to him, fingers moving to thread through his hair. "Xavier…" you chuckled. "What's going on?"
"What… do you mean?"
You reached out to poke his cheek. "Xavier glows when he's happy."
It took a moment.
You watched as his expression shifted ever so slightly, the flash of surprise making itself visible for a moment before settling into a fondness you knew was reserved only for you. You could marvel at it, really. There were many things about Xavier that you've come to know all this time that you've been spending with him, the past couple years of your relationship. Things like the subtle movement of his gaze when he's caught off-guard, or the twitch of his lips when he tries to keep himself from smiling. He was more expressive than people realized—moreso with the little things, and a little less, sometimes, with his words.
"Because I am happy." He leaned in, closer. The tips of your noses touched, and he nuzzled against you gently. "Are you?"
His hand raised, a familiar bunny light bouncing around the both of you as he smiled softly. That bunny, the very same one from that campfire, the very same one where—as far as you could recall—you'd made one of your very first promises with him.
Tell me when you're overwhelmed next time.
Something in you told you this was a similar moment.
It was quiet for a while, your eyes staying locked. Bated breath formed a certain tension in the air that wasn't unbearable, but easily had your heart skipping a beat. If you leaned back down, listened to his heartbeat… you wondered if you would feel the same thing. Yet somehow, in this moment… it felt as if your hearts had never been this close.
It was Xavier who broke the silence.
"I didn't forget, you know."
You didn't pull away, but you blinked. "…Huh?"
"Today. It's Valentine's day… Isn't it?"
"Oh…"
"I didn't forget."
He nodded his head, once. The smile on his face never quite left, even as he assessed the traces of panic on your own.
"I— I did, though… Sorry. I don't have anything, I didn't really—"
"It's okay."
You blinked. Again. You noticed that Xavier had been catching you by surprise a fair amount this day. "Huh?"
"It's okay," he repeated, patiently. "Because the only gift that I want… is already right next to me. And she's the same star as the only star I wish to be looking at."
Once again, it was Xavier who broke the tension.
Before you could react, before you could fluster yourself over his words—
He leaned down, lips touching against yours.
One kiss. "I love you."
Another kiss. "I love you."
A third kiss. "I love you, still."
You were left dizzy at the quick succession of kisses, feather-light, barely there, and you could practically feel the way his lips turned up into a satisfied smile.
"They say three times' the charm… right?"
Cheeky.
And yet, looking back into his eyes pushed the mischief in them aside, and instead what you found in them was— love.
So, so, much love.
More than the three times he's said it today, and more than… whatever Valentine's Day was supposed to be.
Something swelled in your chest.
"Sometimes, I think that, from the far reaches of the night sky… A star has arrived on this planet." You spoke slowly, formulating your words, and then you bumped your nose against his with a smile. "And I also think that star happens to be laying right next to me."
Arms wrapped around his neck, and it was your turn to shower his face in a little flurry of kisses, relishing the soft laughs that fall from his own lips.
"So if I'm the only star you want to look at," you murmured, "then you're the only star I want to spend the rest of my days with. I hope… tonight won't be the last night we get to spend with each other. I want more nights with you. More like this."
And he chuckled.
"No, it won't be the last."
Slowly, his arms trailed to rest on your waist, gently guiding you to settle on top of him. Happily, you pressed your forehead against his. In this moment, you realized that you loved, all too much, to look into his eyes like this.
"…Your eyes look like stars," you laughed quietly.
"Yours hold all of them."
"No, that's wrong, Xavier. It holds one star. That's you."
He smiled.
"…Mn. It won't be the last, not tonight." He said again, brushing your hair from your face. "We've followed the pull of fate to this moment, so I'll make sure to stay by your side. Now, and always. Maybe, this night… holds the hope there is for us to always be together."
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I've got you

Paring(s): Wanda Maximoff X female reader
Summary: Wanda’s been carrying everything on her own, but tonight, you’re the one holding her
Word count: 1.3K
Tags | content: nothing, just fluff
A/N: I was feeling soft and wrote this, enjoy!!
Fridays used to mean something. Pizza. Bad sitcom reruns. You in her lap on the couch while she kissed your shoulder and made you laugh between sips of red wine. Those were the nights when everything felt easy, effortless. But lately?
It’s just another day survived.
You stepped into the apartment at 6:47 PM, already sensing the quiet. Not the kind of quiet that you found comforting, but the kind that pressed into your chest. Heavy. No music, no lights on. Just the low glow from her office down the hall.
You kicked off your shoes, slipped out of your coat, and walked slowly toward the door. It was cracked open just enough for you to peek inside.
There she was. Shoulders hunched, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, one hand pressed against her forehead as she stared at the screen. Her focus was so intense, you could tell she hadn’t budged in hours. Her hair was tied back messily, with strands falling loose around her face, and the blazer she’d been wearing was thrown carelessly onto the floor. Her heels were abandoned, one of them upside down, a small sign of how lost she was in whatever she was doing.
“Wanda,” you called softly, your voice gentle.
She didn’t even look up. “I’ll be out in a second,” she said, voice flat, as though she were speaking to her screen, not you.
It was like she didn’t even hear you, like she was drowning in deadlines and pressure, lost in the grind.
You took a step into the room, standing in the doorway, watching her. “You haven’t moved.”
She stiffened at the sound of your voice but didn’t look up. “I have a deadline,” she muttered, frustration curling her words. “I have to finish this.”
You stepped forward, moving silently until you were behind her, wrapping your arms around her from behind. You rested your chin lightly on her shoulder, the warmth of her body mixing with the quiet tension in the air. She tensed at first, like she always did when she was wound so tight, but didn’t pull away.
“Wanda,” you whispered into her neck. “You’ve done enough. You don’t have to finish saving the world tonight.”
The sigh she let out was long, drawn out, and filled with all the exhaustion she’d been holding in. She didn’t answer right away, just let the weight of it all hang between you. She leaned into you a little, her body relaxing just enough to show you how much she needed this, but wouldn’t admit it.
“I’m not saving the world,” she said softly. “I’m just... doing what needs to be done.”
“No,” you corrected gently. “You’re burning yourself out.”
She turned her head just slightly, her eyes not quite meeting yours. “I’m fine,” she said, but even the words couldn’t hide the exhaustion in her voice.
“You’re not,” you said, your voice softer but steady. “You’re anxious. You’re exhausted. You haven’t sat down and breathed in days.”
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, until finally, Wanda’s fingers trembled as she reached forward and pushed the laptop closed. Not because she was done, but because she finally admitted what she needed. The work could wait. The pressure could wait. She couldn’t.
“It’s just been a long week,” she whispered.
You kissed her temple gently, lingering there for a moment longer than you normally would, your lips soft against her skin. “I know,” you said quietly. “Come on. Let me take care of you.”
You drew a bath, the lavender and bergamot filling the air, soft and grounding. The water swirled, warm and inviting, and you dimmed the lights just enough to set the mood. You lit the candle, letting its flame flicker quietly in the corner, casting soft shadows against the walls. The little speaker hummed, playing instrumental music that wasn’t trying to say anything.
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her feet barely making a sound on the tile as she watched you. There was a stillness in her posture, the quiet kind that had her unsure whether to let herself fully be taken care of or to hold back.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she said, her voice soft, almost reluctant.
But you smiled, handing her the towel. “I want to. You do everything for everyone else. Let me do something for you.”
For a moment, she just stood there, staring at you. Wanda, the one who was always the strong one, the one who carried so much, who didn’t ask for help. But tonight, she took a step toward you, slow and uncertain, and let you help her undress. It wasn’t rushed. It felt reverent. Every piece of clothing came off slowly. You folded her clothes with care, kissed the inside of her wrist before you led her to the bath.
She sank into the water with a breath that sounded too close to relief. Her eyes fluttered shut as the heat wrapped around her, soft and quiet, like she could finally let go. And you didn’t speak. Just sat beside her, your hand brushing her arm under the water, fingers tracing little paths on her skin. No words were needed. It was your way of telling her, “You’re safe now. You can stop.”
When she was ready, you helped her out of the tub and wrapped her in the towel, drying her with gentle, careful hands.
Then you grabbed the comfiest t-shirt from your shared drawer, soft and unmistakably yours.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her damp hair falling around her face, eyes tired. “I look like a mess,” she mumbled, barely meeting your gaze.
You kissed her cheek, smiling softly. “You look like my girl,” you whispered, as if that was the only thing that mattered.
Later, in bed, she curled into you without a word. No teasing. No playful smirks. Just that vulnerable sort of quiet she rarely let herself slip into.
Usually, it was the other way around. Wanda was the one who held you— arms around your waist, lips in your hair, grounding you with her calm. But tonight… Tonight, you got to hold her. And god, it felt so soft. So right. Like this was how you could love her best, by giving her somewhere to fall.
She tucked herself into you slowly, one leg hooked over yours, arms wrapped around your waist. Her face was warm against your collarbone, her breath leaving the lightest shiver on your skin. You didn’t rush her. You just traced lazy shapes along her spine.
“This feels nice,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Her hands slid up under your shirt, not with intent. Just need. Just the simple desire to feel you. Her thumb brushed gently against your side, slow and grounding. Like she was reminding herself you were real. Like you were reminding her she was allowed to rest.
You whispered, “I’ve got you,” into the space between her breaths.
She let out a soft sound in response, barely more than a hum, and slowly, her body softened, her grip loosening, her breathing evening out.
Her face tucked closer into your neck, and you felt the shift, when she let go, when she gave in to sleep.
You held her tighter, pressing your cheek to her hair.
#wanda fanfic#wanda maximoff x reader#wlw#lesbian#wlw post#wlw yearning#wanda#wanda maximoff#mommy wanda#wandavison#wanda x you#wanda x reader#wanda marvel#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda x y/n#wanda vision#wandavision#im too gay for this#my baby just needed some love
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Honey and Venom [Prologue] | Aemond Targaryen
vampire!Aemond x fem!Reader
Summary: On the brink of death and in moments of desperation, you are lead to the mysterious, fearsome Lord who resides in the century-old castle of Harrenhal, releasing people from the clutches of death in exchange for an unspoken price. Only this time, Aemond finds himself violently drawn to the sweetness of your blood and craves far more than just the debt he is owed.
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: MDNI 18+ only! illness (fever, infection, fatigue, shakes), blood!! canon divergence of course, allusions to sex but not really, talk of death, not yet edited. pls lmk if I've missed anything!
Author's Note: Ahhhh, yes another self indulgent mini series!! I've always been in love with gothic fiction etc so I was super excited. This was initially meant to be a Halloween time contribution but that's peak exam szn soooo didn't happen and I actually couldn't get this idea out of my head so I had to at least get the prologue out. Also bc I need creative breaks from DC to keep up my motivation and this gives me a great outlet. Anyways, please lmk if we are interested in updates and as always lmk of your thoughts! xoxo
Masterlist
The rhythmic sway of the carriage tempted you into a peace which had been hard to find as of late. Even as you gazed upon the darkened forestry which at once yet still slowly disappeared into paths of cobblestones and walls of concrete. It was an eerie castle that had goosebumps prickling at your skin and while you barely turned your head from the pillow upon which it rested, you wondered if Oliver had noticed the sharp sense of dread that settled over the air through the gates of Harrenhal’s once great fortress.
When Doctor Grayward had told you that there was nothing more he could do for you, Oliver had sat by your side, holding your hand tightly as if you would turn to dust and slip through his fingers should he loosen his grip. Your brother was a calm and collected man and it had pained you to see the anguish on his face when he begged the doctor for another way to liberate you from this unknown illness.
So with an apprehensive sigh and a mumble of your youth and potential the doctor had told you of Harrenhal’s reclusive Lord who was rumoured to bring miracles upon families, freeing those who were willing to pay the unspoken price from all kinds of deathly illnesses. It was dangerous, the doctor had warned. The townspeople both revered and were terrified of the Lord Targaryen. Cautiously, Oliver had asked why only to receive nothing more than a shrug and another sigh.
“He will cure her of her illness. I’m beyond certain of it.”
The well of options had run dry with Doctor Grayward’s cluelessness in the face of your fever and tremors. And while you had told Oliver that it would be foolish simply to follow his word and journey days to what seemed to be the middle of nowhere for something that probably wouldn’t work, he had become desperate.
Grasping at whatever thin hairs of hope that he could reach, Oliver had put an end to the discussion and all but dragged you to the carriage the next morning.
Bromley, the driver of your carriage, had at first protested leading your carriage to the fortress upon Oliver’s mention of the mysterious Lord. He had removed his hat, eyes wide and frantic, shaking his head as he all but begged your brother to be dismissed. Oliver was having none of it and you felt a pang of sympathy for Bromley, whose eyes welled with tears as he picked up the reins once more.
Regardless, Bromley refused to go any further than the Estate gates, stepping down from his ledge and telling Oliver that there was no salary that he could pay him which would convince him to choose death over unemployment.
There was a sudden drop in the temperature as you stepped down from the carriage on shaky legs, telling Oliver not to be ridiculous and let the poor man be. He was clearly very distressed and something within these lands frightened him into a blabbering, shaking mess. You considered for another time that this was a bad idea.
Oliver had let you hold onto him to stay upright, all but dragging you to the entrance of the Estate as you struggled to find the strength to hold yourself on your feet, your breath snatched from your chest at the slightest movement. A grand arch framed the doorway made of blackened stone, carved intricately to points and perfected angles. It was an ominous architecture, which you would have admired had it been day time and the shadows of the night didn’t cast a horrific feeling of dread in your bones. That dread became one with the intense fire that burned your skin from your fever and you gasped, pulling whatever air you could into your aching chest.
You thought about Bromley when Oliver reached for the large, stone door-knocker that was carved as a circled snake. Had he really believed he would find death here? Why?
Welcome gusts of wind blew against your face when the door started to open inwards before Oliver had the chance to knock. The door groaned loudly, similarly to how you imagined wailing angels to sound. Just as Oliver hastily adjusted his grip on you, you first noticed the pin straight silver hair of the tall, lean man who stood in the entrance way and gazed directly at you with a single violet eye.
He was devastating. With a solemn glow of an unfamiliar beauty under his skin that enhanced the sharp contours of his face and the red of his lips, his presence was overwhelming even as he stood silently and simply observed. Brutal calm was all that you could decipher from his expression but there was a deeper, far more intense darkness in his eye that spoke of something unrestrained and feral, passionate and destructive.
Aemond Targaryen was both captivating and lethal. The moonlight was much of a blessing, you managed to notice even in your disoriented state of mind, as it cast a perfect light over him in a way that made him seem angelic.
The first thing he had noticed was that you carried little else aside from a small rucksack loosely hanging from Oliver’s fingers, which was only a breeze away from falling to the floor, and the sack that was tucked against your stomach. Dusty red linen covered your body, loosely as if the dress were tailored incorrectly, dirty and torn at the edges.
Surprisingly underwhelming for the raging storm that you had set upon Aemond’s mind and his senses, the moment you had been close enough for him to feel you.
Somewhere close by the gates, when you had stepped from the confines of your carriage, the enchanting, mesmerising scent of you had hit Aemond with such force that he had to catch himself against a wall. A primal, crushing temptation had dried his throat and overpowered his mind for the time it had taken for Oliver to all but carried you to his doorstep. Without the chance to stop and calm the storm of a million untameable urges, Aemond had raced down from his study in a matter of seconds, stilling completely at the small sight in front of him.
Your blood smelled so strongly, Aemond briefly found coherence in his mind to wonder if you were cut anywhere.
Sweet. So, so sweet. And a punchy bitterness of an illness within your lungs, he presumed, from the rattle he could hear with each strenuous inhale.
Aemond hummed, his fingers twitching against the wood of the door in restraint, trying to get a grip on the thrum of need and desire that scorched him. His tongue ran loosely across the sharp points of his canines once before he clenched his jaw and stared at you expectantly.
It was no unfamiliar sight. Townspeople from all across the realm would find themselves at Harrenhal, balancing on the final string on the brink of snapping, reeking of illness and death. Yet Aemond, despite his efforts to remain stoic, fought hard to compose himself so that he wouldn’t bury his fangs into your tempting neck and suck you dry.
Infection of the lungs would not be likely to have spread to your blood at this stage, but Aemond took no risks. Even more so when he was already weakened by the way your pretty eyes unravelled him violently despite the lethargy he could see in them.
The last time Aemond had felt a hunger and a thirst so intense and so violent, it had resulted in the destruction of a town what must have been hundreds of years ago.
Oliver had been speaking. Aemond didn’t care to listen.
Instead he stepped out of the entrance, coming so close that he could practically already taste you on his tongue, the spike in your heartbeat at his sudden proximity sending a thrill down his spine. He reached to take your arm from Oliver to help you inside, jaw clenching harshly at the first touch of his hand under your bicep, revelling in the way you squirmed away from him with a whine.
Good, Aemond thought. You have every reason to be afraid of something like him.
When Oliver jerked you away, Aemond growled. “Give her to me. I can help her.”
“I can bring my sister inside myself, my Lord,” Oliver only held you tighter against him. “I will stay with her. And as I said before, we can discuss payment.”
“You will not,” Aemond dropped his voice, narrowing his eye and reaching once more for your arm. You didn’t have the strength to keep yourself up as it was and so when he pulled you into his chest, with such strength that Oliver had all but fallen to the Lord’s feet, you collapsed right into his arms. “You will leave her with me. Ask no questions and do not return for seven nights. I will take a vial of your blood as payment. Bring it when you return and do not speak a word of it to anyone. I will bind you to your promise using your blood. You will not be able to break it. Should you find a way, I will know and she will suffer a death far worse than what she already faces. Do you understand?”
Another whine fell from your lips. A pretty sound that had a wave of heat rushing to Aemond’s cock at the weak, hopeless fear that he could both hear and smell on you.
You looked to Oliver, suddenly far too exhausted even to find your voice, watching as he hesitated. The Lord Targaryen, who was both beautiful and terrifying, only waited with an ominous stillness. While his body held no warmth, he left a burn on your skin where he held you, trembling under his touch despite the way your body effortlessly fit perfectly against his own.
Oliver nodded slowly and apprehensively. “That is all the payment you require?”
“No. But only your sister here-” Aemond silenced Oliver’s protests as soon as they started. “Only your sister can satisfy the rest of my payment. Do not worry, I will keep her safe so long as you do as I say.”
There was an oddly calming reassurance in the way the Lord spoke. You watched Oliver relax visibly at his words, as you did too, taking the mysterious Lord’s reassurance with an ease that silenced all of the doubts in your mind. Your eyelids drooped as the last of your energy drifted away, your mind growing foggy with exhaustion that only worsened your condition.
The arm that held you reached around so that he had his hands free but still kept you caged against him, pulling you tighter into the Lord’s hard body. All that you could understand was the feeling of him surrounding you as you drifted slowly towards unconsciousness and delirium, your condition becoming too much to bear as it usually did at this hour.
All the questions and fears you had disappeared, and you barely noticed as Aemond held you with one arm, reaching towards Oliver with the other. He brought your brother’s wrist to his lips, biting into his skin after flashing him a purposeful grin that had his long canines glinting under the moonlight. The underside of his eye darkened as he sucked, long lines of darkened black veins littering the top of his cheekbone.
Oliver’s eyes widened and he instantly started thrashing, fighting against the Lord’s hold and failing. “Monster! I will not leave my sister with you. Wait, no–!”
Aemond pulled away, letting your brother’s wrist bleed as he licked his lips that shone crimson, and sliced his own palm, holding it out and collecting both his own blood and Olivers in his hand. He forced it against Oliver’s lips, threatening him to lick and swallow the mixture of their blood, ignoring the way Oliver gagged and fought. “It is done.”
The sleep that came over you was short lived, and you gasped, coughing as you heard the heavy door slam behind you. You were inside suddenly, the loud thumping of Oliver’s fist against the door and his yelling became muted. A sharp, staggering fear gripped at your throat and stabbed at your belly and you let out a pathetic yell, your body failing to just move. Grunting, you tried to lose the haze that had overcome you, unable to find the strength even to lift your hand to reach towards the entrance. “Don’t be scared, my sweet,” Aemond chuckled deeply, his mouth watering as he held you against him. He pressed his face into the crevice of your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning gently, squeezing the flesh of your hips with his hands. Gods, he could devour you. “I’ll take good care of you. You will have your strength back very soon.”
#iTS 4AM#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen imagines#aemond targaryen smut#aemond fanfiction#aemond one eye#aemond smut#aemond targaryen#hotd x reader#house of the dragon#aemond x reader#aemond fic#prince aemond#prince aemond targaryen#hotd aemond#aemond angst#house of the dragon aemond#aemond x you#aemond x oc#aemond x y/n#aemond x fem!reader#aemond x female#aemond x fem!oc#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen x female reader#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond fandom#aemond fan fiction#vampire!Aemond targaryen
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For my request, can you write a oneshot featuring Nanami and a woman reader in an Aladdin AU with chastity and edging please? In the story, Nanami has been hired to work as a palace guard for the sultana aka the reader. But he realizes too late that part of the job involves having his cock locked in a chastity cage and enduring various edging tests to determine his willpower. What do you think?
As You Wish, Princess
I'm so sorry this took so long! Here you go! I truly had fun writing this because subby Nanami isn't requested too often. Also, the premise was really fresh, which is something I've been struggling with. Ideas for JJK seem to be going like hotcakes, and while I can appreciate different takes on the same idea, I always want mine to be different, even if it's slightly.
Warnings: MDNI, coercion, male chastity, edging, ruined orgasm, power dynamics, dubcon

Applying for a position as a palace guard for the precious sultana was something Nanami had done for two reasons; one, the pay was amazing, and two, the position came with living quarters. As someone who had lived a hard life in the small streets of the marketplace as a laborer, there had been no qualms in his mind when a man from the palace had walked through the dusty roads calling out that the palace was hiring help.
When he’d arrived at the outer courtyard, looking dog-eared and dirty, the designated official had looked at him up and down, wrinkling his nose, but had refrained from saying anything on account of his impressively muscled and toned body, the long hours spent dragging bags of rice, wheat, and other essential grains making him akin to a sharp, chiseled, marble statue, something that should belong in a museum for others to wonder at. He towered over the puny official who had directed him to the head guard. They had an array of tests that he needed to pass and he had done so with ease; running a mile within a few minutes, climbing various obstacles to check his core strength, and how quickly he could escape when surrounded on all sides. The only test he had almost failed was swordsmanship, barely managing to take down his opponent, winning by a hair.
“The sultana has a final test of her own, after which it’ll be determined if you can keep the job. Wait here.” The head guard walks off into the cool, marbled entrance of the palace, and Nanami paces, awaiting his return. It takes a while before the guard comes strutting back, and then beckons him to follow. Nanami walks unassumingly behind him eyes scanning the opulence that is the palace. The marble seemed to shine, spotless and polished, with hints of gold tucked away artistically. Small murals adorned the walls and ceilings, rich tapestries hung everywhere.
The guard leads him to a private wing where there is a single door, quite plain looking and rather lackluster. “The sultana is waiting in there. And remember peasant, whatever she tells you to do, do it. No questions, lest you want to be beheaded for impudence. Now go on. Don’t keep her waiting.” He knocks on the door and leaves.
Nanami waits, wondering what kind of test this would be, and then startles when the door opens. You look at him with pretty eyes lined in kohl, dressed in a simple, flowy, full-armed, muslin dress that managed to flatter your figure despite not giving anything away. He bows and waits.
You giggle. “Well, aren’t you polite? Enter, Mr…?”
“Kento Nanami,” he supplies as he raises and walks into the room. The shades were drawn despite the heat, and the room was lit by dim oil lamps scattered across the room. He awaits his permission to sit and hears the click of the door as it shuts behind him. You move towards him, admiring the thickness of his biceps, the broadness of his shoulders, and the sinew and tightness of his thighs, barely contained by the threadbare flowy pants he was wearing.
“What brought you here?” you ask, circling him. Nanami is acutely aware of your gaze but he acts indifferent.
“I was told the sultana needed a bodyguard. It’s a job preferable over manual labor.”
“Oh,” you titter, then come to a halt in front of him. He’s tall, and you have to tilt your head up to look at him. “Is that all? You didn’t come to admire my beauty and grace? Or for the prospect of being the only one who would be accompanying me everywhere? While I’m eating, bathing, changing my garb…none of that came into your mind?”
Truthfully, it hadn’t. The promise of gold, a roof over his head, and food in his belly had been his only motivators. But now as he gauges you standing so sweetly in front of him with those doe-eyes and full lips, he realizes that it made sense you were asking him this. The sultana’s bodyguard needed to have self-control after all, given that parts of the job required being somewhat intimately in proximity to her, as far as the decency laws allowed.
“I admit sultana, no, it hadn’t. But if you are worried about me behaving indecently or taking advantage of you, there’s no reason to worry. I understand my limitations and would never compromise your purity.”
“You wouldn’t?” you cock your head to the side and tsk. “How boring.”
Taken aback, Kento stares at you, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t a reply he had been expecting. Your eyes are glittering now, full of mischief, and he wonders for a split second if you were toying with him. Surely not? The sultana had a reputation to maintain. You may have said it as a joke. He mustn’t take it seriously if he wanted this job.
“I was told that the final test before qualifying to be your bodyguard was set by you, sultana,” he ventures, hoping to change the topic. “If your grace so allows, may I ask what it is?”
You hum, then wander over to one of the divans and settle down on it, fiddling with your neatly styled hair, wondering. Kento truly was a treat for the womanly eyes. How such a delectable-looking specimen had managed to stay hidden for so long truly boggled your mind. However, he was a man, and men were fallible to their desires.
“Have you ever been with a woman, Kento?”
The muscled man looks rather startled at the question. Purity laws meant little to those who were not nobles. Of course he had been with a woman, many in fact, but he remains silent, trying to arrange his features into one of polite inquiry.
“I beg you pardon your grace?”
“You see, our laws dictate I cannot intimately know a man unless he is wed to me. I must remain chaste and pure for the man who is to be my future husband. And that means that whoever becomes my bodyguard must remember this at all times, even when I am in immodest situations. After all, the sultana’s bodyguard remains with her at all times, sometimes right outside the door as her husband makes love to her.” You watch him squirm uncomfortably under your gaze and he quickly bows to you.
“I beg your forgiveness sultana but I cannot discuss this matter with you. It is very unbefitting for a woman of your birth.”
You giggle at his response. “A woman of my birth? Oh, how considerate of you Kento. So am I to assume you were a rogue out in the lawless streets beyond the palace? Have you tumbled with many a maiden then? Jumping from bed to bed whenever it suited your fancy?”
The color rises in Kento’s cheeks and he continues to keep his head low. “Sultana, I understand if this raises concern for someone such as yourself but I assure you, my intentions are unsullied. If I was hired to be your bodyguard, I understand I cannot live as I previously did. I will reform of course, to your bidding. I would consecrate my life for you, your grace. No one, man or woman, is a higher priority than you.”
You consider his words but can’t resist the unholy thoughts forming in your head. His clothes were so worn that you could grab his shirt by accident and it would tear. At least, you would make it look like an accident. You wondered how those muscles would ripple if you ran your fingers across them…maybe even daring to dip your fingertip into the little depression of his belly button.
“So incredibly dedicated. I suppose I won’t find a bodyguard who passed all the other tests and also be this devoted would I?”
“I promise your grace you will not. I will be the only security you will ever need.”
“Then you won’t mind if I test your willpower? Put you to your limit and see how much you can take before you finally snap under the tension?” There’s a strange lilt to your tone as you speak, and Nanami can’t help but have his interest piqued.
“Not at all sultana.”
“Very well. Now remember, you must obey my requests without question. This is about me ensuring you have what it takes to be my personal guard, even if what I’m asking seems…unorthodox.” You sit up straighter on the divan. “You may begin by removing your clothes.”
Kento’s eyes widen in shock his mouth going dry. You were surely joking? “Sultana?” he asks hesitantly, hoping he’d misheard you.
You giggle. “Oh, I assure you that you heard correctly. Remove your clothes.”
The burly man looks down at himself uncertainly. Sensing his doubt, you repeat the command with a firm touch of authority. “Your sultana, the person whose life you will be responsible for, has already made her request twice. Do not make me say it again.”
Kento’s jaw clenches as he tries to think of a good way out of this. Was this a test? Was he supposed to try denying you again? It didn’t feel so, not with the way you sat with your arms crossed impatiently over your chest, the fabric of your muslin dress curving over your bosom. Kento quickly kills that thought, images of food, fresh clothes, and money in his pocket tugging at his indecisiveness. He swallows causing his Adam’s apple to bob, a gesture that does not go unnoticed, as you wait for your unwilling prey to make a move.
You can see the cogs in his brain turning, trying to think of a strategic way to another path forward but you know there are none. He was at your mercy if he wanted the job. Kento sighs, and then to your satisfaction, his hands start to bunch up the fabric of his thin tunic.
Kento is blushing as he pulls the cloth over his head, and he stands stripped to the waist, all hard muscles and veiny arms, looking like a delicious cut of steak. Your eyes wander over his skin, tanned from the sun, with a tatch of golden hair on his pecs that trailed down over his belly button and disappeared below his pants. He truly was a stunning specimen of masculinity. You can see him growing shy, grappling with the idea of whether or not he should continue.
“Everything looks good from here. Please continue.” You prompt him, unable to stop your lip from curling as he jerks his head in your direction. With shaky hands, he undoes the drawstring that holds up his loose cotton trousers, and with a soft swoosh, they fall to the floor, leaving his powerful thighs and toned calves bare. You’re pleased to see there’s a prominent bulge in his underwear.
“Come on now. That too.” You say cajolingly glancing at his underwear. He can barely keep his head up and he pulls them down with trembling hands and your mouth waters as his cock finally springs free, looking so pretty and needy as it rests against his belly.
“Hmm that's more like it.” You rise gracefully and saunter over to him and before he has a chance to react you grab his erection. His mouth falls open and his eyes widen in shock.
“You keep insisting that you’re dedicated. But I wonder how much restraint you have when you’re frustrated? Or when your patience is running thin. I believe it’s better to test it now.” You run your thumb over the head of cock, feeling the telltale signs of precum beginning to form in the slit.
Kento was in hell but he doesn’t dare move. He knows how precarious this situation was. If anyone were to come in here and see them like this…it’s his head they would be after. He watches your small fingers wrap around him, barely touching around the column of heated velvet. He grits his teeth, a strangled grunt leaving him. What was your goal?
As you start to pump him, you can feel the angry throb of his cock, feel the pulse and observe the way the little veins bulge as you tend to him. You knew you had him cornered. He couldn’t cry for help. If he did, you would act as innocent as a lamb. You preferred it this way. Subservient guards were the best. You continue to play with him, even going as far as squeezing his balls, giving them light tugs that has him moaning, his hips bucking in hopes of finding a release. His eyes close and you can tell he was anticipating a sweet climax…before you stop, removing all physical contact and letting his cock hang in the lurch.
His eyelids fly open wildly and he looks at you in what looks like disbelief. You laugh at his state and run a finger down his brawny chest. “What did you think was going to happen here?” You see the confusion in his eyes as he tries to bring himself back to reality. “Did you forget this was a test of willpower?”
His eyes nervously follow yours as you stalk your prey. “You should be thankful I stopped before you came all over yourself. It would be messy to clean that up and there are no wash chambers nearby. You would have to go all the way down to the servant’s quarters. And I’m sure everyone would be curious as to why you’re leaving your meeting with the sultana with various stains on your clothes.”
Your eyes gleam as Kento blushes at your description. “Now, we are going to repeat this over and over again until I’m satisfied you can control yourself.” You gesture to a pouf and indicate you want him to sit down. Kento backs down shakily, unsure what to say. Morally, he knows this is wrong. But the authority you’re taking over him, this confident ownership, was gnawing away at his strength. Because didn’t the sultana own all her subjects? He was at your mercy, obliged to indulge your whims. He was ashamed at his arousal, at the thoughts forming in his head about what he would like to do to you now. He could imagine tearing off that frumpy muslin gown, exposing your nipples to his mouth while his hand presses against the tatch of curly hair between your legs while he stroked you to ecstasy.
His thought are interrupted as you kneel before him. You pump his cock again, and make direct eye contact. Wordlessly, your mouth opens, and Kento’s heart shoots into his throat as he realizes what you’re about to do. With a slurp, you take his heated flesh into your mouth, the hot wetness of it enveloping him like a glove. His fingers dig into the soft cushion and he bucks with abandon. He knows you weren’t planning on letting him cum but maybe if he was quick enough he could before you took your sweet, wet, cavern away…
You’re far too observant and quickly pull away your mouth and Kento is left heaving, an animalistic look in his eyes. He had been so close, had felt that telling scrunch of his balls before you abandoned him again. There’s a numb sensation of pain in his tip and he lays back trying to gain control.
“Not bad. Most men would be trying to pounce on me by now I suppose.” You stand, wiping saliva from your mouth, feeling the lingering aftertaste of his salty beads of precum that had escaped into your throat. You smack your lips, then make up your mind.
“You have the job.”
Disbelievingly, Kento looks at you. His cock pulsed from unleashed need. You quirk an eyebrow. “Unless, you don’t want it? Perhaps you’re a lion pretending to be a meek little kitten? Are you waiting for my back to turn so that you can pounce on me? Catch me unaware?”
Kento scampers to his feet and bows, his cock comically flopping as he expresses his gratitude. “Not at all sultana. I’m…” He clears his throat, trying to catch his breath. “I’m very thankful you’ve chosen me.”
You grin wickedly. “Of course. And I find the best guards are the ones that are always on high alert. Therefore-” You gesture at his semi-hard cock, “I think it’s best if that remains unrelieved.”
Kento feels his mouth go dry. “Unrelieved?”
“Don’t tell me that you weren’t planning on jerking yourself off once I’d dismissed you?” Your eyes gleam as he shrinks at your words. “That simply won’t do. You’re my personal guard now. Therefore, you must always be on my schedule.”
You walk to a cabinet in the corner of the room and Kento watches you dubiously as you bring out a sort of cage made of metal. “Do you know what this is?” you ask, letting the contraption dangle from your finger. He shakes his head. He honestly had no idea.
You giggle and slip a metallic ring over his cock, pushing his balls through it and securing it behind them. The coldness makes him hard again. “Oh perfect. Makes this part easier.” You slide the strange, curved, cylindrical, device over his cock and he watches in fearful fascination as it lines up with the ring behind his balls. You smirk and slip a lock between the two, securing it in place, his cock contained inside.
“This is called a chastity cage. Think of it as a way to help your urges. From now on, your pleasure will be on my time.” Kento’s mind goes blank as he watches you pocket the key.
You chuckle. “What? This is what it means to devote your life to the sultana.” You pleasantly hand him his clothes. “Report to the main security quarters where they will give you your new uniform as well as information about your wage and living quarters. Report back here once this is all taken care of.”
You start to saunter out of the room, leaving Kento looking dumbstruck. At the door, you glance at him over your shoulder.
“Be prepared for regular testing from now on. Nothing like frequent training to keep your skills sharp hmm?”

reblog divider by @/ cafekitsune
© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating
@aether-seawolf @makingtimemine @snwvie @facelessfionna @sweetskozume @theimmortalbuns @supernaturalbaesduh @marusatonanhin @pwd54gr54 @brekkersgf
#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento#nanami kento smut#nanami smut#nanami x reader#nanami x reader smut#nanami x you#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x reader smut#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader smut#jjk nanami#ncs#ncs scribbles#inbox requests
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"A Wolf At My Window"

synopsis: Childhood friend Caleb pays you a visit in the middle of the night. word count: 1.8k notes: This is the first fic I've posted in a long long time (so nervous!!), but I want to post more Love and Deepspace Vocaloid song fics so.... I was listening to Romeo and Cinderella by Doriko and could not stop thinking about Caleb to this song so... Enjoy your food freaks. warnings: Forbidden love, friends to lovers, Juliet complex, childhoodfriend!Caleb, naive reader, love and obsession, coming of age, rebellion, not beta read we die like granny?
ロミオとシンデレラ
0:58 ──♡───── 4:41
Caleb had always been there. In the morning when the sky bled with pink and gold hues, waiting for you outside the door. At school, where his laughter was a shield, making sure no one saw how you shrunk under the attention. In the evening, when the soft glow of the lamp on your bedside was often shared with his silhouette, leaning against the frame while he teases you for reading romance novels instead of studying.
For years, he had been your constant. Your safe place. And maybe that's why you haven't questioned why his presence felt heavier than normal lately. Or why his gaze lingered too long. Why, when you met his eyes, you felt something tightening in your chest that had nothing to do with comfort.
Tonight, he wasn't waiting by the door. He wasn't teasing you about your choice of fiction, or ruffling your hair as he walked past. Tonight, Caleb was at the window.
You swallowed, gripping the edge of the blanket, staring at his silhouette through the glass. Your heart pounded. The rational part of you knew you should be started, maybe even a little scared. But you weren't.
With shaky fingers, you open the window.
"You know," you whispered, your voice barely above the wind, "normal people use the front door."
Caleb's lips curved as he pushed the window up further. His hands—big, sturdy—gripping the frame as he hoisted himself inside, "And normal people don't let in wolves after dark," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. Softer.
The air in the room changed.
He didn't step back. Didn't put any space between you two. Instead, he reached up, fingertips brushing against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was a simple touch. Barely anything. And yet, it felt like everything.
"Caleb—"
"Shh," he whispered. You froze as his thumb traced your jaw, tilting your chin up. "You always look away when I get too close."
You swallowed, "Well maybe you shouldn't get so close, then."
His smile deepened, but there was something unreadable in his expression. Something that sent a slow heat curling down your spine.
"That's the thing," he murmured, leaning down, his forehead nearly brushing against yours, "I don't think I can stop."
Your breath caught.
His other hand found your waist, fingers curling slightly—possessive, firm, like he wanted to make sure you didn't step away. But you weren't going to.
"How far can we venture tonight?" You whispered before you could stop myself.
Caleb stilled. His grip on your waist tightened just enough for you to feel the heat of his palm through the lace of your pink pajama top. Then, slowly, he smiled again. This time without amusement, without teasing.
"You tell me," he said, voice low, "but I'll warn you, I don't like being told to stop."
A soft shiver ran through you.
Your fingers curled against his chest, not pushing him away, but grounding yourself, "Be gentle," you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes, "I still don't like bitter tastes."
He exhaled, something like frustration flickered through his eyes. "Then don't tempt me."
You bit your lip.
And then his restraint snapped.
His lips found the corner of your mouth first, brushing, teasing, like he was waiting for you to push away. When you don't, he takes more. A slow, drawn-out kiss, his hands slide up, fingers pressing into the back of your back, pulling you closer. You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you again, hungrier this time, like he was trying to make up for all the times he held himself back.
When you break apart, you were breathless. Your head was spinning.
"Caleb," you whispered.
He studied you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. A silver chain. A delicate charm at the end.
You frowned. "What's that?"
"A promise," he murmured, lifting it, carefully fastening it around your wrist. "That I won't let anyone take you away."
You swallowed. "That sounds more like a collar than a promise."
His lips twitched, but his grip on your wrist was steady. "Same thing, isn't it?"
You should've been alarmed. You should've questioned him.
But as you looked at him—the boy who had always been there, who had always protected you, who had always wanted more but never dared to ask—you realised something.
You didn't want to run.
Not from him.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
The thought should've scared you. Should've made you take a step back, regain some distance. But you didn't move. Instead, you let your fingers brush around your wrist. The metal was cool against your skin, delicate, but firm. A promise, he had said. A collar, you had called it.
Maybe it was both.
You looked up at him, at the way his purple eyes burned in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. You had never thought of him as dangerous before. But now, standing here in the silence, the window still cracked open, letting in the cold night air, you realised—
He was the wolf if your story.
Not the prince.
Not the hero.
But the one who came I through the window instead of the door.
And you weren't stopping him.
His fingers traced the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse fluttered. He hadn't let go since he put the chain on you.
“You’re quiet,” Caleb murmured, watching you too closely.
You wet your lips. “I’m thinking.”
A slow, knowing smile. “About what?”
You hesitated. “About how my dad doesn’t like you.”
Caleb exhaled through his nose, like he expected that answer. “That’s nothing new.”
"He's going to notice if I start wearing this." you held up your wrist, the chain glinting in the low light.
His fingers curled around your wrist. "So don't take it off."
"Caleb—"
"I mean it." He pulled you closer, voice soft but firm, "It suits you."
You swallowed. "That's not the point. You know what he's like. If he founds out—"
"I don't care."
His voice wasn't sharp. Wasn't loud. But it cut through the air between you all the same. You felt your stomach twist, my breath catch. "You're not the one who has to deal with him."
His jaw tensed, "No. But I could take you away from it all."
You froze.
He wasn't teasing.
He wasn't being playful.
He meant it.
And for a single, wild moment—you wanted to say yes.
You wanted to be like those girls in the stories, the ones who ran away with their prince charming, who let themselves be carried off before the clock struck twelve. The ones who didn't have the think about their father's disappointment, or their mother's worried sighs, or the way everyone expected them to be good, obedient, reasonable
But this wasn't a fairy tale. Real life wasn't a fairy tale.
You stepped back. Just a little. Just enough for your back to hit the edge of your desk. "You're talking I'm some princess locked in a tower."
"Arent you?"
You glared. "I have a life here. A family. You can't just take me away."
Caleb studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he exhaled and let go of your wrist, his touch leaving behind the phantom warmth of his touch. "Fine," he said, too easily. "Then let me be the one who stays."
You frowned. "What?"
"You heard me." His expression softened, but there was something dangerous under the surface. "I won't take you anywhere. But I'll make sure no one else does either."
Yet another shiver runs down your spine. "That's not how this works."
He tilted his head. "Then how does it work?"
You hesitated.
Because deep down.. you knew.
If you told him to stop, if you told him to leave, he would.
But you didn't want him to.
You just didn't know if you could handle what it would mean if he stayed.
"I don't want to be someone's Juliet." You muttered, not looking at him.
Caleb let out a low chuckle. "I know. I'm not asking you to be."
My stomach twisted again. "Then what are you asking?"
Silence.
And then—
His fingers brushed under your chin, tilting your face up.
"Stay with me." He murmured, voice low, steady. "That's all."
Stay with me.
Not run away with me.
Not be mine.
Just stay.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
Because if you said yes. I knew this wouldn't be some fleeting thing. Caleb wasn't someone who let go. He wasn't someone who would let you change your mind later.
If you stayed—truly stayed—then you were his.
And the worst part?
You wanted to be.
Caleb's hands were warm, steady. His presence wrapped around me like a vice, unyielding, inescapable. But even as your breath caught in your throat, as his fingers dug into your waist just enough to make you aware of his weight, your mind drifted, pulled back by the ghosts of childhood, by something so simple, so innocent.
Caramels.
Your mother used to make them from scratch, stirring the golden syrup over the stove, the scent of butter and sugar thick in the air. She would hum while she worked, the same old tune she'd sung to you as a child, and when the caramel had cooled just enough, she'd cut them into little squares, wrapping each one in wax paper.
They were soft, sweet, melting on your tongue in an instant. A taste that lingered, that filled my mouth with warmth and comfort.
Caleb used to steal them when we were kids. He'd wait until Mom wasn't looking, grab one from the counter, and flash you a smug little grin. "Don't tell," he'd whisper, voice thick with mischief.
You never did.
You still remembered the way he'd look at you after taking a bite—chewing slow, savouring the flavour—before offering you the other half.
Sweet things should be shared, right?
But that was the thing about caramel, wasn't it? It was easy to choke on if you weren't careful. Too rich, too thick, too overwhelming.
And now, with Caleb pressing you against the desk, his body so close, his hands so firm, you felt like you were choking again—on something just as intoxicating, just as dangerous.
He wasn't offering something soft this time.
He wasn't giving you the last half.
He was taking.
And you still weren't stopping him.
"Tell me you don't want this." His voice was low, rough against your ear. "Tell me to leave and I will."
You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into his shirt. "Caleb..."
He waited. Patient, like he always was. But you could feel the tension in him, the way his grip tightened, like he already knew you wouldn't say it.
Because he knew you.
He had always known you.
And maybe that's why you had never been afraid of him.
Even now, when you knew—knew—that this wasn't something you could undo, that crossing this invisible boundary meant there was no going back, you still weren't afraid.
Because Caleb had always been there.
At every birthday. At every graduation. Through every stupid heartbreak, through every moment you'd felt alone.
He had been there, waiting.
And now, as your heart pounded in your chest, as his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against your hip, you realised something terrifying.
You'd been waiting too.
Dividers by @cafekitsune
#someone sedate me#im so normal abt caleb#caleb#love and deepspace#lads#lads caleb#not beta read#we die like granny?#fanfic#caleb x reader#caleb x mc#vocaloid songs#hitori writes#romeo and cinderella#song fic
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⤷ insecurities they think are beautiful; part 2 – hq
✩ characters: various
✩ warnings: none
✩ a/n: i've been super busy with work but i'm finally back! i decided to write a part 2 to this bc i've been feeling pretty down lately. but yeah these are once again all things i personally struggle with or have struggled with in the past ◡̈
⭑ bare face
every time he gets the opportunity to see you without makeup, he swears he feels his heart beat twice as fast. of course he appreciates all the time and effort it takes for you to do your makeup, but he just thinks there's something so intimate about seeing you fresh out of the shower, your hair still damp and your face entirely bare. he doesn't miss the way you tend to avoid eye contact, how you shy away from him and subconsciously try to hide your face, and it makes his heart sink because how do you not realise how cute you are? his favourite part of the day is waking up next to you and getting to see your pretty face, imperfections and all— it never fails to make his heart flutter.
⤷ hinata, fukunaga, iwaizumi, tendou, suna, osamu, ennoshita
⭑ messy hair
he thinks your unruly hair is adorable. he knows that it can sometimes make you feel a little self-conscious, worrying that you don't look presentable with your hair a mess and finding yourself becoming frustrated with it because of how long you spend trying to style it in the morning, but he loves the way it sets you apart from everyone else. he might occasionally tease you about it, but it's always intended to be lighthearted and he never means anything by it. likes to ruffle your hair for his own amusement, making it even messier than it is already and enjoying the way you pout at him and try to smooth it down.
⤷ kuroo, tsukishima, matsukawa, yaku, akaashi, daishou, hoshiumi
⭑ beauty marks
he finds himself drawn to the pretty marks on your face, unable to take his eyes off you because you're so beautiful. whenever he goes to kiss you he always starts off by letting his lips trail over the points of your face where your marks reside, before softly pressing them against your own. he loves how unique they make you look, and he thinks they compliment your features perfectly. it makes him so sad when he sees you trying to cover them up with makeup, and the fact that you don't see them the way he does genuinely hurts him. he loves the idea that your beauty marks are where your lover kissed you the most during your past life, and he likes to kiss them in hopes that he'll be leaving those marks on you in your next life too.
⤷ sugawara, kai, oikawa, tanaka, konoha, kita, hirugami, asahi
⭑ cellulite
he loves to randomly grab your thighs at any chance he gets, enjoying the way the supple flesh feels under his palms. he thinks you look amazing in thigh high socks and cute little skirts, and whenever he sees the small amount of pudge at the top of your socks he'll definitely have a hard time keeping his hands to himself. to be honest he probably didn't even realise you had cellulite until you pointed it out to him, too preoccupied with how absolutely gorgeous you look to notice such a small detail. reminds you that it's completely normal and natural, and will reassure you that he thinks it's beautiful as many times as it takes until you start to believe him.
⤷ daichi, bokuto, yamamoto, kyotani, atsumu, nishinoya, meian
⭑ being thin
he honestly can't understand why you don't like your body, because in his eyes you're literally perfect. he knows that you tend to wear baggier clothing most of the time, the loose fabric swallowing up your figure and concealing the parts you dislike the most about yourself, but he would be lying if he said he didn't love those days when it's really hot outside and you opt for something that's a little more revealing than usual. he adores the way tighter clothes look on you, and the way they show off and accentuate your beautiful figure. he thinks you look so pretty and delicate, and the fact you're smaller than him makes him swoon.
⤷ kageyama, kenma, hanamaki, sakusa, yamaguchi, goshiki, kunimi
⤷ please do not repost my works on any other sites!
#★彡 elle’s writings .ᐟ#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#various x reader#haikyuu various x reader#iwaizumi x reader#suna x reader#osamu x reader#kuroo x reader#tsukishima x reader#akaashi x reader#sugawara x reader#oikawa x reader#bokuto x reader#atsumu x reader#kenma x reader#sakusa x reader
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Sacred Obsession



A gift I wrote for @casuallyobssessed 🤍
Pairing : David Allen Griffin x female!reader Genre : headcanons Note : Keep in mind, I've never watched the movie. I'm writing this from intuition. Warning : needles
Divider by @enchanthings-a
David Allen Griffin loved the sight of the needle piercing the flesh. The needle pierced slowly, deliciously penetrating the flesh. Penetrated the person. It was almost intimate, like sex, he thought. But he preferred the fear or the thrill before sex. It was more alive, more intense. More exhilarating when two contradictory emotions collided. When the needle penetrated the skin, it was slow. Each time, a sick rush twisted his insides, whether he was a witness, a recipient, or, most often in his case, dealing with one of his victims. Whether it was drawing blood for a health check or, more commonly, using an anesthetic to drug his victims, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle of the syringe as it pierced the skin while the victim began to fall asleep, sinking into a kind into slumber before waking up later. A form of dark communion, a moment where he holds absolute control over life and consciousness.
You were an angel. All you lacked was your halo. But he saw it, unlike you and the others. You had become an obsession for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your very being. He had to watch you from a distance. You were supposed to be his next victim, but something unfamiliar stirred in him. Of course, he first wanted to indulge in the pleasure of the sensual hunt, to draw you to him. To possess you. He had met you by chance in a supermarket while doing his own shopping. Your aura had drawn him in for a reason he could hardly explain, despite the cliché of the situation. Yes, all those romantic movies with the clichéd meetings when the two protagonists were shopping or something else. He hated that kind of forced situation. And yet… he couldn’t help but approach you, despite the absurdity of a situation he initially despised. You were struggling to reach a high shelf of canned goods. He approached you stealthily and took the item you wanted. A startle overcame you as your large eyes turned to him, a mask of innocence on your face. Genuine. He could never forget your grateful smile, your deep eyes, when he handed you the item with a charming smile you couldn’t ignore. You thanked him with an adorable little laugh that shook him deep inside as you walked away to continue your shopping. A new obsession, a new victim.
Of course, he had taken care to photograph you from every angle, each one he found perfect. The photos were displayed on a wooden board, hung on one of the walls in his dark apartment, like an altar devoted to you. He would trace your lips in the photos with his gloved index finger, slowly, reverently, imagining his own lips in place of that touch. His lips against yours. Would fate bring you together? He didn’t believe in fate. If anything, he believed in force. In control. He would create his own destiny, to feel his lips on yours, not muffled by tape meant to silence your screams.
Sometimes, he would sneak into your apartment and shift things almost imperceptibly to unsettle you. Sometimes, he took objects you considered insignificant, long forgotten, their absence barely noticeable. Vacation trinkets long tucked away in a closet that you wouldn’t notice missing. Sometimes, he was a bit bolder, stealing some of your underwear. He loved watching you go about your little routines: waking up late on weekend mornings, padding across the floor barefoot, or lounging on the couch with your breakfast.
He had started leaving you small messages. Not love letters. Fragments of sentences you couldn’t understand. A word scrawled on the back of a receipt. A phrase etched faintly into the condensation on your mirror. Things no one else would notice, but that unsettled you. The message was never direct, always vague, like a whisper. He wanted you to feel a presence without being able to name it. He wanted your paranoia to grow slowly. For you to doubt yourself before doubting the world. He wanted to be felt. One morning, you found a note on your table: You forgot to close the curtains. The light suits you so well. You double-checked the locks. You glanced over your shoulder. You started to wonder if you were imagining things. But deep down, you know you're not.
He had followed you into the alley behind your place that night. Everything was ready. The syringe in his pocket. The glove already on. You were alone, as expected. And yet… he hesitated. His finger trembled on the plastic of the syringe. Warmth. Fragility, maybe. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He turned away, dissolving into the shadows. He had given in. He didn’t know why. He only knew it was stronger than him.
After failing to kidnap you in the alley, David begins to punish himself for his weakness. He pricks his own skin with a needle, not to draw blood, but to feel the pain of his failure. He does this in front of your photos, as if offering his pain to your image. Each prick is a reminder that he must regain control, but it also deepens his obsession, as he imagines sharing this pain with you someday, not to harm you, but to merge your experiences in a perverse act of intimacy, to bind you to him. In his mind, it would be a merging of sensations. A communion. A perverse kind of intimacy that only he could understand.
He fantasized a scenario where you find his shrine and, instead of fear, feel flattered by his devotion. He fantasizes about confessing everything to make you see the “art” of his obsession, the careful attention.This fantasy is why he can’t bring himself to kill you; he wants you to choose him. The question about “pure love” in his mind is his desperate attempt to justify his actions as something other than destruction.
He had kept one of your scarves. Stolen, of course. Imbued with your scent, soft, indistinct, unique. He brought it to his face like an offering. He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. There was no longer David Allen Griffin, only a being suspended between reality and fantasy. The scent brought him back to you more violently than any image. Something that urged him to get even closer, yet also to hold back from destroying you. He wanted to keep that scent with him forever. He had never felt such intoxication. He no longer knew if he wanted to love you, kill you, or simply… keep you frozen in that eternal scent.
#david allen griffin#keanuverse#keanu reeves#the watcher 2000#fanfic#headcanons#reader insert#my writing#david allen griffin x reader
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i've got you
Jensen Ackles x Actress!Female!Reader <platonic>
comfort, loss/grief
“Alright, kickoff in three—two—one, baby!”
The room erupts with cheers as the game flashes across the mounted TV in Jensen’s trailer. Someone tosses a handful of chips at the screen, and someone else—probably Misha—cackles like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
Jensen grins, cracking open a beer, already halfway into a playful argument about stats and predictions. He’s been looking forward to this all week—game night, good food, the crew laughing like idiots—and you, snuggled into the corner of his couch, yelling at bad calls like it’s personal.
Only… you’re not here.
He glances at the empty spot where you always sit. Frowns. Pulls his phone from his pocket.
[7:13 PM] Jensen: Kickoff started. You coming?
He puts the phone on the arm of the couch and grabs a handful of pretzels, letting the noise of the trailer fill the space. He knows you can run late—always getting caught up in a phone call, script notes, trying to find a clean hoodie—but you’re never this late without a heads-up.
Ten minutes pass. Still no response.
He picks up his phone again. Sends another.
[7:24 PM] Jensen: You good?
He waits.
Another five minutes.
Now he’s not enjoying the game. Not really. Something’s off. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—he knows you. Knows you can get easily distracted, especially when you’re overwhelmed. Sometimes you silence your notifications for hours just to breathe. You’ve told him that before.
Still.
He dials.
Rings once. Twice. Voicemail.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
He grabs his hoodie off the back of a chair, tosses a “Be right back” over his shoulder to no one in particular, and heads out into the cool evening air. The set is quieter now, most of the crew winding down for the night. Lights hum faintly against the darkening sky.
It’s a short walk to your trailer, but it feels longer with every step.
When he gets there, he knocks gently. “Hey. You in there?”
Nothing.
He knocks again, firmer this time. “Did you fall asleep or what?”
Still no answer.
His fingers hover near the door handle. He hates invading your space without asking, but something in his gut twists—tight and uneasy.
He tries one more time, voice quieter. “I’m coming in, okay?”
The door creaks open.
And there you are.
Folded in on yourself in the corner of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands like you’re trying to hide inside them. You don’t look up. Don’t say anything.
But your shoulders shake. Just slightly. Enough.
“Hey,” he breathes. “What happened?”
Your eyes meet his, barely.
And then the words come. Broken. Wrecked.
“He’s gone.”
That’s all you can say. That’s all you need to say.
Jensen’s face changes. The concern deepens into something quiet and devastated. He doesn't ask who. He doesn't have to. He just moves.
He’s beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees next to the couch, voice barely above a whisper.
“Come here.”
You fall into him without hesitation. Your body curls into his like instinct, like memory, like you’ve done this a hundred times before—but never like this. Never with grief clawing at your ribs, never with your chest cracked open like it is now.
Jensen wraps his arms around you, strong and sure. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other presses firm and warm to your back, grounding you.
“You’re okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
And still—you cry. Harsh, aching sobs that rip through your throat like they’re being pulled from the deepest parts of you. And Jensen just holds you through it. Not flinching. Not saying too much. Just there.
And somewhere in the silence, he remembers.
Remembers standing outside the studio in Vancouver, early 2000s, flipping open his old Nokia and hearing his mom’s voice tremble as she told him his grandfather was gone. The man who taught him how to fish. How to drive stick. How to never show up empty-handed.
He remembers how hollow he felt. How helpless. And how Jessica Alba had found him pacing behind the trailers, eyes red, heart splintered. She hadn’t said anything, just pulled him into a hug and stayed there.
Now, years later, he finds himself doing the same for you.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, chin resting against your temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You stay in his arms for a long time. Long enough for the tears to slow. For your breathing to even out again. For your grip on his flannel to loosen just a little.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” you whisper finally. “So I didn’t.”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”
You nod against him. The ache is still there, pulsing and raw—but Jensen’s presence keeps you tethered.
“The football game…” you start, voice rasped.
“Screw the game,” he cuts in, soft but firm. “This is more important.”
You look up at him then, your face still wet, your expression wrecked but grateful.
He cups your cheek with the gentlest touch, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.
“I’m right here,” he says again, steady and sure.
You nod, just barely, and close your eyes for a moment. The ache hasn’t gone—but it’s not all-consuming now. Not while he’s holding you like this. Not while he’s here.
You breathe in slow. Exhale slower.
When you finally speak again, your voice is quieter, steadier. “Can you just… stay for a while?”
Jensen doesn't hesitate. “As long as you need.”
He shifts to sit more comfortably on the couch, keeping you tucked against him. You rest your head on his shoulder, and the silence that settles isn’t heavy anymore.
It’s safe.
A few minutes pass. Maybe more. Time doesn’t feel like it matters.
Eventually, he reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over you, one arm still around your back.
You don’t cry again. You just sit there, curled into your best friend, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding.
Outside, the world keeps moving. The game keeps playing. Phones keep buzzing.
But in here, it’s just this.
And for now… it’s enough.
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ACE ALASTOR WEEK DAY 2 ACE 4 ACE DAY
Ace Alastor x Ace Reader
CW: Alastor's fans getting out of hand, talk of murder and death threats, Alastor inner turmoil
You noticed Alastor had been much more stressed lately. Most people wouldn't be able to tell. But you weren't most people. You were his oldest friend. You grew up together in New Orleans back in a time when getting married was basically a standard. Luckily the two of you both died before you could get too old to get away with still being single. In your time of knowing him you'd seen your fair share of women (and some men) pursue Alastor. He never cared for it.
But now that he was an overlord in hell, he was far more desired. He had an entire crowd of adoring fangirls, fanboys, and fan somewhere in the middles. He hated it. And for some reason he held back on slaughtering them. Something about not wanting his numbers to go below Vox's. Vox was his biggest competitor. Unlike Alastor, Vox loved the attention. Relished in it.
To be fair Alastor did love attention. Just not... this kind of attention. And if you were being honest... neither did you. Though you kept that mostly to yourself. That was until Alastor had to come to you looking quite unlike himself. His hair was disheveled, his forehead sweaty, and his bow tie crooked. His fluffy deer ears were drawn back as he booked it into the hotel entrance slamming the door behind him
He breathed heavy as if he'd been running. You had never seen quite like this. Even worse when you looked down at his bare hoof. "Alastor.... where's your shoe?" You asked with genuine concern. "They took it" he muttered in exasperation. "What do you mean they took it?" You asked with confusion. "They took my shoe as a trophy!" He said.
"Who did!?!" You questioned. "Those blasted obsessed deviants! They've grown feral since the last time they saw me and this time they chased me down and didn't back off when I tried to scare them away. They ran me over and tried to rip anything they could off of me. They got away with my shoe. They were distracted in fighting over it and I managed to escape" he growled. Vaggie, Husk and Angel instantly roared with laughter. Niffty joined in enthusiastically. "HAHAHAHAHA-why are we laughing?"
"If you think that's so funny, I will gladly shut you all up" he threatened. You decided to get him out of there before someone ended up dead. You took him to his room where the two of you could talk more in private. "Hey, Alastor don't let those guys get to you. I'm sorry you had to go through that" you comforted him. "I wish I could smite all those degenerate fans where they stand for putting me in that position" he said. "Well you know me I don't mind condoning violence. I'll help keep Charlie from freaking out if you want" you offered. He shook his head
"It's not that easy... I can't just kill them" he replied. "But, why not? I know you don't want to lose viewers and they are technically your viewers but-" he cut you off. "-It's more than that. I've never told anyone this before... but being pursued by others makes me... uncomfortable. I get so uncomfortable I can't think sometimes I even freeze. I can't harness my anger like normal. All I want to do is get away. I don't feel the desire for others the way other people do. But I can't exactly tell anyone that. But I trust you" he admitted. Him saying he trusted you filled you with warmth. And you trusted him. "I feel exactly the same. I've been afraid to tell anyone as well. Why do you think I never married?" You revealed.
Suddenly his eyes lit up. "That's it!" He exclaimed. "Marriage!" He grew excited. "What about marriage?' You asked. "You and I get married. I become 'taken' as they say and hopefully that will get rid of at least SOME of those depraved lunatics!" He sounded hopeful. You had never thought about Alastor in that way and you had never considered the idea of a platonic marriage. "I'm sure you're head is spinning my dear, but let me just add this. If you agree I will split my power with you. After all marriage is a promise to share everything with the one you love. And in many ways I do love you. I love you more than any other friend I've ever had" he made a lot of sense
"Well if you give me some of your power I can use it to be 'jealous' and chase your potential suitors away." You suggested. He seemed to like that idea. "You'd do that for me?" He asked. "I'd do anything for you" you answered. That was his cue. All he needed to hear. He got down on one knee and conjured up the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen. He still looked like he'd went through actual hell but he looked up at you calmer than he'd been in a long time. "Y/n, my best friend I've ever had, will you marry me?"
There was no hesitation.
"Yes!"
#vivziepop#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel alastor#alastor hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#alastor x reader#hazbin x reader#hazbin x y/n#hazbin x you
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