#Red's Life Is Strange Files | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asahicore · 23 days ago

Text

fast forward - pjs

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.

genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly

word count. 26.6k

a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied.

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade.

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face.

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around.

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson.

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice.

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot.

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.”

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves.

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue.

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice.

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone.

“Y/N-”

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone.

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic.

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked.

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers.

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe.

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there?

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right?

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist.

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie.

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey.

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other.

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.”

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder.

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else.

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you.

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie.

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair.

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class.

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile.

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up.

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding.

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life.

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom.

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you.

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together.

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble.

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology.

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you.

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that.

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight.

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple.

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them.

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily.

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.”

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.”

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says.

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside.

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is.

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely.

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile.

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year.

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really.

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness?

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you.

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on…

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now?

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement.

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does.

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley.

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence.

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore.

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you.

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles.

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this?

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes.

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks.

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now.

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls.

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway.

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

permanent taglist: @zreamy @sunghoonmybeloved @lalalalawon @sd211 @w3bqrl @raikea10 @wntrnghts @moonlighthoon @4imhry @rikisly @loves0ft @iamliacamila @theboingsuckerasseater9000 @chaechae-23 @baekhyuns-lipchain @hyuckslvr @vernonburger @amorbonbon @fluerz @jakeflvrz @enhastolemyheart (ask to be removed/added!)

#enhypen x reader #jay x reader #jongseong x reader #enhypen fluff #jay fluff #enhypen fanfiction #jay fanfiction #enhypen au #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios

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yovrnewromantic · 5 months ago

Text

WORTH IT

ex!husband eddie munson x reader

based on the hc! by me that eddie kidnaps your kids, charging kisses for ransom wc: 1.2K

“You know you can’t keep doing this.”

Eddie can hardly hold back a pout. He knows you’ll criticize him if he lets it slip, reminding him that ‘he’s a grown man for goodness’ sake’ even though his puppy eyes never fail to succeed against you. Except once. Only once, when you filed for divorce circa 12 years ago.

Filed into the back of the van, your children are pressing their faces up against the glass windows. Their eyes are wide, noses are upturned, fogging up the glass with each breath— looking like the myth of pig-men came to life and are giddy to draw smiley faces and ‘hi mom’s into the steamed up glass. Unlike you, they enjoy when their dad kidnaps them, waving their teachers off with forged letters so they can hobble into his car and fiddle with the stereo as he stops at the florist, and biting their lips to stop their excitement when they see your old camaro pull up.

Forget-Me-Nots lay half-forgotten at Eddie’s side as he ruffles his already messy curls, mesmerized as you step out the car, mom jeans and rock shirt hanging loose. You look as beautiful as the day he met you. Some days, he feels like it is the first time he met you, his heart paralyzed by a certain type of warmth at the sight of your face. It’s like everything around you disappears and he recognizes his purpose. You. You make him feel like a teenager in love.

“Eventually I’m just gonna call the cops on your ass.”

Angry is not how you would describe yourself in the moment. The first time it happened, hell, you were pissed. Smoke practically blew out your ears when he first called, interrupting himself with giggles while he announced “The prince and princess of, phh, Munsonville have been exiled along with the King. Haha, oh um— If you wish to see them ever again, you must pay the price!” After the second, third, fourth, and tenth time, it’s only become a nuance.

“Hi, Mom!” your daughter calls out, voice muffled. Her hands are sprawled against the window, the hair that was once well-kept into two braids is now fuzzy and tangled. Her brown doe eyes peering at you, standing on her tippy toes to see. Looking like the splitting image of her father. Behind her, your son is playing with Eddie’s electric-blue guitar, strumming the string so harshly that you cringe, but Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s still staring at you.

Dumbly, Eddie just sticks the bouquet in your face, his fist inches from your face. “M’lady.” Through the thin stems of your favorite flower, you can see his lopsided smile.

Rather delicately, you take the flowers from his grasp, looking at them for a second too long to keep up your uneffected act. These must’ve been on sale, you assure yourself. He doesn’t remember the flowers you walked up the isle with, he couldn’t have. When you can finally drag your eyes away, your brows are furrowed. Something fluttering in your stomach as Eddie tilts his head, usual shit-eating grin strangely sweet. Small indigo petals flutter to the ground as they’re knocked off their branches from impact of hitting Eddie square in chest.

“Ow!” He lifts his arms up in defense. The purple-blue veins that flex on his bicep matching the shade of the dwindling flowers. “Y/N!”

Finally, easing your attack, your chest rises and falls as you point a finger at his chest. “Give my kids, Munson!”

“Mrs. Munson!” Again, you raise the flowers to wack him over the head, but Eddie’s hand grips your wrist, holding it in place and smiling innocently at you. “You know the drill by now.”

Groaning, you hide your face in what’s left of your flowers, a red hue rising on your cheeks. It’s embarrassing— giving in this easy to your ex husband’s demands, but there’s a special spot in your heart for Eddie that just. won’t. go. away. No matter how many dates you went on, no one could replace him.

Eddie’s hands are gentle as they pry your hands, and flowers, away from your face. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. Harshly sighing through your nose, and trying to convincingly eye roll, you choke out, “What do I owe this time?”

“Well, seeing as it took you ten extra minutes to get here from the estimated time…”

You shake your head. “I was busy explaining why the teachers didn’t need to issue an amber alert, dipshi—.”

“Ten kisses.” He’s too happy with himself, rocking back and forth on his heels as he watched the disbelief transform your pretty face.

“Ten?”

He raises his brows, playfully puckering. “Lay ‘em on me, honey.”

It’s never not awkward, begrudgingly (not really) approaching your ex husband with slow, torturous movements. Fingers finding his tattooed skin— which you used to color before you became adults and life went to shit, tracing up the expense of his arms until your hands connect around the back of his neck. He’s nibbling his lip as you inch forward, impatient. When your lips are close enough to touch, your breaths sync and your eyes meet. Heart racing, your eyes flutter shut. Lightly, the plush of your lips meet his— always surprising— soft lips. One.

Again. Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Eddie can’t help himself. His hands fly to your waist, squeezing the flesh he can reach and pulling your closer, shoving his tongue in your mouth when your hands tug on his hair. He tastes just as you remember, like tobacco and cheerios. As his tongue explores your mouth, you moan into his. Betrayed by your own body, dammit. His lips twitch against yours. When his teeth start to clash against yours, that’s when you pull away, a thick string of saliva connecting you. Nine.

Your eyes are hazy, a dumbstruck, lightheaded feeling coming over your body as you lean forward again. Foreheads connecting. Your noses nudging. Panting into each other’s mouth. Far too sensual for a divorced couple. Eddie finishes the last kiss for you, pecking your lips. Your breath hitches when he drags his teeth against the bottom. Ten.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he chuckles, panting. His large palm finds the bottom of your ass.

“Go to hell,” you whisper against his lips. “Kids!”

“Already in the car, Mom!” Tucked in the back of the car, seat belts buckled, your children look unimpressed. Your cheeks go bright red as you adjust yourself, trying hard not to stomp to the car as you avoid contact with Eddie, who walks slowly, cockily, behind you.

“I’ll call you later, sweetheart!”

You shove your hand out your unrolled window, middle finger up. Eddie’s laugh makes your chest tighten, but you won’t let it show, flipping on your sunglasses and pulling the fuck away from him. Eddie smiles as his kids wave through the window, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans with a knowing look on his face.

He’ll win you back eventually.

—

p.s. 💋

“Mommy, are you and daddy getting back together?”

With your grip tightening on the steering wheel, knuckles turning your white, you meet your five year old son’s clueless eyes in the review mirror— the product of the last time you got back together with his father. “Not a chance.”

not edited or read over 😔

#ex husband!eddie munson #ex husband!eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie #strange things 4 #dad!eddie munson #husband!eddie #i really hope this isn’t bad #yovrnewromantic

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magicdustsworld · 3 months ago

Text

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀(4)

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Profanity, illness, fluff, mentions of blood, no curse AU, no mentions of y/n.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒: 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇

A/N: ik i haven't posted in a while (in my defence, school is taking up too much of my time to focus on anything else) but I got an off day and this was a quick write up (actually not) jhjhjhs wc - 3.7k. Hope you enjoy <3

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑

It's not usual for Sukuna to fall ill.

However, when he does it’s like all the pathogens known to mankind have taken it upon themselves to infect him.

This time, it isn't so different after all.

Since the break of dawn Sukuna's been awake. Body twisted in an uncomfortable manner under the duvets, the dim flicker of the night lamp proves to be a companion in the otherwise solitary room.

"Fucking hell," He curses under his breath, shifting his position to ease the persistent ache that ripples through his body; his joints, for some reason, seems to have tightened itself to his bones. Slight movement proving to be difficult. While the air conditioner functions properly, a sheen of perspiration aglows his forehead—he swabs the moisture only to meet with another thin layer marring his skin, seconds later. He forces open an eye, trying to contemplate why your figure beside him does seems so fuzzy. No sooner, he can clear the mystery does a wave of shiver runs down his spine. "What the hell is this?"

The question leaves his lips, followed by strange churn of his stomach and on instinct he smacks his hand over his mouth.

The next minutes are blurred. Literally blurred for the brief time as if his body is set on auto-pilot, beckoning him to rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom.

As the expunging liquids leaves his throat and down the toilet does his distinct vision returns. Lips apart, he breaths in copious amount of air while the room seems to spin in a whirl. Once his senses have returned, he reached to flush down the contents only to halt.

Is that... blood?

"Temperature 101.6 °F and he threw up in the morning."

Sukuna would rather be anywhere but here.

Sitting in a doctor's cabin with you while the former wouldn't stop with his ridiculous questions. Inadvertently, he rests his scalp against the wall, a searing pain ripping from his chest every once in a while, causing him to jolt as if he's being electrocuted.

"Any other discomfort? Body ache or...?" Shinzo trails off, continuing with the physical examination of his patient.

In response, Sukuna shakes his head negatively. However, you take it upon yourself to be honest, "He does and he coughed through the whole drive."

"Not the whole—"

"Keep your mouth shut." Harshly you rebuke, shooting a scornful glare his way.

His lips curl down, on the verge to retaliate before the notion of it seems indolent. He's already been through a series of blood test and chest X rays since the last thirty minutes, exhausting him beyond relief; no need to add more to the list. Therefore, his mouth forms a thin line.

Shinzo hums, finishing with the check up as he returns to his seat across you. Scribbling down on the prescription, a knock sounds from the door and soon his assistant strides in with a number of reports. While the doctor reads through the files of his current patient, your hypertension manifests itself upon your being when your eyes find your boyfriend.

Awfully muted, his throat must have chipped while he threw up—reason to the unusual bleeding. Shoulders raised in a manner, tints of red stains his skin and the groans that escalates from him whenever he attempts to move just causes you to wince. You chew on your bottom lip, fiddling with the fabric of your jacket as the momentary silence in the room stretches. For too long that this might be the loudest silence, you’ve been in.

"Does he need to be hospitalized?"

"No—"

"I am not talking to you."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, just taking a mental note to give you an earful once all of this shit is over. It's so fucking funny. Oh, for heavens... he is perfectly fine. Well yeah, maybe some coughing fit but he can work through that for the day. No way did you call Kenjaku and call in sick for him. And he allowed that? Allowed you to drag you here as well? Alright, maybe he is sick.

Shinzo sets the files down, "Stage I Pneumonia," He concludes, straightening his posture and continues with the prescription. "No need for hospitalization but I am prescribing an antiviral— Tamiflu. Thirty minutes after breakfast, lunch and dinner for three days. Ibuprofen remains whenever he gets high fever and for the cough..." He pinches the bridge of his nose, ripping the sheet before passing it to you. "There's the Honiitus syrup, he can have 10 ml now. Rest, you know."

You nod, scanning the sheet in your grasp, irises halting on the specific medications. Craning your neck upto him, you ask, "Thank you and anything else?"

"Adequate rest and homemade food and he's good to go."

"Don't be difficult now, drink it."

"No."

Sukuna scowls at you and you scowl back. His eyes shifts to the tin medicine cup-cap in your hand filled with the amber coloured liquid which is supposed to heal his sore throat.

Currently, confined inside the four walls of his room, this place is 100 times better than that doctor's cabin and any hospital bed. He is sure just a whole day of sleep will make him back on his feet but you just have to be so... persistent.

"I am not asking, drink it." You extend your hand, bringing the liquid to his lips, only for him to turn his face away.

"And I said no," He spits back, eye twitching as he disregards your terse call. "Get that shit out of my face."

"This is for your own good, Sukuna. Stop acting like a child."

Sukuna only huffs in response, muttering a string of curses under his breath. No way is he letting you win this plus that thing in your hand smells disgusting.

“Absolutely not.”

You heave out loudly, "I don't want to force you."

That draws an almost amused chuckle out of him, he tilts his head—eyes shutting down and mouth clamping with a sound as another wave of nausea overrides him. Once composed, he reopens his eyes, challenge swirling in the crimson hues, "You think you can force me?"

“I don’t think so,” A mirthless smile curves into your own mien, you regard his dare with one of your own. "I know so."

"Sure."

"So are you going to be a good boy and drink it or do I need to make you?"

He scoffs, "Go on and try."

You pause for a second, bringing the cup down, gaze settled on him and for reasons unknown, Sukuna senses trouble. "Remember, you asked for it."

He shuts his eyes, rolling the irises behind the lids. You are just so funny sometimes. To think you can force him? Really? Even in this state, he can easily overpower you without even trying. Pick you up and throw you on the bed without any effort. But just for the jokes and laughs, he will let you get a head start.

In the reverie, he is when your warm palm grazes his jaw.

Here it comes.

Until it doesn't.

There's no hint of strength, no force, nothing as you let your palm trail over his skin. He opens his eyes and good lord's... You are close. Too close for his liking. Not that he is complaining. Of course. You can be closer if you want but wait– he is infected, right?

So you shouldn't be near him.

But it's like some hypnotism that's in play as he gazes into your eyes. With the added bonus of your soothing touch on his jaw, the pad of your thumb running on his lower lip—you pull down the flesh. He can see you more clearly than ever, from the slight furrow of your brows to the twitch of your lips and the light reflecting on your eyes.

It's clear.

So, so clear.

A heat spreads through his cheeks, mingling with the blood flowing in his veins and in seconds, his heart rate amplifies. Was it one of the side effects of Pneumonia? Shinzo obviously didn’t mention this but- fuck! You are here and the proximity only hitches the breath in his throat. Your rhythmic exhalation of air fans his skin and he swallows a lump.

Fuck!

He is truly sick.

You draw him in, "Open your mouth."

Before he can make sense of the situation, his body complies. Lips parting and soon you are pouring the medicine down his throat. He gulps, eyes still trained on you and yours on his.

You sit back on the bed and Sukuna blinks.

Wait– what just happened?

"That wasn't too hard now, was it?" You chuckle, pouring some water on the cup and swirl it.

"You– you tricked me."

"Oh? Did I?" Feigning innocence, you laugh again. "And what if I did? ...Oh, and don't make that face now, it doesn't taste that bad.”

“Taste it yourself then speak.”

“I am not the one who’s sick, you are” You muse, cleaning the cap and fastening the lid. He mutters an incoherent curse under his breath and you stand up. Straightening the duvet, you beckon him to lay down.

Something he does without any protest. However, his eyes flickers to the door for a brief second and now only, he is met with the yellowish eyes of a feline.

He raises an eyebrow, “What do you want?”

Kuro passes him a languid stare, his whiskers tremor once almost like its scowling. Only serving for the former’s vexation, the man waves him off without a thought. A low squeal is erupted from him and he is on the verge of pouncing of him when step in.

Picking up the cat, you bring it up to your face, “See Kuro, your papa is sick. So no trespassing here for a week.”

He blinks and answers you as though he understands what you mean.

You’re pretty sure he will try to barge in the second you leave but hey! What’s the problem to hold a little hope? Setting the cat down, you usher him out. Turning towards your boyfriend, you shoot him a heads up. One which he returns with a dismissive gesture.

“Get some rest in the meantime. I will be in the living room, just call if you need something.”

The lights dim out, curtain pulled over – creating the perfect atmosphere for an hour or more nap. Chirping of birds and the revving engines of cars from outside fades into background as comfort envelopes Sukuna amidst the sheets.

Despite it all, hollowness unfurls into his being.

The notion of silence returning again while he the room cloaks itself in darkness strikes an anonymous melancholy though his chest. A garter wraps around his neck, tightening with each passing second. And just like that the calm veneer crumbles into dust.

He pries an eye open and although the blackened room vanishes everything, its difficult to amiss your retreating figure. The haze increases, mouth sealed shut – he can’t speak. So, he extends an arm.

Wait-

The door closes shut.

He is walking through a mirage.

Surely, he has strolled through this area before. Once. Twice. Thrice. This is the fourth instance he is met with the same beige tinted cottages with scarlet thatched roofs.

He walks through the secluded lane across them.

Where is he going? He doesn’t know that. Just he is walking all alone. On his own. Just cause he has to.

Sky obscured with thick clouds, every once in a while does the thunder cracks. Lightening over the whole region. Sound so prominent, so daunting that it shakes the whole neighbourhood. For reasons, Sukuna finds an undulating spark tightening over his frame as every step forward becomes a struggle on its own. Down pouring heavily, the droplets causes his clothes to stick to his skin. Dripping down his ink stained countenance, clouding his vision. Breaths filled with raggedness, he wipes the moisture off- it isn’t removed.

He tries again and again and again.

Doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

How can anything ever work when-

Only a singular step he has taken and its like he is pushed off from a building.

Falling down, he doesn’t know what awaits him.

However, when he returns to his feet, the whole scenery has changed.

Instead of the murky countryside stretching with grasslands till the horizon, he is met with the picturesque view of a beach. Sparkling waves rises with all its glory, flaunting its sheer power before crashing on the sandy soil. Seagulls fly over the water bodies, their voice being a distinct reminder of this serenity. Murmurs of human life accompanied by distant tune from seaside eateries greet him. The gentle wisp of the sea breeze ruffles his hair, wafting sand into his eyes and nostrils; he doesn’t flinch.

When he looks around, everyone vanishes.

From the footprints on the soil to the sea castles to all the tourists. No one’s here.

The seclusion stalls on him only a second later. That’s when he realizes, everything’s truly gone.

The scorching sun blazes in fury, momentarily blinding him. Humidity persists in the air, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The waves crash again and he walks towards it. For some unknown reason-this feels right.

What’s the point of continuing anymore?

The sand prickles under his feet as he staggers towards the water. Sky high waves flicker and dance, crashing onto him and even though the musky salt should cause him to recoil, the intensity should strike some agony – he feels nothing.

Paving his way through the water until the very liquid surrounds him. All of this, just seems so empty.

“Sukuna,”

As if broken out from a trance by the mere call of his name, he turns.

Once again the vast expanse of the world does everything shift.

“You’re holding yourself well,” Jin remarks, wiping some specks of soap water from a plate. “Better than I expected you to.”

Sukuna’s eyes drift to take in the surroundings; standing across the kitchen counter of his apartment. His brother indulges in cleaning some utensils, a forlorn lilt of his lips prompts the former to raise an eyebrow. The room remains quiet only broken by the usual cling of the cutlery. From his periphery, he could see his nephew crouched down before Kuro, the boy ruffles the feline’s hair and now the cat should retaliate. Until it doesn’t.

“Taking care of Kuro as well,” Jin stares down at the duo. “Give yourself some credit y’know.”

Wait- since when did his brother know about the cat? And since when did Yuji turn to silent?

Gazing out the window- his eyes widen.

When did his neighbourhood change so much?

Without any explanation, Sukuna marches out of the apartment.

Greeted by a hoard of stones situated all over the grassland. Each of different shapes, sizes and perhaps… something just might be written on it. He doesn’t wait to read. Why should he doesn’t have his reading glasses with him?

Feet squashing the lifeless grasses, the leaves don’t crunch under his boots. His steps are steady, turning round a corner or more whenever he so pleases. Maybe this is the way out of the labyrinth of stones.

However, he halts before a particular stone.

For reasons unknown, Sukuna feels life slipping out of his fingers.

Sukuna wakes up with a jolt.

Eyes wide open, he breaths in through his mouth. Fingers trembling with the surge of adrenaline as his shoulders rise and fall in a cadence. Think coat of sweat mars his whole body, vest clinging to him like a second skin and the duvets covering his form renders him panting fit.

What was that? The beach? His brother? Those stones?

What- what was happening?

The eerie maze where he walked? Ran?

Wait- what occurred?

The ceiling lights blinds him with all the intensity, he shuts his eyelids, grunting out like a wounded animal. Some external voice rings out, too loud, too disturbing that he’s forced to press his palm over his ears. Touches guide his skin from his cheek to shoulders and a burst of repulsion compels him to push the person away.

Who the hell was it to hold him like that?

He’s got a girlfriend for fuck’s sake. Get the hell away from him.

However, instead of leaving him alone they are inching closer. He is met with the same touch again but the noise starts to clear as well.

“…Just a dream, you’re fine...”

Albeit begrudgingly, Sukuna removes his hand from his ears.

“…You’re home, calm down…”

It’s a gamble but he manages to reopen his eyes.

“Are you ok? What happened?”

Sukuna blinks, stupefied for the second.

There you are, standing before him while cupping his face in your little palms. Thumb running circles over the tattoos on his face, irises pooling with sheer concern, your eyes are solely focused on a subject. That subject being him.

He looks around.

Notably, nothing has changed. He is still in his bedroom, sitting on the bed with the comforter pooled around his hips. From the traces of light pouring from the ajar window, he can make out how the light fades to dark as twilight tints the skies in hues of violet and blue.

“Hey,” You tap his cheek, urging him to face you, “Why aren’t you speaking?”

He only responds with long stare.

“Sore throat? Should I bring honiitus again?”

“Don’t even think about it, woman.” He barks, lips curling down in utter disgust as the very prominent taste of the damn syrup lingers in the back of his mouth.

Without making a fuss about his sudden outburst, you place your backhand over his forehead. “Mhm… you don’t seem to have fever.” You nod, “No ibuprofen, then.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Don’t celebrate too early,” You snort, a mirthful smile creeping onto you, “Tamiflu after lunch, remember?”

“Well genius, I didn’t have lunch.”

You snap your fingers, “I know, and there it is,” You point to a tray stacked with a lidded container resting on top of the nightstand.

He stares at it for a second too long, “What’s that?”

“Boiled vegetables and… no–” You flick your index finger in the air, a clear negative sign. “No more tantrums, you’ll shut up and eat.”

“As if,” He scoffs, twisting his body away from the utensil, he faces the wall as if the blank canvas seems more interesting than the food you cooked.

You sigh, sitting down on the limited space provided for you on the bed across him, “Just because I call you baby doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”

“I am not enacting– no, just– fuck,” He curses under his breath, fumbling with the words too many times before he reaches a conclusion. “I am not acting like a god damn child.”

“Sure.” His eyes narrows down while he regards you. You stretch your arms, the joints cracking under the evident tension, “I added a few pieces of meat for taste, just so you know.”

He raises an eyebrow, retorts accumulating in his mouth. Just a second away from being unleashed before his gaze lands on a bowl and a pack of damp towels. “What happened with that?”

“What?”

“That.”

You glance at the way he points, taking a moment to contemplate before you answer, “I called Dr. Shinzo again, he said applying cold water towels will help with the fever so…”

Sukuna doesn’t know why, but he stills. “You were doing that all this time?”

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

You tilt your head, “Maybe cause you need it?” He blinks and you find your patience wearing thin. Dismissing the confusion clouding his visage, you reach for the tray and pick it up. The clattering of the utensils due to your unstable balance rings through the whole room. “See, this won’t be that bad. Besides, it’s only for a few days, you can manage, right?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Aw c’mon, now,” You unfasten the lid, dipping the spoon. “I will feed you as compensation. How does that sound?”

He still doesn’t answer but with the way he doesn’t protest your offer, he hopes to let you know his affirmation.

Sukuna refuses to let you know that the boiled vegetable soup isn’t as bad as he thought.

Two days later

Credits to his above average immunity or whatsever but Sukuna is almost back to complete health in just a span of few days.

Finally.

Done he is with all the ibuprofen and every other shit he has to endure.

Never again.

As a ritual, only does the lunchtime ends with the empty hot pot of boiled vegetables being lidded back does Sukuna notice the uncharacteristic clattering of the utensils as you try to hold them in place.

“Give me that.”

Before you can reply, the tray is already being grabbed by your boyfriend as he sets it down on the nightstand.

“That needs to be in the kitchen.”

Instead of gracing you with a proper answer, you are met with his crimson hues filled with something you can’t quite put a finger on. He urges you to sit with him and you comply. Feeling the need to for some reason.

“What?” You ask. His eyes darts down, following his gaze, confusion clouds your head for he is looking at your hands. “Huh?”

No sooner does the word leave your mouth than he grasps both of your hands on his own. You gasp yet don’t try to pull away.

Sukuna traces his thumb over the ridge of your knuckles to the tips of your nails. Turning them around, he draws every single contour lines on your palm as if he’s etching them onto his memory. It’s not the first time, he is holding your hand but it’s the first time he is noticing all the details. Like how a tiny callous has formed beside the edge of your thumb or how the tiny scar runs down the side of your ring finger.

His grasp tightens over yours, nothing to make it hurt. He would never.

He brings them up, pressing his lips over each and every, societally deemed, imperfection. At last, he turns to your backhand. This time, keeping his gaze stilled on you, he kisses your knuckles.

Perhaps, he’d have kissed you too but he doesn’t want the infection to pass.

Perhaps, you’ll know someday that… he is grateful.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @sweetpo1son @malazloje @tadabzzzbee @o-ikawaii

#magic!writes #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen x you #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna x you #jjk #ryomen #ryomen x you

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vxrycooldude · 4 months ago

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MDNI - cw: nerd!choso x fem!reader, (‘pretty girl,’ ‘sweetheart’), fingering (f! receiving), public sex, not very detailed smut, not proofread

thinking about nerd!choso who you see one day in a lecture - his focus on the professor, when he’d twist his rings as fidget, and his cute, inky ponytails that made you want to thread your fingers through his hair - see if it felt as soft as it looked.

but when the lecture was over and everyone started filing out of the room, you were able to see his face. he had an aloof expression, and his eye bags made it seem he hadn’t slept in a good while. a black tattoo stretched across the bridge of his nose, making him stand out strangely, even though he didn’t seem like the type to want the attention.

you continued to see him around the campus, always with that same tired and bored attitude. you hadn’t even spoken to him - yet he was all you could think about. you hadn’t even heard his voice!

so you decided to do something about it. putting on your most revealing denim skirt, layering two tank tops on top of each other (both with a low cut). you hadn’t cared that much about how good your hair looked or how slutty you seemed in a while, but the extra hour you spent getting ready before your next lecture would all be worth it - hopefully.

you watched him, waiting in anticipation until the professor would stop droning and you could talk to him. finally, after a good hour - the lecture was done. you quickly grabbed your purse and caught him as he was making his way out of the lecture hall. “hey, wait up!” he stops, turning around. his eyes are wide. you’re surprised when you realize how tall he really is - a good head taller than you.

“i’m sorry…i don’t know your name.” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. he had baggy black pants and an old Korn t-shirt. you hoped your cheeks weren’t red, but he was so…alluring.

“well, i don’t know yours, either.” you grin. he looks surprised that you asked, and that you’re even speaking to him. “…choso.” you try to contain your own excitement as you smile up at him.

“i’ve seen you around campus. you seem really smart…and i’m kind of failing,” you chuckle, swaying back and forth on your feet. “i was wondering if you’d tutor me, by any chance?”

choso’s mouth stretched out to a tiny smile, one that sent your heart beating furiously. “i’m not that smart…but i’d love to help.” he sounded so sweet, like he really did care if you failed or not. why couldn’t all guys be like him?

your eyes light up as you thank him profusely. the thought of spending time with choso, alone, was enough to make you thank yourself for actually making it this far in life. the next day, you would meet with choso in the university’s library and go over trigonometry together - at least, that was the plan.

but what really happened was his fingers finding their way knuckle deep inside you, his face leaned closely against your neck as he peppered kisses along your smooth skin. you bit your lip as you tried to conceal your noises, but two of his fingers were enough to make you go insane.

“shh, pretty girl. gotta be quiet for me, mkay?” he bit down softly on your collarbone, causing you to whine. his teeth grazing over your skin, plus the added feeling of his fingers pumping in and out of you, were enough to make your toes curl. “ch-cho-‘m gonna-“ “that’s it, sweetheart. come for me.” you let out a broken groan as you came, bucking your hips forward into his hand. you’d never came so hard in your life.

“…think we need to go to my place to study s’more, don’t you think?”

#jjk smut #jjk #jjk x reader #choso kamo #jjk x you #choso smut #choso x reader #first smut #amia writes

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writerslittlelibrary · 9 months ago

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Wasn't she sixteen...?

masterlist

summary: when you are on a mission with your uncle Steve, you accidentally become part of a large, secret Hydra experiment, and suddenly, you return to the compound as a toddler…

pairing: Winterwidow x adopted daughter teen/toddler reader

warnings: none I think

genre: fluff

words: 3333

a/n: I remember reading something with the reader turning into a toddler a long time ago, and the idea always stuck with me. I figured it would be really cute to do it with an adopted reader, because it means that Natasha and Bucky have never taken care of a toddler

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

A simple mission. That is what Fury said. A simple data collection. In and out.

“Simple,” Steve scoffed as her carried a sleeping 2 year old in his arms. As it turns out, the mission was not as simple as Fury had initially stated. The Hydra base was in fact, not empty, and you, were in fact, not ready.

Fury had assured Natasha and Bucky you would be fine. You had been with the Avengers since you were 11. You had been fighting your entire life before that, and now you were with the Avengers and all you wanted was to follow in the footsteps of your adoptive parents.

Natasha and Bucky couldn’t be more proud, yet they also couldn’t be more worried.

You had never been on a mission before. Natasha and Bucky deemed them to dangerous, and you were only 16. They didn’t want you on missions until you were at least a legal adult.

You were upset of course when they told you, but it didn’t take you long before you understood. Missions were dangerous, and despite your upbringing, you were simply not ready yet.

However, when Fury came to Natasha and Bucky with a file, which contained an easy mission, they decided you were allowed to go.

It would be a quick in and out mission. There wouldn’t be any danger and your uncle Steve would be with you. Everything would be fine, except it wasn’t.

The mission appeared to be more complicated than Fury had originally thought, and the Hydra base seemed to be anything but abandoned. The scouts Fury had sent out prior to the mission had been deceived. It was a trap, for you.

You had Steve had gone inside the base, finding the control room and copying the data.

However, when you were copying the data Steve heard strange noises coming from the hallway. He told you to stay put and finish the data transfer while he went to check.

You did as he said, continuing to transfer all the data from the computer.

However, once the screen displayed 100 percent, all electricity in the room fell away. The door fell shut, and a red light was all that lit up the room.

You pulled the usb out of the computer in a haste, trying to see if you could get the door open. You were unsuccessful, and despite your training, you were starting to panic. You could hear grunts and blows landing not far from your location and so you figured Steve was fighting off multiple Hydra agents.

After you unsuccessfully tried to open the door, you took a step back, taking a deep breath and emptying your mind. You tried to remember what you father told you.

“Don’t dwell on situations gone wrong. Accept the unexpected. Don’t stand around whining. Try to find another way.”

You could hear your father’s voice in your head, repeating the things he had taught you. Don’t dwell on the situation, you repeated in your head as you turned around, scanning the room to try and find something else that could help you.

It didn’t take long before you spotted the end of a vent in the ceiling, and after pushing the large computer from the desk, you moved it over to the wall.

You climbed to stand on top of the desk as you inspected the vent, figuring you could fit through if you managed to get it open.

The metal was screwed into the wall rather tightly, and the vent wouldn’t budge as you tried your best to pull it open. While focusing on the vent, you failed to notice Steve trying to talk to you through the door.

Once you heard him yell your name, you turned around, jumping off the desk and making your way to the door.

“It’s a trap! They’re gonna do something to you!” you heard Steve yell as he tried to get the door open. He too failed to open the door, despite his super soldier serum.

You ran back to the desk, climbing on it once more and trying to open the vent with much more force than before. This was supposed to be an easy mission. You wanted to make your parents proud. You’ll be damned if you get trapped back with Hydra because of it.

However, after you tried your absolute best to get the vent open, you still failed, and the red lights in the room started to flicker as an alarm could be heard.

Smoke started to fill the room and you tried to hold your breath for as long as you could.

It didn’t take long before you had to breath again, and as soon as you did you felt the smoke work its was inside, infecting your brain and your senses. You lost your balance and fell off the desk, unable to break your fall as the smoke fogged up your brain, confusion taking over.

You tried to stand. To get to the door. To get to uncle Steve, but it was worthless.

You laid on the floor until you lost consciousness.

After the smoke had taken effect on you, the alarm stopped. The smoke disappeared from the room and the red light returned to normal. The door sprung open and Steve rushed inside.

However, what he found was not exactly what he was expecting.

There you were, sitting on the ground with a pile of suit around you. You were no longer sixteen, you were a toddler. You looked to be around two, and because only your body had shrunken, the suit you were once wearing was way to big, and so it piled up around you.

Once you saw your uncle Steve your recognised him immediately, even in this from, and you giggled and smiled as you reached your little arms up.

Steve picked you up quickly, rushing back to the Quinjet and discarding of your suit, wrapping you in a warm blanket instead. You had a few cuts and bruises on your little body but they didn’t seem to bother you in the slightest as you giggled and laughed while playing with Steve’s beard.

He sighed as set the coordinates for the Quinjet back to the Avengers tower, contemplating on how the hell he was going to explain this to Natasha and Bucky.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Once Bucky and Natasha heard that the Quinjet was landing, they rushed to meet you, wanting to hold you in their arms and assure themselves you were safe.

However, when Steve walked off the Quinjet, a confused and guilty look on his face while carrying a little child, they could only think the worse. Natasha and Bucky rushed over to Steve, asking what had happened to their child. They needed to know you were safe.

Steve chuckled dryly as he held your tiny form up, and the moment you saw Natasha and Bucky you started smiling, reaching for Natasha, wanting your mama to hold you.

Natasha took you from Steve confused, before she took a good look at the toddlers face and realised that it was indeed, you.

“Y/n?!” Natasha exclaimed confused.

“Mommy!” you giggled happily as you buried your face into her shoulder, exhausted from the journey.

“Wasn’t she sixteen when we sent her with you…?” Bucky asked confused, a dangerous tone hidden underneath his playful one.

“Well, you see, she got hit with some kind of strange gas and now… well… she turned into a toddler…” Steve explained, scratching the back of his head while avoiding to make eye contact.

“What…?” Natasha asked even more confused, rubbing your back gently as you fussed before you settled down again.

“I don’t know what happened. The Hydra base we were at was not abandoned, but they didn’t try to hurt us. I left her alone for just a minute while I went to fight other Hydra agents off, and when I came back, well…” he finished, motioning to your sleeping form.

“I’m really sorry…” Steve added apologetically as he looked down.

Bucky took a deep breath before laying his hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

“We’ll go and see Bruce. Hopefully he can help us reverse it,” Bucky stated. Steve looked up at him confused, before he noticed Natasha’s massive smile while she interacted with your younger self. Maybe this wasn’t all bad.

-------------------------------------------------------------

After speaking with Bruce and Tony, Natasha and Bucky found out that your little form was reversible, but that it would simply take time. They stated that eventually the effects of the gas would wear off, and then you’d be back to your normal, teenager form again.

Natasha and Bucky thanked them as they made their way to the living room, you still happily in Natasha’s arms.

Bucky had already started planning an entire mental list of all the things they would have to get for you. I mean, you were two years old and the only thing that adorned your little body was the fuzzy blanket from the Quinjet.

There weren’t any clothes for you. There wasn’t anything in the Avengers tower for a two year old.

On top of that, Natasha and Bucky had never taken care of a toddler before. You were eleven when the Avengers saved you, and you were eleven when you were adopted by Natasha and Bucky. They didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a young child.

While Bucky rummaged in the kitchen, trying to find something appropriate for you to eat, Natasha sat on the couch with you in her lap, playing peek a boo while you giggled and tried to copy her movements.

Bucky eventually settled on grabbing you an apple, coming back from the kitchen and handing it to you.

Natasha gave him an unimpressed look when you took the apple from Bucky’s hand, studying it for a second before holding it back up to Bucky. Bucky looked confused, sending Natasha a glance for help.

“She’s two, James,” Natasha simply stated as Bucky hesitantly took the apple back.

“Daddy cut,” you stated as you pointed at the apple, and Bucky immediately realised how stupid he had been.

He went back into the kitchen, hearing you giggle as Natasha stated, ‘stupid daddy,’ in a playful tone. Once he returned with the apple, cut this time, he sat beside Natasha, holding the little bowl while you reached for a piece.

You happily munched on your apple slice while you laid down on Natasha’s chest.

Perhaps they should lay you down for a nap soon.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Clint had heard about what had happened to you. He had immediately started digging around in the old clothes from Lila and Nathaniel. The clothes they had kept from Lila were all baby clothes, and so he settled on just grabbing some of Nathaniel’s clothes.

He arrived at the compound quickly, finding you still sitting on the couch, finishing your last apple slice.

Natasha held you close as she softly rocked you back and forth, a happy and content smile on her face. She loved you more than anything in the world. She loved your shopping trips, your determination when you insisted on certain songs during car rides. Your ability to make Bucky say yes to whatever you asked. But she could not deny how much she had longed to hold you in your younger years.

Holding you, in your two year old form, was everything she had ever wanted.

You were so small. So fragile. So young. Natasha was more than grateful that she gets to experience you being so small as well.

Clint smiled at the sight, walking into the living area and sitting on a chair close to Natasha and Bucky.

“She’s adorable,” he stated as he got a good look at you.

Your little head perked up at the sound of his voice. “Uhncle Clint!” You stated happily, tripping over your words as they came out as a mushed up mess.

“Hello there tiny,” Clint responded as he smiled at you.

“I got you some of Nathaniel’s old clothes. I couldn’t find anything from Lila’s but I figured this will do for now,” Clint explained to Natasha and Bucky as he handed Bucky the clothes.

You little arm immediately reached towards the pile of clothes, sitting up straight in Natasha’s lap as you pulled the clothing items out of the perfect pile, wanting to see all of them. Eventually, you reached for a shirt with little planets on it. You held it up to Natasha.

“On mama,” you stated firmly, to which Natasha laughed while she helped you into the shirt.

Eventually, you were happily dressed in a miss matching set of pajamas, leaning into Natasha again as your eyes started to fall close.

“I think it’s time for a nap,” Natasha stated as she stood up, holding you tightly to her chest as she made her way towards hers and Bucky’s bedroom. Bucky followed her as they went into the bedroom, Natasha laying you on the bed.

“Do two year olds wear diapers…?” Bucky asked, deep in thought while he contemplated putting a diaper on you or not.

Natasha let out a huff of amusement before handing a diaper to Bucky.

“Yes they do,” she stated as she sat down on the bed, making sure you kept laying down as Bucky gave her a confused look.

“Well go on dad, put a diaper on your kid,” Natasha stated playfully, listening to your giggles as Bucky’s face heated up.

“I don’t know how…” Bucky stated, a little embarrassed.

“Come on super soldier, I’ll talk you through it. It’s not that hard,” Natasha explained as she motioned for Bucky to get to work.

-------------------------------------------------------------

After Bucky’s diaper adventure you were asleep pretty quickly, all the excitement from the day catching up to you as you slept peacefully on the big bed. Natasha had laid pillows all around you, building some kind of wall to ensure you wouldn’t roll out of the bed while you slept.

After you were down and content, Natasha had offered to go to the mall to pick out a few necessities for you. Bucky had reluctantly agreed, even though he was terrified to take care of you. You were only a little baby, and he was terrified to hurt you.

Natasha had assured him that he would do great, and Clint had offered to stay nearby incase Bucky would need anything.

And so, Natasha happily went to the mall, shopping in all the baby stores as she put way to many objects in her basket. She had never had such an experience before. Sure, she occasionally picked up a thing or two for Clint’s kids, but getting to pick out stuff for her own little girl felt entirely different.

She had already received a dozen texts while she was gone, all from Bucky as he slightly panicked with every sound or movement you made.

Natasha chuckled to herself as she read through the texts, assuring Bucky you were fine and that you were just sleeping like any normal toddler would.

“Are you looking for anything specific?”

The question pulled Natasha away from her phone, turning to look at the woman beside her. She had a kind smile on her face as she scanned the objects in Natasha’s basket.

“Oh, uhm, I’m not sure,” Natasha stated, giving the woman a smile back.

“Your first child?” the woman asked, and Natasha nodded with a bright smile on her face.

“It was unexpected, to say the least,” she chuckled at her own joke, watching the woman’s face as she smiled kindly.

“How old is she?” the woman asked, judging by the basket contents that you were a girl.

“Two,” Natasha stated as she picked up another set of pajamas, the pattern a collection of different cartoon drawings of your favourite animal.

“It’s a great age. I loved it when my kids were that age,” the woman told Natasha.

“Children that age often want comfort items. Does she have anything like a stuffed animal, or maybe a special blanket?” the woman suggested, and Natasha thought for a moment before shaking her head.

“No, I suppose she doesn’t. I should probably pick one up for her,” she stated as she gave the woman another smile, moving to walk over to the stuffed animal section.

The woman trailed behind her and guided her towards a collection of adorable bears, all dressed in various pajama sets that were sold around the store.

“You could get one with the same pajamas as your daughter,” the woman explained excitedly, picking up a bear dressed in the same pajamas that Natasha had picked out earlier.

Natasha took the bear, thanking the woman before making her way to check out.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Once Natasha arrived back at the Avengers tower the first thing she noticed was how the common area was a chaos. Clint and Wanda were looking around while Bucky just paced around panicking.

Natasha walked over to Bucky, a determination to calm her boyfriend down before he would have a mental breakdown.

“Y/n’s gone,” Bucky stated as he say Natasha come into view.

Clint immediately turned around upon hearing Bucky’s words, letting out a chuckle and walking over to Natasha as well.

“For the record, y/n is not gone, she is simply playing hide and seek,” Clint started, looking around. “And she’s damn good at it…”

Natasha laughed as she set her bags on the couch.

“Y/n? Sweetie, it’s mommy. I have some things for you,” Natasha stated in a sing songy voice, her ears immediately perking up when she heard your excited giggles coming from her right.

There you were, running as fast as your little legs could take you, straight for Natasha’s lap.

You jumped up on the couch, climbing onto Natasha as you hugged her tightly.

“Mommy!” you exclaimed happily, giggling as Natasha attacked your face with kisses.

“Was my little princess hiding from daddy?” Natasha asked as you nodded, still giggling as you pointed over to Bucky.

“Daddy not finding me!” you exclaimed, stretching out to give Natasha a kiss on her cheek.

Bucky sighed with relief as he moved to sit down beside you two, his large hand stroking your back, it almost being as big as your entire back. You giggled and pushed yourself away from Natasha, using her shoulders to push yourself up so you could give Bucky a kiss as well.

“I best at hid and seeking,” you stated proudly, and Bucky chuckled as he nodded, giving you a kiss on your forehead.

“Look what I have for you my little malyshka,” Natasha said as she reached into the bag, pulling the stuffed animal from the bag and handing it over to you.

You smiled brightly, immediately hugging the bear tightly to your chest when you got it into your hands.

“Matching pajamas…” Bucky stated with amusement as he pulled the pajama set from the bag, holding it up for you and Natasha to see.

You gasped in excitement as reached over to it.

“On mommy, on,” you stated as you managed to get the pajamas in your hands.

Natasha chuckled and helped you out of Nathaniel’s old clothes, ripping open the packaging of the new pajamas and helping you put them on.

“I look like bear!” you exclaimed happily as you looked at yourself, holding up your bear for Natasha and Bucky to see.

“Yes you do doll,” Bucky stated as he pulled you into his lap, showering your face with kisses.

Both Natasha and Bucky would never say it out loud, but they hoped you would stay a two year old for a little while longer, loving the new domestic feeling it gave them to raise a little kid. Of course, they loved you and they would be more than happy when you were to turn back into your teenage self, but they couldn’t deny the fact that they wanted to enjoy holding your little form for as long as possible.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @nova-kyle @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @simp-erformarvelwomen @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @mxximoffswifey @lorsstar1st

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wri0thesley · 1 month ago

Text

work health assessment - dottore x reader (nsfw, 4.8k)

you really need this job, and you're willing to put up with more than you should in order to get it.

cw: dub-con, dark content, medical kink, needles, mentions of drugging. reader is explicitly chubby and a virgin, afab (words such as 'breast' and 'cunt' used, but no pronouns). fingering, glove kink, mentions of forced prostitution. it's dottore!!

You’re trembling. You can feel your leg awkwardly twitching, a trapped nerve in your calf that makes you unable to sit still - and it only gets worse as the last applicant before you comes out with a face like thunder. The other Fatui agent stops and looks at you - he’s obviously higher up in the hierarchy than you are, wearing the trademark hood and red-trimmed coat of a Pyro agent. Somebody looking for a change of pace from combat, then, you suppose.

“You ought not to bother,” he spits out, vitriol in his tone - but you have been around other people enough to know that the vitriol is directed at the man sitting in the office and not at you. “He won’t care about how well-suited you are, any qualifications, any fucking scientific proficiency--”

The Pyro agent walks away still muttering under his breath; you think you hear something about how clearly graduating the Akademiya meant nothing in a place like this, and you feel an unfortunate pang of sympathy for him. He’s definitely far more qualified for this kind of work than you are. If Il Dottore is looking for an assistant, surely somebody who studied at the Akademiya is going to be a far better prospect than you--

You swallow. You need this role.

Everybody has been kind to you since The Fair Lady passed on. They knew you were one of her favourites, and they found work for you to do - even if it has been rather menial and trivial, it’s meant that you’ve kept receiving Mora, and been able to keep yourself afloat. Head above water. They’ve looked at you sympathetically for the past year - but this is the Fatui, after all, and you cannot expect to live on pity for the rest of your life. You need to make yourself indispensable to somebody else.

Heaven knows you’re not primed for combat, you think ruefully, as you look down at the soft curve of your hips and the plush of your thighs where they spread out against the chair you’re waiting on. You’re not clever enough to be an actual scientist underneath Dottore’s instruction, you don’t think; and you hadn’t liked the way that the Regrator had sized you up last time he’d seen you, enquiring after your salary and whether it was truly appropriate for the work you’d been doing around the Palace with that calm, sly smile on his face--

But administration? Handling The Doctor’s papers, filing things away, accounts and schedules and diaries? That is very much the kind of thing you can do, and the thing you did very well for Signora before she met with a shining blade. You grit your teeth and force yourself to think things through and get your words in proper order. The Doctor is not the kind of man who will be kind to you if you start stuttering or falling over yourself; he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, you’ve always been told--

Oh, it would be a step up though, wouldn’t it? To go from the employ of the eighth Harbinger to the second? You’d ordinarily never have dared entertain such a thing, but Pulcinella had sought you out amongst the Palace walls and patted your arm and given you a kind, fatherly smile as he’d told you that he thought you’d be a perfect fit for what Dottore needed.

The door to the office opens and there he is; tall, imposing, his gaze imperceptible behind the crow-like mask he wears at almost all times. Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve seen him, of course . . . but this close, and with nobody else around, he has a strange aura that makes you feel dizzy and nervous. Like a laboratory mouse being observed through glass. Slowly, his chin tips down, as if he’s looking you up and down, and then he makes an impatient gesture with one gloved hand.

“Come, then,” he says, in a low, cold voice. “The first thing to learn is not to keep me waiting.”

You’re clumsy getting up off the chair, still a little rattled by the way he looks and just how much he towers over you. The accoutrements he wears on his lab coat do not soften the effect; they give him the look of a too-large raven who is ready to peck your eyes out, making him seem all the more intimidating and all the wider - and considering he is a Doctor, a scholar . . . he’s not exactly lacking in the breadth department even without them.

His lip curls for a fraction of a second at the sight of you pulling at your clothes, rearranging yourself, even nervously reaching up to touch your hair to ensure that it’s in place - but then he motions you through the door and his face is blank once again.

His office is in complete disarray. It’s no wonder he needs an assistant, really; there are files all over his desk, spilling onto the floor. A few tables and chairs in other corners are just as full of ephemera and notes and other things you don’t want to think too hard on. The only things in this office that are meticulously clear and clean are a doctor’s examination bed pressed up against the wall and a tray beside it with an array of silvery instruments that glint cruelly in the snow-bright reflection from the windows. The lock clicks. You swallow again as Dottore motions for you to take a seat in front of his desk and he walks around to recline into his own.

His is old leather, wingback; more throne than chair, and he sits in it like a king observing one of his subjects in a way that makes you feel so small you can barely stand it.

“Well?” He asks you, and you squeak in alarm before your words start to careen out of you like a runaway train.

“I-- The Rooster told me you were looking for an administrative assistant, and you know that’s the same thing I did for the Fair Lady. I-I’m not scientifically-minded or anything, I’d be no help with your experiments - but maybe that’s a good thing, if I don’t know enough to properly even understand the documents I’m handling then I’m no risk with sensitive information--”

He raises one gloved hand to stop you in mid-flow. There’s that quirk of his lip again, as he steeples his fingers together and leans forward on his elbows to rest on the messy wood of his desk.

“My dear,” he drawls at you, “are you truly trying to get me to employ you by making a show of your own incompetence?”

A cold shiver down your spine. You need this role. You need something to get you out of the drudgery of the boring tasks you’ve been given, to get you away from Pantalone’s prying eyes, to give you some kind of purpose--

“I’m good at admin!” You tell him, your voice pitching high in your nervousness. “I’ve a head for figures, I’m organised, I’m discreet--”

“How’s your health?” Dottore asks, that slight curve to his lip not dissipating even a bit. “I can’t employ somebody who is unreliable, you see. I’m rather more of a workaholic than some of my compatriots, and I do so hate to be interrupted when I’m on the brink of a breakthrough.”

“It’s good!” You blurt out without thinking. It’s true; you’ve never had any issues with it. You had mandated checks every year with a doctor that Signora employed - she always made a point to say she wouldn’t make the Doctor do it, with a pinch to your cheeks and a lazy, indulgent smile. She liked her underlings to think her magnanimous.

“Mmm.” Dottore says. He regards you over his hands once more, before he says; “When I saw your application on the pile, I had already half a mind to take you on. The Fair Lady was always effusive in your praises, and I do indeed not want a little upstart who thinks they can replace me. You were right to think your lack of scientific knowledge would be a boon to me. My work is very delicate, you understand?”

“I understand entirely, Doctor,” you say, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m the soul of discretion, I promise.”

“Mmm,” he says, the noise not entirely convinced, but your toes have curled in your shoes and you can feel the fingers of hope crawling up your spine. “Despite that, you do not seem unintelligent. I don’t think I could bear having an idiot handle my files. You’re already well-versed in the politics of Zapolyarny and the way working for a Harbinger functions; I would not have to waste time doing too much training.”

“Not at all, My Lord,” you say, trying to smile despite the nerves that you can still feel tingling all over you. “I’d be extremely good at what you want me for, I promise.”

This wins a soft snort from him, as if you’ve said something very funny. You keep yourself as poised as you can, your spine straight, your face as sweet and open as you can manage. Signora always preferred you to be like this . . . in time, you suppose that you’ll learn what Dottore likes, but until then he doesn’t seem opposed to the same gentle demeanour that you’d perfected with the Eighth Harbinger.

“Nevertheless,” he says, “your physical condition . . .”

Your cheeks burn hot. You hope he is not referring to the curves of your body; you’ve never been particularly self-conscious about it - it’s rather the fashion in Snezhnaya to be soft, and you receive your fair share of admiring looks and propositions - but . . . you know that Dottore is not originally from your homeland, and there can be such strange stigmas in other lands--

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says to you, as if he’s read your mind. “In a purely biologically aesthetic sense, you’re very much a prime specimen. But looks can be deceiving, my dear, and before we finalise the employment I would like you to submit to a medical examination.”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t prepared for him to ask for this; you try and run through in your head what he might want to check in this examination, but even as you do that you realise he has you caught. You need him to employ you, and he has as good as said that as soon as he’s declared you medically fit and able he’ll be able to officially do so. How bad can it really be, then? Let him poke and prod and walk out of this office with a brand new purpose. You swallow.

“Of course, My Lord,” you say, giving him a blank smile. “What would you like me to do?”

Dottore gives a pleased hum at your acquiescence as he stands up and walks towards the medical table.

“Obedient,” he says, approvingly. “That will serve you in good stead. Come here, if you please. For now, I’m simply going to listen to your heart and do a few quick reflex tests. The more . . . invasive tests will come afterwards. Please remove your topmost layer.”

You do not like the sound of ‘invasive tests’, but you allow yourself the briefest moment of a flinch before you follow his orders. The fur-lined cloak you wear is shed, and the soft knit cardigan follows suit. Seeing you’re wearing a blouse beneath that, Dottore clicks his tongue briefly.

“That too, I’m afraid,” he says. “I need to be able to place this device directly onto your bare skin.”

It takes another moment of steeling yourself, but the blouse follows your other garments until you stand shivering in your lace-trimmed camisole. You’re suddenly exceedingly aware of the generous curve of your breast within the silken cups of your brassiere, the bare skin of your collarbone, the plumpness of your shoulders - but Dottore, doctorly in the extreme, merely lets his gloved hands brush over them as he steers you to take a seat upon the examination table and presses the cool circle of his stethoscope against your chest.

The next fifteen minutes are boring but predictable. Dottore takes your vitals; your blood pressure, your heart-rate. He checks your reaction times with a little glowing light - he takes your temperature. You wrinkle your nose when he produces a syringe, but you have had blood taken before and you manage nothing more than a little flinch when you feel the needle slide into the crook of your elbow. He writes all of his findings down in a little black-covered ring bound notebook.

It is only when he closes the notebook that you finally let yourself relax; your shoulders to slump, the breath it feels as though you’ve been shudderingly holding on to finally dispelled.

“Do I meet your expectations, My Lord?” You ask him, and Dottore gives a small, considering noise before he looks back up from the notebook.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite finished yet,” he tells you, with a small smile. “If you’d please remove the rest of your clothing.”

Your eyes widen.

“I--”

“There’s a hospital gown for you,” he says, interrupting, reaching towards a lower drawer in the silver cart by the side of the bed. He pulls from its depths a pale blue, paper-thin concoction that you do not feel as though deserves the title of ‘gown’ - but Dottore has you at his mercy. If you refuse now, he simply won’t employ you - and who knows what might happen to you after that? You bite your tongue and repeat the mantra in your mind: what’s the worst that could happen? “I’ll turn whilst you change. Your underwear too, if you please.”

What’s the worst that could happen? You repeat it over and over as Dottore sighs when he turns around, as if he’s being very generous by making this small provision for your modesty and he doesn’t quite see the point. You put your clothes down onto the pile that’s been gradually growing and shrug yourself into the uncomfortable papery gown, perching primly on the very edge of the hospital bed when you’re done with your knees together.

You are terribly aware of just how naked you are beneath the flimsy covering when Dottore turns back around and gives you a slow once-over. There’s a lot of your bare thigh on display; the thin ties at the back of your neck you have done your best to fasten, but you’re also aware of cool air on the bare skin of your spine and the precarious position you would be in if he bid you to stand up and turn around. You press your thighs more fiercely together as if sheer force of will can make you less tortuously conscious of your bare sex, your missing underwear, the way your nipples have peaked in the cool air.

“Are you cold?” He asks, conversationally, as he comes closer to you - and your cheeks go hot all over as one gloved finger comes up and softly circles over the slight imprint of your nipple in the gown. You hiss through your teeth, but don’t say anything. “Your temperature was fine . . . so perhaps you’re just sensitive?”

He tips his head to one side as he considers it. He still has not removed the bird-like mask, but you have the fleeting impression that you’re being ogled by him. His other hand reaches up, and before you can make even a token attempt to slap him away, he is cupping the heavy fat of your breasts through the material, testing their weight in his palms.

“D-Doctor!”

“Yes?” He tilts his head again. “I simply have to get to grips with your body, my dear. This interest is strictly professional.”

“I-- this doesn’t seem necessary, My Lord Harbinger--”

“Believe me, it is. Unless . . . well, you do want me to employ you, don’t you?”

The last is said in a condescending tone that makes you very much sure that if you deny him, he will send you on his way and happily throw you to the mercy of whoever swoops down to feast upon his leftovers first. You remind yourself that it will be over soon; think of how this role will cement your place in the Palace as someone of use, and when Dottore’s thumbs swipe over your nipples you bite back the whimper that wants to tear from your throat.

“Mmm,” he says. “Very sensitive, indeed. Tell me when this hurts.” Still through the gown, Dottore uses thumb and forefinger to gently pinch your nipples. Against your will, you squirm on the hospital bed slightly, heat rising to your face as a low ache between your thighs makes itself known. He starts off soft, but gradually increases the pressure, until you blurt out;

“Th-that hurts!”

“Hmm?” He pinches a little harder and watches you in great interest as you flinch, giving a mean little twist before he finally releases the aching nubs of your nipples. “Yes. As I thought. Now, let me try without the obstruction--”

He reaches behind you and undoes the ties of the gown with one quick, fluid motion - so swift you barely have time to bring your hands up to cover the spill of your breasts, as protests die on your tongue.

“I don’t have time for prudery,” he tells you. “Show me.”

To your great horror, a shaking breath only a moment away from a sob comes trembling out of your throat - but you do as he asks, thinking once more of that job that is dangling over your head. Dottore seems to observe your naked chest for a moment, and then smiles sharp and cruel again.

“Lovely,” he murmurs, as he returns to touching them - kneading handfuls in those awful gloves, tugging at your nipples, rubbing circles around the areola until your over-sensitive body squirms. “Ah, these are nicely sized, aren’t they? And these . . .” Another pinch to your nipple, and this time you feel a tear slip from the corner of your eye unbidden, your throat clogged. “Such pretty little things. So responsive! I daresay the rest of your body has reacted just as nicely?”

“I--I don’t know what you mean, My Lord,” you say to him, although you have the mounting fear that you understand exactly what he means. Dottore chuckles.

“So far, you’re passing the physical examination with flying colours,” he says to you, voice low and cool and smooth. “Don’t disappoint me now, darling.” He pats the side of the examination bed. “Get yourself up here please. Feet flat, knees up.” He leers at you even through the mask as he finishes his order with two words that make your blood run cold. “Thighs apart.”

It almost pushes you over the edge. The thought of Dottore looking at you, so vulnerable, so close to naked (actually, you suppose when you move the gown will flutter to the ground and you will be utterly bare before him) - the idea of him having you entirely at his mercy . . . You’re suddenly all too aware that there is nobody waiting for you; no applicant after you, who might poke their head in rudely to see if Dottore is nearly ready for their interview. For all intens and purposes, Dottore could kill you and use you as spare parts and nobody would ever know--

“My patience is not neverending,” Dottore murmurs, drumming fingers on the leather of the bed. “You do want this, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you swallow back the fear. You have nothing else that is viable to do, really - you would never beat him to his door if you ran, you would be naked and afraid, you are entirely at his mercy. . . “S-sorry.”

A pleased noise at the apology. You force yourself to keep breathing as you manoeuvre your traitorous body - to your immense horror, you realise that the kneading and the pinching and the petting that Dottore lavished upon your chest earlier has had an effect between your thighs, and there is a definite dampness wetting the curls of your pubic hair. You squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t have to see that damned bird mask looming down at you.

“There we are,” Dottore coos to you - fingers slide up your shins, rearranging them slightly until you’re put in exactly the position he wants. “Relax, now. Head on the pillow. This will perhaps be uncomfortable, but I shan’t hurt you on purpose. Ah, there we are. Very good.” You hesitantly settle flat against the leather, and for your obedience you are rewarded with a fleeting pat on your head, like a well-behaved little dog. “Oh, my.”

“I-- is the examination nearly over, Doctor?” You ask him, though you fear that you know the answer - and to answer your fears, Dottore lets out a chuckle that sounds like a creak.

“Oh, not yet,” he says, airily. “Relax, my dear. If you don’t, perhaps I ought to inject some kind of tranquiliser?”

“N-no,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to relax.”

“Very good. Ah.” He shifts again, and you hear the sound of the cart being moved. Your heart begins to rabbit at the thought of any of those silvery sharp instruments coming near the soft part of you nestled between your thighs, but Dottore simply pauses at the foot of the bed and once more observes you.

It’s been a while since he wrote in the notebook, you can’t help but note.

“You’re just as lovely here,” he says to you. “A perfect specimen, really. Very nice.” Very slowly, all the more terribly enhanced because you cannot see him, you feel Dottore bring his gloved finger to stroke down the plump slit of your labia. Your body tenses at the sensation. “You’re wet, too. Good. I’m going to help that along a little - this might be a bit cold, you can shiver if you need to--”

The clatter of the cart again - and then something thick and viscous and cool is being drizzled over your bare sex. You do indeed take in a deep breath, your nails digging into your palms at the unusual sensation.

“Wh-what is it?” You whisper, a thousand horrible thoughts flitting across your head - numbing agents, or oils designed to make you all the more sensitive, or any other kind of horrible concoction that the Doctor might have at hand - but he just laughs at you, as if you’ve told a very funny joke. His tone is condescending;

“Merely a lubricant, my dear. We are simply testing your health; your sensitivity, your reactions, how much you can take--”

He gently continues to stroke up and down the slit of your sex, working the lubricant against your cunt - paying particular attention, to your mortification, to the swollen nub of your clit. Of course, you’ve touched yourself - but to have someone else doing it! To have the Doctor, doing it like this!”

“You’re a virgin?” He asks you, with a note of surprise, and you press your lips tightly together because you cannot bear to say it out loud. Dottore chuckles. “Oh, you don’t need to answer that. I can tell from the way your greedy little hole is trying to suck me in even though it barely seems as though it will stretch enough to fit a finger in.” He clicks his tongue and lets out another low little laugh. “I should have guessed when you started panting and whimpering when I played with your nipples. You’re just darling, you know.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t think this is part of an ordinary medical examination,” you whisper, as Dottore’s finger prods testingly against the flutter of your hole. You hate that he’s right - despite how your mind is whispering poison, your body is only aware of how good it feels to be touched like this, by slow and practised and meticulous hands.

“And I am no ordinary Doctor, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Please--”

Your next words are drowned out by the whine that falls from your lips as he slowly slides his finger into the hot tight tunnel of your sex. His gloves are still on; the texture makes you fight against the desire to wriggle as he crooks it inside of you, truly getting a feel for the pulsing walls around him.

“I’m sure you’re aware the Regrator has inquired about your contract,” he says to you, as he slowly begins to slide his finger out and then in again, the movement aided by the lubrication and your own slick. Your back arches, but you do not receive a scolding for it - Dottore’s voice has shifted just a semi-tone, thickened just a touch. “He’s thinking you’d make him a pretty penny if he loaned you out to some of his more discerning investors.”

The thought of the way that the Regrator looks at you flashes through your mind again, and you find yourself tearfully shaking your head.

“As well as being a prospect to indulge in himself,” Dottore continues, as if you have not responded. “Now. I’m sure you won’t want that, do you?”

“P-please,” you say, shaking your head. “No.”

Dottore lets out a satisfied exhale. A second finger prods interestedly at your entrance, and you try to force yourself to relax as he slides two of them inside instead. The stretch now is noticeable, and the muscles in your thighs jump. Two fingers, and you almost tell him that it’s too much - before you remember what it is that Dottore is telling you.

“Oh, very clever. I am not lying about needing an administrative assistant,” Dottore tells you, fingers pumping in and out of you now, curling against the pounding of your inner walls, the wet click of his fingers fucking into you echoing too loud in the room. You hate that you can feel yourself, wet and sticky and hot. You hate all the more that inside of you is growing a warmth you have never experienced, a tight ball of tension that makes you dizzy. “I am merely a man who believes in . . . multi-tasking. Dual purpose, if you will. I have found that sometimes I get . . . frustrated in my work, and one of the few ways I have found to expel some of that frustration lies in sexual gratification.”

Your face, hot. Your body, responding against your will. Your heart, pounding like a trapped animal. Dottore’s thumb swipes across your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with the practised assurance that only a doctor can truly embody.

“Your virginity is a variable I hadn’t quite counted on,” he continues, still working you over like your cunt is a puzzle that he needs to solver. You can barely concentrate on what he’s saying now, that ball of heat within you is so overwhelming. “But it’s hardly unwelcome to know I’ll get to shape you to my own desires, if you will.”

You can feel that you’re close; you can feel that if he just carries on a bit longer, if he just lets you get a little further, that ball will explode like fireworks in your head and warmth will spread through your body like a heating lamp on a cold Snezhnayan night. But he stops.

“So now you know the full terms,” he tells you, whilst you fight and lose against the instinct to try and hump your hips back to the gorgeous sensation of his hand on you. “Tell me, my dear. Do you still wish to be my assistant? Or do Pantalone’s plans sound more desirable? For a virgin, you’re being more than a little desperate - perhaps you like the idea of him sharing you out?”

“N-no,” you gasp out, shaking your head. Better the devil you know. Better the second Harbinger, and the same face, and the familiar walls of Zapolyarny Palace than beds of men you’ll never see again. “M-My Lord Harbinger, Dottore, Doctor, please--!”

He chuckles.

“Alright,” he murmurs, and he resumes fucking into you, the firm pressure on your clit, and before you know it you can feel yourself spasming around him with soft pleasured cries as your body is suffused in the warm glow of pleasure. Dottore fucks you on his fingers through the afterglow, the ebbing tide of your first orgasm at the hands of somebody else - before he abruptly stands and you hear the clack of his boots on the floor as he walks away, leaving you naked and shivering and gasping.

“Very well,” he says to you, and though you’re still staring at the ceiling you hear the smile. “I shall see you bright and early tomorrow, my dear. We’ll make a start on my next tests. For now . . .”

It all feels like a muddle in your head. You can’t remember what you’ve agreed to; Dottore’s words are so mired in meaning, and you’re an admin and not any kind of genius--!

But it’s too late. Dottore’s voice is lazy and indolent in a way you’ve never heard it be as he says to you;

“You’re dismissed.”

#writing #genshin impact posting #dottore smut #dub con for ts #dark content for ts #dottore x reader #not sfw #afab reader #medical kink cw

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ncis-nerd · 3 months ago

Text

Unforgettable Rain

Boss Wanda Maximoff x College Student Reader , Wanda x Nat , Slight Nat x Reader

about: wanda asks y/n to come in on her day off, to "file papers". is that it or did she want something more?

secret untold au

The rain trickled down your window, you had it slightly cracked open. You didn’t want the rain to come inside but you still wanted to be able to hear it.

You loved the sound of rain, it was so comforting. It reminded you of your childhood when you would go outside in the rain with your older sister and father. You’d dance like no one was watching, it was so fun. You missed them so much everyday.

Especially when it rains, it was never quiet when it rained, not only because of the sound of the rain but also because of the laughter and giggles that escaped their lips when you’d dance so freely.

You sat curled up, drinking a warm cup of hot chocolate as you watched the rain. That’s when your phone got an alert. You got a message from Wanda, your boss.

Since that first day she would send you on tasks outside of her office, it felt like she was avoiding you. Her face once so warm and welcoming now felt so cold and distant. You were a little hurt by this, but you still had to do your job. Even if the two of you didn’t get along.

(5:38 P.M.) W. Maximoff: “Hey Y/N, are you able to come into the office? I know it is a bit late so I understand if you cannot.”

(5:39 P.M.) Y/N: “No, no it’s fine. I’m not doing anything, I can come in.”

(5:40 P.M.) W Maximoff: “Perfect, thank you darling.”

You threw on a hoodie, and changed into presentable pants before leaving for the office. Your mind still went back to your first day where you made a fool of yourself in front of your new boss. What a great way to meet her, by falling for her on the steps outside her own building.

When you look up, you find yourself at the office. It’s a quick walk from your apartment as you don’t live that far from the office. You noticed that the rain had stopped when you left your house. You however, failed to bring an umbrella with you. It had slipped your mind that the rain could start back up when you left your house.

You knocked on her door, “Wanda? It’s me.” You spoke softly. She opened her door to let you in. She wasn’t alone in here, there was a woman sitting on her couch. Not just any woman, the woman from her painting. Her wife. She was wearing a suit, her red hair in curls, it looked so free and loose.

The woman noticed your staring, that’s when her raspy voice spoke up “Hi there, my name is Natasha. My wife told me about you, Y/N Y/L/N right?” You nodded, her voice was so hypnotizing, you bit your lip.

“So, I hope my wife hasn’t made you feel uncomfortable but the reason I called you in on your day off was to ask you if you could file these papers for me?” She asked, handing you a box of papers in it. You nodded, reaching for the box. Her lips opened but no words came out, it looked as if she had more she wanted to say.

You found it a bit strange that your boss had asked you to come in on your day off just to file papers, especially since there were other employees that could do that task for her You shrugged it off and got to filing.

You felt Wanda and Natasha's eyes glancing at each other, as if they were having a silent conversation.

That's when Natasha finally spoke, Wanda's eyes darken. “So, Y/N.. I know we haven't known you that long but do you happen to be occupied next Friday evening?” Natasha hummed.

This sparked your curiosity as you had no plans that day, or at all. You were an introvert who happened to protect your peace a little too much so now you hardly have a social life.

The two women waited for your response. “No, nothing that I could think of. Why?” You asked.

“Well, my wife wanted to ask you if you would join us at this dinner party for their company. It's a business party.” Natasha's raspy voice spoke.

Really? They wanted you there? You were just some new intern but this warmed your heart that Wanda wanted you there.

“I-I would love that! But what should I wear? What's the dress code?” You stuttered, your anxiety running through your head.

What if you embarrassed yourself there too? What if your clothes didn't match the vibe? Your thoughts were racing. Natasha and Wanda could sense your anxiety.

Natasha quickly silenced those thoughts. She brought her thumb to stroke your cheek. “Well it's moreso just dressing professional but if it would make you feel comfortable, you can match with us, Detka.” Natasha smiled. Her touch was so warm, it made you feel better.

Detka? You scrunched your nose trying to figure out the meaning behind the foreign word. “Don't worry about that, sweetheart. Natasha and I will be wearing burgundy. You're welcome to match us if you want, darling.” Wanda spoke up, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You nodded and went back to filing the papers like your boss asked. After a while, Wanda checks her watch. “So late already?” Wanda spoke, shutting her computer.

You looked up as the two women packed up their stuff. “Thank you so much for coming in darling.” Wanda sighed, rubbing her temple.

Natasha frowned, sensing her wife's incoming headache. That's when you noticed the rain had started back up. Great.

"Are you okay?” You can see Natasha mouth this to Wanda. Wanda nods in response as they walk with you, out of the building.

“Oh gosh, do you see this rain Nat?” Wanda spoke, an ounce of concern in her face. Natasha nodded, “Yeah. Say, Y/N how are you getting home?” Natasha asked you.

“Oh I'm walking, I don't live too far.” You responded, gathering your things as you handed Wanda the box of newly filed papers.

“In this rain? Nonsense, let us give you a drop.” Natasha hummed. She didn’t want you to get wet or possibly sick in this terrible rain.

“Oh, it's okay you don't have to.” You immediately responded. You knew that it was a short walk and nothing new as you have walked in the rain (and danced in it) multiple times.

“Darling, we are giving you a ride. End of story.” Wanda spoke firm but you could tell that she just cared about you. Even behind that wall she ahd built up.

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r0ttenhearts · 1 month ago

Text

slip from my mind

scaramouche x reader (streamer AU)

part 1

sypnosis: scaramouche was a moderately known streamer, while you were a newbie streamer who happened to be a “fan” of scaramouche. your only hope is for him to hear your feelings, even if he doesn’t reciprocate it.

you didn’t mean to be weird, not really. but it was scaramouche! in a world as small as yours, he was a micro celebrity in your small social circle online. you were only mutuals, which you considered yourself very lucky to have. it was strange for you to be so fangirlish over some random guy on the internet, but something about this felt different. somehow you had a feeling that you’d come to know him, every time you glanced his profile. that day couldn’t come soon enough.

scaramouche was streaming another one of his MMORPG’s while you watched quietly in a minimized tab at your desk. it was another one of those days where you felt a very heavy silence in the comfort of your four walls. only those walls didn’t feel comforting, just cold. it was a very deep cold, a cold that drapes over you like a heavy blanket.

“the redheads in this game are the hottest to me.” scaramouche’s voice rang out from the little box you had set his stream in. as a consistent lurker, you never were one to think of typing something the chat. but today you felt so constricted that you allowed yourself to mindlessly write a comment in his chat. “where’s the love for (h/c)’ed girls :(“ you typed out before tapping send. you didn’t think much of it, not really. it’s likely he wouldn’t even respond to it. he doesn’t respond to every single message.

you turned your attention back to your other monitor where you were idling in a game, your attempt to try and cut the heaviness that you felt.

“(h/c)’ed girls are cute too.” scaramouche replied, moments after you had already forgotten the message you had mindlessly posted. the gears clicked in your head as you replayed his words. he actually replied to your message. your first and only direct interaction to him and he noticed. a warmth swelled up inside of you as you clicked back into his chat, fingers ready to type. what would you say? how should you reply? should you be nice or give a witty answer? would he even reply to it?

“yay there’s hope for us :)” you sent into the chat. you giddily waited for a response, only for scaramouche to ramble on about a raid in his game. while you hadn’t gotten the complete interaction, you were still happy for the brief moments of his attention. it really was the coolest thing for you. and when your life is a constant replay of the same day, even small things like a streamer responding to you meant the the world to you. there wasn’t much to get excited for these days, so you let yourself savor these moments. as few and far between as they were.

scaramouche continued his stream for another hour until he went offline. you closed out of his stream page and went into yours, modifying a few of your stream elements before your next stream. as you clicked through your files to upload for your template, a ping sound came from below your screen. it was a DM. you clicked it open, only to see:

scarax: soo miss (h/c) girl, do you play WOL?

scaramouche asking if you play his game? so you could possibly duo? today couldn’t have gotten any better. your smile felt very cheesy as you clicked on the dm, typing away a reply.

(y/n)^_^: yes! but i’m very under-geared compared to you

you were in. you spent the rest of the afternoon texting scaramouche about the game, world of legends, planning a day to duo. he had given you his discord to be able to message more directly. it all felt so surreal. scaramouche was a lot sweeter than he appeared to be from his streams.

on camera he had this tough, almost borderline jerk-y attitude, but it was in a way that you found endearing. maybe that was your first red flag you shouldn’t have ignored. but off stream, he was the sweetest guy you had ever met. he made sure to good morning and good night text you, and consistently hangout and talk to you.before you knew it, it had officially been a month since you two met, and you were now very much into each other. he wanted nothing more than to introduce you on stream for your official getting together, so that’s just what you two did.

the chat blew up in support of the new relationship that had blossomed between you both.

mnxia: you guys are so cute!

prnk: wishing you the best dude

pnnylvr: so jealous omggg

you regularly would go on to stream together and spend practically every day together. everything felt perfect. you had finally gotten something to break your everyday life. and it was the micro celebrity with 500 followers.

a few weeks after your first month anniversary, scaramouche wanted to meet you. it had made you nervous, at the time you both were practically edating, despite living in the same city. but it wrecked your nerves to think of all of the things you could do wrong in person.

you were known for being a strange girl almost the few people that knew you. and not in a negative way; not really. just that you had a tendency to say things in a slightly more dramatized way. as well as another secret. one that could probably ruin your relationship with him. you see, you weren’t just a fan of his streams before. you were more of a stalker to be precise. every single thing he had done online, you had seen, read, watched, and memorized it. you practically knew everything about what he had made public online.

a bit strange, you would admit, but you rationalized it with love. but you wanted your relationship with scaramouche more than your fear for him to find out. so, you planned to see him in person. that day would be engraved in your mind forever.

seeing him out under the grey skies, orange, yellow, and brown leaves drifting to the ground. you had met your autumn love.

two months would go by quickly in your relationship with scaramouche. but lately things seemed off with him. he stopped inviting you over, didn’t reply much while you were attending your college classes, and overall seemed disinterested in you whenever you played games together. the anxiety of what was wrong was eating you up inside, as he always dismissed the question when you’d bring it up. but tonight you couldn’t do it anymore. the silence, the dismissing, it was all too much.

“please tell me what’s wrong, scara. i’m scared.” you spoke quietly into your mic as you clicked on your inventory in minecraft. you watched scaramouche’s character pause as silence was heard on his end. “i’m sorry (y/n).” he spoke softly, his character now afk. “it’s just, my ex messaged me recently and it’s really shaken me up.” he spoke into his mic. a moment later, a bloop came from your discord as scaramouche sent you a screenshot of the conversation. in the screenshot, it was a long paragraph of his ex explaining how she regretting hurting him and knew what she did was wrong. the same ex who had cheated on him and left him for a more popular streamer in his streamer company: fatui. as you finished reading the conversation you couldn’t help but notice how the scroll bar was a lot higher thea the bottom of the scroll bar, he had talked a lot more to her than he was willing to show you. the thought made you sick.

“i wish you would’ve just blocked her instead of feeding into it.” you mumbled.

“you don’t understand.” scaramouche flatly said before hanging up. you stared at the empty discord call, and then the “scarax has left the server” minecraft notification moments later. you sighed, clicking the server closed. you began typing a lengthy apology to scaramouche about how you were inconsiderate and wrong for what you had said. your message would be ignored for 3 days as you left more messages that would be ignored. on the third day he gave you an abrupt apology for not responding, just to ask if you’d like to hangout on a game together. you blinked at the interaction. was this meant to be your new normal? his silence and nothing to retaliate it for the sake of things being okay?

you swallowed hard as you agreed to his invitation. you would spend another half month in this treatment. his silence would last days with no remorse. scaramouche was known for being someone who thrived in being alone. his time away from you only solidified it.

“scara, we should talk.” you spoke into your mic a month later from the first time you had said this phrase. “what is it?” he asked, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “it’s just, i don’t think i can do this. we can be friends but i can’t pretend like this relationship is okay. and i know you won’t change and i won’t ask you to. so i just want to end this.” you spoke rapidly into your microphone, afraid of his response.

“you lying fucking bitch.” scaramouche seethed into your ears. you stayed quiet as he shot out insult after insult. “you said you wouldn’t leave me no matter what. you promised. even after i told you about bal. you’re so fucking selfish. you’re only thinking of yourself.” he paused, “i’ll come over to get my stuff in a few days.” he spoke flatly before hanging up. you didn’t utter a word as you closed out the applications on your desktop.

you sat there idly, staring at your now black monitor. it was only to open a conversation, you didn’t mean for it to end so abruptly.

you quietly got into bed that night. he had blocked you on all socials by the time you woke up, so you blocked him back in response to the now visible disdain for one another. disdain you didn’t even feel.

three nights would pass before his knock came to your door. not a word was said as you went back in your room to collect the box of his belongings that you had gathered in the 3 days since the breakup.

scaramouche held a box containing your belongings. he walked into your living room, noting all of the details he would soon forget about you. as he set the box down on your sofa, he noticed your phone light up.

glancing at your door, he made sure you weren’t coming as he inserted your passcode into your phone. of course he knew your password, he was your boyfriend three days ago after all. he quickly opened and closed several apps, until he pressed on your gallery. he scrolled through hundreds and hundreds of screenshots of content of himself, things he didn’t know were even publicly online. he found your notepad of all of the known places he had gone to in your city, dating back to your fangirl days.

scaramouche slammed your phone down in disgust, alerting you from your bedroom. you walked over with the box in your hands, wondering what the loud noise was. scaramouche scoffed loudly, snatching the box from your grip. “you’re a fucking freak. stay the fuck away from me.” he spat before leaving, slamming the door behind him.

you walked over to what had been slammed on your coffee table, your phone. a long crack across your screen was the first thing you noticed, before turning your attention to what exactly was on your screen. all of the recently opened apps were left on some sort of documentation you had taken of scaramouche during your fangirl days. you didn’t meant to be weird. not really. you just wanted to bump into him and hopefully have a relationship with him, not even romantically, but a friendship.

your phone started dinging with notifications, twitter notifications coming up one after another. you tapped on the notification to see you had been tagged in a post by none other than scaramouche.

scarax: @(y/n)^_^ is a stalker freak. everything was a lie.

oh. oh.

mnxia: @(y/n)^_^ you’re acc such a freak for stalking scaramouche

hrtshapes: @(y/n)^_^ no way..

hundreds more notifications popped up on your phone. you quickly set all of your public accounts private. muting app notifications completely as you sat at your desk. so many thoughts raced through your head. your up and coming streaming channel was already starting to get a little popular, but that was all gone now. your whole online persona was tainted, ruined.

you sigh heavily, knowing you’d have to part with it. nothing you could do or say would make the situation any better. it looked bad. maybe it was bad.

a few hours after scaramouche’s tweet went out, all of your accounts were either deactivated or gone completely.

scaramouche scoffed as he tapped on your deactivated twitter account. you ran, just as he knew you would. he knew you wouldn’t have said anything in retaliation to his tweet, you knew better than that. but that didn’t stop him from looking through your mutuals following lists to make sure you hadn’t made a new account.

you spent the next two months in silence, away from any type of internet community. while you quietly browsed and logged things on your private accounts. scaramouche used the few public accounts you used, posting pictures of your steam, trying to add your friends on WoL through stat tracker sites.

that didn’t stop the tweets either, every other week he would vague tweet about you, or something you had ruined for him. the world had sided and sympathized with scaramouche.

luckily for you, two months later and the buzz of scaramouche’s ex stalker was no longer a topic at all. his feed was now void of any mention of you. so, you took advantage of this opportunity and created a twitter for your new self. you followed your mutual mutuals back, but kept the account as low profile as possible. you didn’t even have your name in the display name, just an emoji to represent your tweets.

it didn’t take long for scaramouche to notice the sudden arrival of a new account following all of the people he knew you were friendly with. but he didn’t make it known that he knew, not really. at most, he would tweet out one of your tweets, word for word. people would reply to these tweets as if they were his own.

you took note of this as well on a burner account you had made in your absence, only following art and game accounts to keep up with the latest news. you frowned, seeing your same tweet on his feed. “if he hates me so much why does he watch me.” you mumbled under your breath as you closed out twitter.

you didn’t say anything related to him ever, your own personal rule. while you knew he watched you, at the very least he didn’t directly interact with you. he had your public account blocked despite the copying of tweets. but he left you alone. for that, you were grateful.

your account would go on to steadily grow in numbers, 100, 200, 300, and finally 400. only two hundred below scaramouche. for your 600th tweet and 400th follow you decided to post a picture of your cat in a silly hat you had gotten her while you were offline. your mutual, on a private account, tweeted a reply of her cat in response to the picture. “so cute 🤍” you replied to the picture.

hours later, your mutual would go on to post a private account requesting her account.

> @wanderingcat requested your account

> ew gross! total stalker account!

your breath hitched in your throat as you read over the username. wandering, cat. scaramouche’s old usernames had previously been wandering samurai, wandering hat. and cats, well, he looked just like one. and you had always let him know it.

you messaged your mutual, telling her about your history with him, and the reason why she had even been requested. because of you. scaramouche could not let go of you.

your mutual sent you screenshots of her telling him off, calling him a creep for still being so insistent on his knowledge of you. the screenshots made you laugh but you couldn’t help but notice his defense, as if nothing was wrong with what he was doing.

no word of you would ever be posted on his page though, everything looked normal. as it always had been. but the thought still weight heavily on you. he hadn’t done this since the initial breakup, it was now months later. why did he request her account? just because she replied to your post? you couldn’t let these burning questions go, so the next monday you found yourself in his doorway.

you knocked on the door, gripping your bag in your arm. the cold winter weather helped ease your nerves with the breeze against the trees.

it took a few moments before you heard his door unlatch, his bewildered expression surprising you.

“hey, scaramouche. are you busy?” you asked.

“why? what do you want?” you replied coldly. his glare made you feel small, standing there.

“i just want to talk. and finish things once and for all.”

“i considered it done when you ended it that friday.”

friday. you had forgotten what day of the week it was when it happened.

“but if it was completely done to you. then this wouldn’t still be happening, would it?”

scaramouche sucked his teeth, moving aside to let you into his apartment. nothing had changed since the last time you had been here. almost like nothing had happened at all.

“look, i’ll stop requesting your friends if that’s what you want. is there anything else i can do for you ma’am?” he retorted, leaning against his kitchen countertop.

an ironic thing to say really, as you had a gap in age with scaramouche.

“it’s not just that.” you mumbled, trying to get your thoughts together. the last few days, you had thought of something. but now that you were in front of him, asking if he would commit to your idea felt like a shot in the dark.

you had thought to befriend him, so this would all stop. the subtweeting, the stalking, the adding of your friends accounts. and despite what you were willing to admit, you wouldn’t mind being around him again. some days it felt so lonely that all you wanted to do was scream into your pillows and sulk in bed.

maybe he felt that same suffocating sadness. maybe that’s why he kept up with you.

“i understand if you don’t agree to this but, i would like to have a do over with you. not a relationship, but a friendship. just to be amicable. and then i’ll leave you alone, i promise. it just doesn’t feel right; leaving things like this.” you paused, looking at your feet. “i never hated you, not after the breakup or even with the tweets. i just hated what you were doing.”

“i hated what you were doing too, but, if we become amicable again, why do you want to leave? i don’t want to be left alone again.” he mumbled, reminding you of his sleepless nights he had once had about his mother and her absence.

how hopeless you were for a connection you had once had. the one thing that would break your circle of nothing. him.

“i won’t go if you don’t want me to. it’s just for your sake, i don’t think you’re too fond of me.”

scaramouche took you in his arms, cradling you in his embrace. “everything that happened deeply hurt me.” he whispered as you nodded. he pulled away from the embrace, he held your face in his hands, looking into your gaze directly.

“but please, give me your honesty. that’s the one thing i ask if i agree to this.”

“i will, i promise.”

you and scaramouche would go on to hangout everyday. both of your socials becoming less active as your days would be taken up with each other. you had come over with drinks in your hand, a very drunk friday night planned ahead for you both. alcohol sloshed in cans were clicked back as the night went on, movies you had brought over being played on his tv.

you never saw scaramouche in such a tender way. he was holding onto you in any way he could with each drink that passed into his system. you let yourself have that closeness to him for the night. it’s not like you’d remember it, anyway.

you had missed him, this close connection.

but after that weekend, everything had stopped, he’d stopped replying to your texts, his social media gone silent as well. you frowned, what had you done wrong?

you didn’t push him any further, opting to leave him alone. his discord status always stayed at an offline too. something that would stay for a month.

with december coming to an end, scaramouche’s birthday was coming up. january 3rd. though you weren’t talking, he was still someone you wanted to remember fondly. so, that weekend you went around to his streamer friends houses, gathering signatures for a card you’d present to him. everyone that signed had the same question, just who were you? you simply excused it with “just a friend.”

you wrote a personal note in a separate card, meant from you to him, and packaged them both up in decorated envelopes which you had drawn on. december 2nd came around, which meant you’d be making your midnight trip to his house.

pulling on your boots, you made sure to secure everything in your bag before you made the walk there. your boots crunched underneath the powdery white snow, evidence of this cold winter. while you walked, you thought of the last month that you hadn’t spoken to him. your month of patching things up felt like a brief but eventful time together. and you couldn’t fathom why he had decided to part from it.

you figured this would be your last interaction with him. he wanted nothing to do with you, you figured, from his constant disappearances. so, you’d give him one last gift before parting with him for good.

you had promised him, after all. and unlike him, you would make good on that promise.

the promise came with one of your drunken night’s together. through slurred words, scaramouche had told you how he had nothing planned for his birthday as he never felt he was worthy of a celebration for his life. with his mother taking off as soon as she could, he never saw much value in himself.

through quiet mumbles, you made him a drunken promise. you doubted he’d even remember it, but you still did. so here you were now, clutching two envelopes in your hand as you knocked on his door.

checking your phone, you noted the 2 minutes until midnight, hearing sounds coming from behind the door. scaramouche’s expression of exhaustion turned into one of surprise. here you were, once again. in the middle of the night?

“(y/n)? what time is it?” scaramouche yawned.

you shook your head, presenting him the envelopes. he took them from your hands, his eyes scanning over the little doodles and details you had drawn on them.

“happy birthday.” you replied, ready to turn away to return to your life. but he stopped you.

“(y/n)? why don’t you come in.” he said softly towards your turning back.

you smiled to yourself before turning around and following him inside. “okay.”

a/n: i didn’t mean to make this a two part story but i already feel like it’s very long so.. this will eventually be a 3 part series. i’m very sorry that i haven’t posted in awhile, i just haven’t felt much motivation to write with everything that was going on. everything going on being.. this. i haven’t written in a very long time so i apologize if my writing style seems different than before. i was also high for 3/4 of me writing this so there’s that. i’ll post part two very soon as i’m currently still living in part 3 ^_^

taglist: @samarill @whorerificstuff @somatchajade @sakiimeo @astrolomona @dearsumire @saeism @shoheartluv @0kauy @lelemnh @aqualesha @msdevilis @linkookie197 @beriiov @xiaonscaraswife @foxlover1144 @reblog-crazily @sparklylanddetective @gh0sts0up @darliingyu @magica-ren @kuronvshi @Maxineslair @kenmabfasf @atanukileaf @jihyuniepark @chiisananingen @just-anotherbookworm @kleeboomed @crepezinhos

#genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin x reader angst #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #scara x y/n #scaramouche x reader #genshin scara #scara x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche angst #scaramouche angst x reader #scaramouche x reader angst

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ssa-dado · 28 days ago

Text

18 - I'm Always Running To You

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: slow burn, fluff, whump (?) Summary: Back at the BAU, nostalgia and familiar faces reignited memories and emotions you thought you’d left behind. As you navigated the team’s playful camaraderie and handled a skeptical detective, you couldn't ignore the weight of Hotch's absence and the unique bond you shared. Though you left for Peter and a life of stability, two weeks back may reveal whether you truly want the life you’ve chosen - or the one you left. Warnings: CM case, P***r gets mentioned... also... I did a thing. Word Count: 11.6k Dado's Corner: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

masterlist

“... I could tell you about my very first day, the momentous occasion of ‘Teach’s debut’.”

“Oh, please do,” he replied, clearly amused. “And tell me, is my office still intact? Or have you scattered it with sticky notes and red string?”

“Don’t tempt me, but no, I’ve preserved your precious workspace.” you replied with a chuckle, picturing his face as he visualized the mess you could create. “It all started when…”

---

It felt strange, almost surreal, to be sitting in Hotch’s office - your office, at least temporarily. The air was still thick with his presence, his signature cologne lingering like an old friend. Most of his things were still exactly where he’d left them; you had no doubt he’d done it intentionally, a silent stand against Strauss. It was his way of asserting that this space was his, and it always would be.

The most noticeable difference was the absence of his personal photos. The frames that had once held Haley’s warm smile and Jack’s bright eyes were missing, and that small detail made the room feel emptier. Still, he had gone out of his way to replace the pens on the desk with the ones you preferred.

“Although, for the record, I’ve switched to the 0.7mm tip now. Same brand, just… a thicker line. So, you know, if we’re going for accuracy here,” you teased, stretching out on the hotel bed with a grin.

There was a pause on the other end before Aaron replied, his tone more serious than you’d expected. “I noticed, actually. In the files you handed me last time - you used the 0.7mm. I wasn’t sure if it was a permanent change or just a one-off. But, in case you didn’t see them, they’re in the top right drawer.”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by how closely he’d paid attention. “Wait, are you serious? You noticed that?”

“Of course,” he replied, as though keeping track of something so small was the most natural thing in the world. You could almost hear the shrug in his voice. “Figured you’d want them there.”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Aaron, I swear, sometimes this nerdy side of you is a little unnerving. Also - you could’ve told me about the drawer thing before I dug around like an idiot.”

“I’m the nerd?” he chuckled, and you could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “You’re the one who’s willing to switch back to the 0.5mm just to keep the ‘continuity’ in your files consistent.”

“Of course I am,” you retorted, grinning at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “I can’t just start with one pen and finish with another. You know as well as I do that consistency is key. I mean, you’re the one who keeps a back-up tie in his desk in case your tie gets stained. And besides,” you added, leaning into the playful banter, “this is all your fault for messing with my routine in the first place.”

“You could say thank you, you know,” he said, his tone warm and teasing. “Here I am, making sure you have exactly what you need, and all I get is passive-aggressive commentary, not quite the gratitude I was hoping for...”

“Oh, of course!” you replied with over-the-top sweetness. “Thank you, my most esteemed noble prosecutor against the crimes of chaos,” you cooed, letting each word drip with playful charm. You could practically feel his discomfort rising on the other end of the line - perfect, just as planned. “And thank you ever so much for keeping such an impeccable archive of my pen preferences.”

He let out a dry sigh. “…Always happy to help,” he replied, his tone barely masking his exasperation. You grinned, knowing you’d hit the mark.

And then there was the nameplate, covered with sticky notes. He’d written your name over his in his distinct, bold handwriting. It made you smile, remembering the early days when you’d shared a desk, continuously passing notes scribbled on Post-its.

But that little personal touch from Hotch had been balanced out by the formidable stack of case files placed dead center on the desk - a welcome gift from Strauss, no doubt. The pile seemed impossibly tall, a silent reminder of the bureaucratic weight she could wield when it suited her. You’d kept your composure on the phone with her, but it felt like she was testing you, making sure you knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Time slipped away as you sifted through the stacks of case files, the silence in the office thick and unnerving. It wasn’t just the absence of sound or movement, it was as if something essential had been stripped from the room, a heartbeat that once pulsed quietly in the background now stilled.

You’d always been one to come in early, even back when you first started at the BAU. But back then, you’d never been the first to arrive. You’d grown used to Hotch’s subtle routines: the way he’d already have a fresh pot of coffee going by the time you arrived, the sight of him hunched over files, deep in thought, yet somehow always aware of your presence, a reassuring constant.

That morning felt like a quiet reminder of all the things that had changed, and all the things you wished, just for a moment, could stay the same.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see JJ standing there, smiling softly. “You’ve probably been here for hours already, haven’t you?”

You stretched your arms, letting out a small laugh. “Me? Never. But what are you doing here so early? You’re not due for another half-hour.

JJ stepped further into the office, a knowing look on her face as she held up a file. “Actually, I came in a little early to show you the ropes, but from the looks of all these files you’ve already gone through, it seems like you’ve got everything under control.”

You glanced at the neat pile of case files in front of you, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I couldn’t resist the urge to keep up with Hotch’s reputation. I’ve got to maintain the early bird standard around here, right?”

JJ chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re definitely living up to it. At this rate, you’ll have his entire routine down before the end of the week.”

You leaned back with a grin. “Just promise me that if I start communicating in cryptic stares and monosyllabic responses, you’ll stage an intervention.”

“Excuse me?!” he said, feigning offense on the other end of the line.

You couldn’t help but laugh, recognizing that his mock outrage was, in fact, a perfect example of the very thing you had just finished saying. “Right, because that wasn’t a textbook example of a monosyllabic response - alright, maybe three syllables, but I’d still count it.”

JJ laughed, giving you a playful nudge. “Noted.” She took a breath, the humor fading slightly as her tone softened. “Oh, by the way, I wanted to let you know - Gideon called in sick, didn’t give much detail. This is today’s case.”

A frown tugged at your lips as JJ passed you the file. Hotch had warned you to keep an eye on Gideon, especially after what happened in Arizona. The weight of Sarah’s death still seemed to carve deeper lines into his face with every case, his once-steady demeanor unraveling.

Gideon had been a cornerstone of your time at the BAU, a bridge to those early days. Now, without him, the weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders, the pressure to hold everything together more overwhelming than ever.

“Thanks for letting me know,” you said, taking the file from her hands, feeling the weight of it. “I guess it’s going to be one of those days.”

She gave you a sympathetic smile, her eyes warm with understanding. “Hey, we’re in good hands. I know stepping in isn’t easy, but you’ve got this.” Then she added, “Oh, and I went ahead and set everything up on the screen in the conference room. No need for pinning photos or scribbling on the board like back in the day.”

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair with a look of disappointment. “So, just one sentence, and I’m already labeled a dinosaur? For the record, JJ, I’m only three years older than you, and just a few months ago, I was still in my twenties. I think I’ve got a ways to go before ‘ancient relic’ status.”

JJ chuckled, shaking her head. “Relic or not, don’t worry. You’ll settle in just fine.”

You laughed, standing up and gathering the files. “If you say so...” As you followed her to the door, you asked, “I’m heading to the coffee machine. Need me to grab you anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, a playful spark in her eyes. “I thought that’s supposed to go the other way around, Chief?”

You shook your head, laughing. “Oh, come on, no need for all that formality. I’m still getting used to it myself. Just stick to my name… at least until Morgan decides on something else for everyone, I know his reputation precedes him.”

JJ laughed as the two of you headed down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly. “Well, you know him. Whatever it is, I have a feeling it’ll stick.”

You shook your head with a smile, following her towards the coffee machine. "I’m sure I’ll survive - though if his nickname is too creative, I might have to pull rank on him." You teased, knowing full well that wasn’t your style.

---

By the time you finally stepped into the conference room, the familiar rhythm of the BAU began to settle around you, but that’s when the weight of your nerves - the ones you had tried so hard to push down -suddenly hit you like a punch to the chest. You hadn’t even realized it had been building until it was too late.

Coming in early had given you the luxury of solitude, a quiet space where you could pretend this wasn’t real yet, where you could almost convince yourself that everything would be just like the old days. But now, with the hum of conversation filling the room, the reality crashed down on you all at once.

The team was here.

The case was here.

And you were standing in Hotch’s place.

The familiar energy buzzed around the room, the usual anticipation that always lingered before a new case, but none of it felt normal to you. There was a sense of expectation that weighed down every breath you took.

Each step toward the center of the room felt heavier, and with every pair of eyes that turned in your direction, the weight became unbearable. You knew that even if they didn’t realize they weren’t just looking at you - they were looking for answers.

They were waiting for the guidance and steady leadership they had come to trust in Hotch.

But you weren’t Hotch.

Morgan was the first to spot you, and as usual, he was impossible to ignore. His eyes lit up as he crossed the room with his signature swagger, that confident, wide grin already plastered on his face. His easy demeanor was infectious, a kind of effortless confidence that seemed unshakable, and as he made his way toward you, you wished you could channel even a fraction of it.

“Teacher!” he called out, wrapping you in a strong hug before you had a chance to say anything.

You laughed, returning the hug and rolling your eyes at the nickname, but the moment you released him, you felt the tremor of anxiety creeping back. “Good to see you too, Morgan. For a moment there, I was almost surprised you didn’t have the nickname ready and waiting the second I walked in the door.”

He chuckled, his smile widening as he winked. “Oh, trust me, I’ve got a whole list lined up. I’m just pacing myself, you will fear me.”

You tried to match his lighthearted tone, but your mind kept wandering back to the task ahead.

Your first briefing as Unit Chief. Don’t mess this up.

Just then, Prentiss strolled in, catching the tail end of your conversation. She crossed her arms, a playful smirk already forming on her lips. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said with a gleam in her eyes, looking between you and Morgan. “I think Morgan is the one who’s secretly terrified of you.”

Morgan scoffed, his usual bravado showing, but there was a spark of amusement - and maybe a bit of truth - in his eyes. “Terrified? Of the teacher? Come on, Prentiss, you’ve gotta do better than that.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow, clearly relishing the banter. “Oh really? Because, if I remember correctly, you couldn’t stop talking about that guest lecture she gave at Quantico. You’ve been on edge about it ever since.”

You chuckled, leaning slightly into Emily’s side, grateful for the camaraderie. “Is that so? I knew there was something you weren’t telling me, Morgan.”

Emily’s arm draped around your shoulders, and she gave you a reassuring squeeze. The warmth of her support should’ve been comforting, but instead, it only made the knot in your stomach tighten.

What if I disappoint them?

“You know I’m all about team morale” Prentiss said ironically ”especially if it involves messing with Morgan. It’s nice to have you back, and I’m excited to watch you put him in his place for the next two weeks.” You grinned, but the weight of her words added to your anxiety.

Two weeks. Don’t screw it up.

“Oh, I’ll keep it low-key,” you said with mock innocence, glancing at Morgan. “Wouldn’t want to ruffle any feathers on my first day.”

Prentiss shook her head, laughing. “No way. Go all out! Quiz him, put him on the spot he deserves it. Trust me, it’s been a long time coming.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, amused but clearly unfazed. “Careful, Prentiss. You’re tempting fate.”

Before you could respond, Reid approached quietly, lingering on the edge of the conversation as he often did, waiting for the right time to join in. Finally, he stepped forward, offering a small wave and a hint of a smile – his familiar shyness was a welcome distraction from your mounting nerves.

“So, Morgan settled on ‘Teacher,’” he said with his usual calm precision. “For the record, there were 11 other options on the list, but ‘Teacher’ seemed the most fitting in my opinion.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” You hadn’t spent much time with the team before that day - just a couple of occasions, really - but from the few moments you’d shared with Reid, you knew how much he valued the chance to break down his thought processes. You gave him the space to elaborate, genuinely curious to hear his reasoning.

A spark of excitement danced in Spencer’s eyes, and he straightened a little, clearly appreciating the chance to share his insight. “Well, it’s actually pretty poetic,” he began, his voice tinged with enthusiasm. “Your first academic publication was on Plato, right? And Plato wasn’t just a philosopher - he was a teacher at his own school, the Academy. And now, here you are, teaching at the Academy. Even though you’re taking a break from it for the next couple of weeks, the nickname ‘Teacher’ seems… poetically appropriate.”

You smiled, touched by the thoughtfulness of his connection, but a shadow of doubt still lingered.

They all see you as capable. But what if you’re not?

“That’s a beautiful interpretation, Spencer. Plato’s one of my favorites, so I really appreciate that you found those links.” You tried to sound confident, but the tension in your chest remained.

Spencer’s face brightened, clearly pleased by your response. “Thanks! I try,” he replied, a bit shyly. You could tell he was happy to have made the connection for you, and that warmed your heart.

You leaned in slightly, knowing he’d appreciate a chance to continue the intellectual thread. “By the way, since we’re on the topic, do you know why it’s called the Academy?”

Spencer looked momentarily taken aback, shaking his head. “No, actually, I don’t.”

“It’s because of the land it was built on,” you explained, enjoying his anticipation. “Plato’s Academy was set up in a grove just outside Athens, named after a local hero, Akademos… or Hecademus, depending on the source. The fact that the land was sacred wasn’t incidental; it created a space that felt set apart, a place where learning and reflection became almost a spiritual process for Plato and his students.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, captivated by the backstory. “That’s… incredible. I had no idea,” he admitted, visibly impressed. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Though, I have to say, it’s a good thing the local hero had a dignified name. The School of Bob might not have carried the same historical weight.”

Before either of you could dive deeper into Philosophy 101, Garcia swooped in with her usual whirlwind of energy, wrapping her arms around you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe. “Welcome, naughty Teacher!” she exclaimed, her grin stretching from ear to ear.

You laughed, trying to shake off the creeping anxiety. “Nice to see you too, Penelope. But I’m afraid we’ll have to drop the ‘Naughty’ part unless you want HR knocking on both our doors. Anything more PG, I’ll gladly accept.”

Penelope gasped dramatically, clutching her chest with exaggerated flair. “Alright, alright, just ‘Teacher’ then,” she conceded, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. “But know that I’ll still think ‘naughty’ in spirit.”

You shook your head, chuckling as you nudged her playfully. “Noted. And I’ll make sure to blush and feel flattered by it - purely in spirit, of course.”

She pouted playfully, then cocked her head, adding in a teasing, faux-flirty tone, “Teach, just checking… you still taken? Engaged and all that?”

You grinned, crossing your arms as you replied, “Affirmative, Penelope. The position is still filled.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head with an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, tragic! Well, it’s truly the world’s loss then,” she said, winking. “But you know, if the situation ever changes…”

You raised an eyebrow, playing along. “I’ll be sure to update you on any status changes in a timely manner.”

She winked, giving you a playful shove. “See, now that’s why I always keep my options opened.”

Despite the playful banter, the clock was ticking, and the weight of what was about to happen settled in more heavily than ever.

It’s time. Don’t mess this up.

A few moments later, you clapped your hands, bringing the room to order. The friendly chatter died down, and all eyes turned to you. This was the moment you had been dreading - the first time you’d lead a case briefing as Unit Chief. Your heart raced, but you forced yourself to project confidence as you stepped forward with the remote in hand.

With a click, the screen flickered to life, displaying the crime scene photos in stark, unsettling detail. You could feel the weight of their gazes, their expectations.

They trust you. Don’t let them down.

“Alright, team,” you began, forcing your voice to steady even as the nerves rattled within you. “I’d love nothing more than to catch up, but we’ve got a triple homicide on our hands, and time isn’t on our side.”

You took a breath, signaling for JJ to start, and she took over, filling the team in on the case basics. “We’re looking at three victims in Newport,” she explained. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The first two were killed a week apart, but the last one was just three days ago. The timeline’s escalating.”

You nodded, moving closer to the screen as you clicked through the crime scene photos. Gesturing at the images, you continued, “There’s a pattern here. The unsub leaves a white mask over each victim’s face, with holes cut around the nose and mouth. There’s no sign of a struggle, no defensive wounds - this is clean, methodical work.”

You paused, letting the silence settle as they took it in, but the stillness only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter. Am I explaining this right? What if they’re questioning my judgment?

“Whoever this unsub is,” you went on, pushing down the doubts, “they’re confident, careful, and they’re taking their time. We need to figure out why.”

Are you really enough for this team?

Just then, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced at it, feeling a sudden jolt of surprise and relief as you saw the name: Lawyer – it was Aaron.

Lawyer:

Don’t second guess yourself. You’ve got this. I trust you, I hope you know that.

Lawyer:

P.S. If you could avoid winning everyone over in the next two weeks, that’d be great. Try to be a little unlikable, so they’re actually glad when I come back. ;)

And just like that, the voices of doubt went silent.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket, feeling steadier now. You turned back to the team, ready to continue.

Don’t second guess yourself.

You’ve got this.

I trust you.

---

Once at the Newport precinct, you could feel eyes on you as soon as you stepped inside. The local detectives seemed disoriented by your presence, their confusion was evident as they exchanged glances. You’d prepared for this reaction, but it still stung.

You introduced the team with a smile, doing your best to mask the flicker of irritation that flared up when one of the older detectives barely glanced your way. He muttered something to his colleague, just low enough that you couldn’t catch it, but you could feel the dismissiveness in his tone.

The insinuation was clear: Too young, too inexperienced, too… female.

Shaking it off, you divided the team into two groups. “Morgan, Prentiss, you two head to the medical center to review the autopsies. Look for anything that might indicate how the unsub maintains such precise control over the victims. Drugs, maybe something else.” They nodded, Morgan already heading toward the door with his usual confidence, Prentiss following closely behind.

You turned to JJ and Reid. “We’ll stay here. JJ, let’s start with victimology. You and I will talk to the families. Reid, you’ll work on a geographical profile. See if you can figure out a pattern in the locations.”

You and JJ arrived at the small, quiet home of the third victim’s parents, Filipino immigrants whose grief seemed to fill every corner of the room. Stepping inside, you felt as if the air itself mourned with them. Family photos lined the walls, capturing a life now painfully incomplete. The parents sat close together, their hands intertwined, clutching at each other as though any moment they might shatter.

“Kamusta po. Ako po si Y/N, kasama ko si JJ. Galing po kami sa Behavioral Analysis Unit ng FBI. Alam kong napakahirap ng pinagdadaanan ninyo, at hindi ko po madadala ang sakit, pero nandito kami para makinig, para tulungan kayong mahanap ang hustisya para sa inyong anak na babae. Kapag handa na po kayo, gusto sana naming magtanong ng ilang bagay.”

“Hello. I’m Y/N, and this is JJ. We’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I know the pain you’re going through is unimaginable, and while I can’t take that pain away, we’re here to listen, to help bring justice for your daughter. When you’re ready, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

The mother’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, her posture softening as she realized you spoke her language, a small but meaningful gesture that bridged the gap between their grief and your willingness to understand. Her grief was still raw, but she opened up, telling you about her daughter, sharing the little details that made her life beautiful.

As you finished with the first family, you and JJ stepped outside, the weight of the interview hanging heavy in the air. You turned to her, noticing the sadness etched in her eyes, the pain she tried to conceal. You could see how she always felt deeply, letting herself absorb the grief around her, and it showed.

“You good here?” you asked softly, searching her face. She hesitated, eyes distant for a moment before she nodded.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice just above a whisper. “I’ll handle it. You head back and see what Reid’s found.”

You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, listen to me. You’ll get through this. I know these cases hit hard, but even when you’re at your worst, JJ, it’s still better than anyone else’s best. You’re compassionate, and that makes you the best person to speak with these families. But if it’s too much, let me know, and we’ll switch.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, and she took a steadying breath, nodding slightly as she met your gaze. “Thanks,” she said, a glimmer of strength returning to her eyes. “I needed that. But I’ll be fine. Go on, you can head back to Reid. I’ve got this.”

You gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning back toward the station. Inside, Reid was hunched over a map, his fingers tracing the outline of the city as he studied the locations of the murders. He barely looked up when you approached, his mind clearly absorbed in the puzzle before him.

“So, Doc, what do you have for me?” you asked, leaning over the desk.

Reid straightened pointing to the map. “I’ve been analyzing the locations of the murders, but I think the most significant detail isn’t where they happened, it’s the masks the unsub uses.”

Your brow furrowed. “The masks?”

Reid nodded, his voice gaining momentum as he explained. “The masks only have holes for the nose and mouth, not the eyes. That suggests a couple of things. First, they’re not something you can just buy - these masks are probably handmade, which means the unsub has a certain level of craftsmanship or access to materials. And second…” He paused, waiting for you to catch on.

“They’re covering the eyes deliberately,” you said, the realization sinking in. “They don’t want their victims to see - or be seen. By obscuring them, the unsub is denying the victims any self-recognition.”

“Exactly,” Reid confirmed. “The eyes are the windows to the soul, right? It’s a symbolic way of stripping them of their identity”

You felt a rush of clarity, your mind connecting the dots. “That’s a really good observation, Reid. It fits with the unsub’s need for control. They’re not just killing, they’re staging a performance.”

Before you could delve further into the theory, the air in the room shifted. One of the local detectives, the same one who had dismissed you earlier, sauntered over, his expression smug as he cast a glance at Reid. “You guys find anything useful? Kid here looks like he’s barely out of high school.”

Reid blinked, momentarily taken aback, but before he could respond, the detective turned to you, his tone dripping with condescension. “And you’re telling me the FBI put someone like you in charge? Not even thirty yet, and you’re calling the shots? Must be some kind of joke.”

Your muscles tensed, breath hitching as you caught a glimpse of Reid, his face paling slightly, visibly shaken as he struggled to find the courage to respond. Before he could get a word out, though, the doors swung open, and Morgan and Prentiss strode into the station.

They caught the tail end of the exchange, their gazes snapping to you, their expressions quickly shifting to a mix of concern and simmering irritation.

Morgan, always quick to defend, took a step toward the detective, his jaw set and eyes flashing. But before he could say a word, you lifted a hand, a subtle gesture that stopped him in his tracks. You forced a smile, one that was warm on the surface but laced with an unmistakable edge of disappointment.

“Detective,” you began, your tone even, almost gentle, but carrying a weight that silenced the room, “I understand how frustrating cases like this can be. But if we spend our time underestimating each other, we’re only helping the unsub stay one step ahead. None of us can afford that.”

The detective’s expression shifted, slightly thrown off by your calmness. He gave a gruff chuckle, shaking his head. “I just hope the FBI’s got the expertise to handle this one. It’s not your usual serial killer, that’s for sure, a fancy degree won’t do the job.”

“We appreciate your concern, Detective.” you said, your voice steady and calm as you stepped closer, fixing him with a focused gaze, your eyes narrowed slightly. “If you have specific doubts about our methods, I’m more than happy to walk you through them. The problem I’ve noticed, however, is that you’ve been approaching this case from a narrow perspective.”

You continued, gaze unwavering as you explained “This unsub isn’t one-dimensional, and neither is their motive. Without considering the complexity - the layers of behavior and psychology involved - we risk making shallow assessments, which lead to mistakes. And from what I’ve seen, you’ve overlooked critical elements of the unsub’s psychology.”

As you spoke, Morgan leaned in toward Prentiss, shaking his head. “She’s got that Hotch stare down, doesn’t she?” he murmured, his voice low with awe.

Prentiss smirked, nodding. “Oh, absolutely. But there’s something different about it… his stare is all intimidation, but hers? It’s almost worse - like you’ve disappointed her on some fundamental level. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that.”

The detective blinked, visibly disoriented. “What do you mean, missing?” he sputtered.

You could hear their whispered comments, but you stayed focused on the detective, who was just starting to fidget under your stare. “The unsub we’re dealing with isn’t a sadist, despite what you’ve assumed. They’re not motivated by the need to inflict pain for pleasure. What we’re looking at is something much more complex - control, power, recognition. The masks, the staging? They’re not random. If we keep treating this like a sadist’s work, we’ll continue wasting valuable resources on a dead-end.”

You stepped forward slightly, your tone sharpening, though you remained composed. “And it’s not just this case. You’ve been missing the bigger picture all along, dismissing the insights we’ve been trying to offer. It shows not only in your handling of this investigation but also in your approach. You jump to conclusions, failing to consider the complexities.”

“See, when we try to prove a point, the evidence has to be accurate, or everything crumbles.” You paused, letting the silence hang for a moment. “Earlier, you mentioned I’m ‘not even thirty yet’ as part of your argument that I’m unqualified to lead an FBI team. If you had done your research, you’d know I’m actually thirty - I have been for months. Using incorrect facts, you made your entire demonstration falter.”

You leaned in, your eyes never leaving his. “This behavior of yours also affects your overall approach to this case. You rushed to label this unsub as a sadist, forcing everything into a narrative that fits your narrow perspective. And who benefits from that? The unsub.”

Morgan leaned toward Prentiss, nodding with a mix of admiration and amusement. “Man, she’s Hotch’s protégé. It’s like watching him all over again - tearing him apart on the technicalities, using the guy’s own words to back him into a corner.” He grinned, voice dropping slightly. “You can tell they spent years together.”

Prentiss smiled, her expression softening. “Yeah, but she’s got her own way of doing it. She’s not just channeling him, she’s making it her own.” She glanced at you, a note of pride in her voice. “That’s what makes her… her.”

Your voice remained steady, the edge of disappointment clear. “To be precise, that wasn’t the only demonstration of your failure to grasp the complexity here. Earlier you said I have ‘a fancy degree’ - once again - you didn’t bother to check your facts. The reality is that it’s not one degree - singular. I have multiple degrees - plural. And my colleague here?”

You gestured to Reid, who was observing silently, his sharp eyes taking everything in. “He’s the one you’ve underestimated the most. Not only does he have advanced degrees, he holds multiple PhDs – once again, plural . So, Detective, you haven’t just made the mistake of questioning my expertise, but you’ve managed to make an even bigger error by dismissing the experience of my entire team. More than just one individual. Understanding and managing the concept of plurality is essential, and it’s something you’ve consistently overlooked since the beginning.”

The room fell silent, your tone never rising but carrying the weight of undeniable authority. The detective’s face shifted, his bravado visibly crumbling, as he struggled to respond. His earlier confidence now replaced by a stunned, flustered silence.

Morgan leaned toward Prentiss again, barely able to hide the grin. “She just tore him apart. Without even raising her voice.”

Prentiss chuckled softly. “God, it’s like watching an artist at work.”

JJ crossed her arms, smiling faintly as she whispered, “Hotch is probably proud.”

The detective blinked, clearly struggling to keep pace with your explanation. You held your ground, your gaze steady, tone firm but calm. “We’re here to collaborate, not waste time. But if we’re not open to different perspectives, we won’t get anywhere. The unsub isn’t just killing; they’re constructing a narrative that reflects a need for dominance and recognition. Hegel’s master-slave dialectic is relevant here - recognition is essential to self-awareness, and the unsub is asserting themselves as the ‘master,’ with their victims as ‘slaves.’”

Reid nodded along, understanding where you were going. “The use of custom masks that only leave holes on the mouth and nose, are particularly telling. Hegel explains that the relationship between the master and the slave is based on mutual acknowledgment - each needs the other to confirm their own identity. Although the Unsub twists this dynamic at its core. By covering the eyes – the primary sense we use to recognize someone - the unsub symbolically denies the victims to engage in this shared recognition. So the unsub strips the victims of individuality, reducing them to faceless, passive entities. Objects.”

You continued, unfazed by the detective’s discomfort, speaking with the calm assurance born from your mastery in uncovering the intricate links between human behavior and philosophy. "The unsub doesn’t want recognition from the singular victims but demands it from society, a plurality. Which means that the unsub seeks godlike power over life and death, forcing us to acknowledge their existence through fear. It’s not about chaos; it’s a twisted form of self-affirmation. If we ignore these psychological details, we’re missing the core of their intent.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows at Prentiss, a smile spreading across his face. “Man, I love it when she goes philosophical. She’s got that deep dive style down to an art.”

The detective opened his mouth as if to argue, but your steady gaze cut him off before he could form a coherent sentence. Finally, he managed a weak, “Right… well, I suppose that makes sense… what do you need from us?”

“Full cooperation from your team,” you said simply, “and no more jumping to conclusions.”

As the detective shuffled away, visibly shaken, you turned back to the team, feeling a sense of relief settle in. Reid met your gaze, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, a silent thank you for handling the situation on his behalf. JJ gave you a warm, knowing smile, a touch of admiration in her expression, as though she’d seen a new side of you.

On the other side, Morgan and Prentiss exchanged glances, smirks tugging at their lips as they struggled to contain their laughter. Their eyes sparkled with barely concealed amusement, relishing the scene that had just played out.

They weren’t fooling anyone - especially not you. You knew that look all too well, it was the unmistakable glint of an inside joke, the kind of unspoken conspiracy that you could sense from a mile away.

You couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. You’d been in their shoes before, that playful bond where just one look could spark an entire unspoken conversation. It was the same look you and Hotch used to share whenever Gideon and Rossi did anything remotely friendly toward each other.

Just the slightest hint of camaraderie between those two was enough for you and Hotch to start your own silent plotting, exchanging glances and letting your imaginations run wild about their “secret romance.”

And if there was one thing you knew for certain, it was that Morgan and Prentiss were definitely up to something. “You okay?” you asked raising your eyebrows, catching the spark running through the group.

That was all it took, Morgan and Prentiss chuckled, their expressions carrying a mix of respect and pure enjoyment. You could tell they saw something of Hotch in you, but with your own twist, and that silent bond between you all deepened, shared in the moment.

“Oh, we’re good,” Morgan said, barely containing a chuckle. “Just… processing the show you just put on. Not bad, Teacher.”

Prentiss nodded, her eyes gleaming. “You definitely have that stare down.”

“What stare?” you asked, genuinely confused. “I didn’t realize I had a ‘stare.’”

JJ stifled a laugh. “Oh, you do... remember about the intervention? It’s a bit different than Hotch’s, though. His can be terrifying, but yours? Yours just screams disappointment. It’s brutal. I almost felt sorry for the guy.”

The team burst into quiet laughter as you gave them an unintentional demonstration of the stare, feeling the same subtle disappointment creep into your expression as you processed their remarks. “What’s going on?” you asked, the exact same tone Hotch used to use when he was catching on to their inside jokes, only fueling the laughter.

They laughed even harder, exchanging looks as if sharing an inside joke they hadn’t expected you to be in on. A bit intimidated but still chuckling, JJ finally spoke up. “It’s just… the way you said that, it was just like Hotch. Even the tone, the phrasing, it was all there.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “So, you all really think I’m like Hotch?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Prentiss replied, smirking. “You two have been partners since, what, the dawn of time? I’d bet good money you’ve picked up more than a few of his quirks over the years.”

You shook your head in mock offense, placing your hands on your hips. “Oh, please! Have you ever considered that maybe he picked up my mannerisms? But even if that were true, I have no idea why you’re all so obsessed with comparing us. I’m my own person. And Hotch and I? We’re not similar. At all.”

Prentiss let out a laugh, eyes gleaming. “Uh-huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that. But from where I’m standing, you two are basically the FBI version of an old mar-”

“Watch it, Prentiss,” you cut her off, the warning playful but sharp. The moment the words left your mouth, you froze for a beat. Even you could hear it - Hotch’s voice, not yours. You’d definitely heard him say it just like that before.

They laughed again, their amusement only growing at your reaction. Morgan wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s there. You two are practically the same person when you’re in the field.”

JJ added with a smirk, “You spent so many years together, it’s bound to rub off… you two were like the dynamic duo. I just wish we could see more of it now. The stories I’ve heard about how well you worked together are legendary.” It was funny how you could practically visualise what Morgan and Reid were picturing in their minds at that exact moment. The best part was that no matter how many times the two of them tried to imagine you and Hotch dancing, it would never even come close to what it was like in reality. “You two were close, weren’t you?”

You two were close, weren’t you?

And just like that, your heart dropped, a pang of melancholy seeping in at her words.

They were right – no, actually – Aaron was right.

You’d missed working in the field, and coming back here reminded you how much you missed working alongside him, as a team, the way you once did every day.

But things were different now.

There was Peter who’d made it clear that he expected you to stay with the Academy.

A life at the BAU wasn’t compatible with settling down, and you knew if you came back, the job would consume you again, and any hope of a family life with him would fade

Seeing your expression shift, Morgan stepped a little closer, his tone softer but with that familiar edge. “You know, when I came across your file over a year ago, there was this old photo in there - had to be from Rossi’s first book party, back in ’99. The whole OG team was there - Rossi, Gideon, you, Hotch. But what really hit me? The way you and Hotch looked in that picture. He was actually smiling, like genuinely smiling. You were both laughing, heads tilted towards each other, practically leaning in. It’s the kind of picture that says, ‘yeah, those two have seen it all, side by side’.”

A soft ache tugged at your chest as the memory surfaced, sharper and more vivid than you expected. You hadn’t thought about that night in years, yet now it rushed back with startling clarity, as if it had happened only yesterday. No - more than that - it was as though it was unfolding right in front of you, playing out in real time, every detail suddenly alive again. You knew the reason Hotch was smiling in that picture.

---

The evening had only just begun at Rossi’s book release party, but the warmth of the room, the glow of dim lights, and the gentle hum of laughter and clinking glasses gave it a sense of timelessness. Rossi was in his element, charm radiating as he moved through the crowd with an easy confidence, his smile as wide as you’d ever seen it. He reveled in the attention, basking in the congratulations and admiration, the proud look of a man who’d earned every word of praise.

But you and Hotch had slipped away from the main throng, as you often did, drifting to a quieter corner where you could watch the scene unfold, cocooned in a world of your own making. The two of you had perfected this dance over the years, a private escape in plain sight. A shared glance, a quick smile, a whispered comment, and suddenly, the rest of the room faded into the background.

You watched Rossi work the room, the flicker of candlelight catching the satisfaction in his eyes, and you could feel Hotch’s presence beside you, steady and familiar. It was comforting, the warmth he brought just by standing close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. His quiet presence was an anchor, grounding you as the world around you spun with laughter and champagne.

“Look at him,” you murmured softly, leaning in just a little, letting your voice carry between the two of you. “It’s like he was born for this moment.”

Hotch’s gaze followed yours, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s the Rossi special,” he replied, his voice just a whisper. “A room full of people, and somehow, they’re all drawn to him.”

You chuckled, your smile widening. “He’s practically glowing.” Your eyes drifted over the scene, and then you spotted Gideon, standing just a few feet away from Rossi, sharing an easy laugh. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand gently resting on Hotch’s upper arm, giving it a soft squeeze. The touch surprised him, and he turned toward you, his expression momentarily caught off guard. You tilted your head in the direction of your two “lovebirds,” and as soon as he followed your gaze, a smirk appeared on his face, as if he already knew exactly where your thoughts had gone.

Leaning in just enough for him to catch the soft, lingering notes of your rose perfume, he struggled not to lose himself in the scent he had quietly come to cherish. Your voice, low and teasing, slipped out in a warm, intimate whisper. “Tell me this doesn’t feel like the renewal of vows for our happy couple,” you murmured, your lips barely inches from his ear. You felt his breath hitch, a brief falter in his composure, as though the closeness had woven a delicate tension between you, one that hummed softly in the quiet space you shared.

“All that’s missing is a cake and matching rings,” you continued, your eyes gleaming with amusement. “They’re practically glowing over there, and I’m just waiting for someone to stand up and toast their ‘eternal bond.’”

Hotch’s gaze followed yours to where Rossi and Gideon stood, posing together in matching dark suits, looking more like a coordinated pair than the veteran profilers you knew. He leaned in even closer than you did moments before, so close that you felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Oh, it’s definitely an anniversary,” he murmured, his tone playful. “Think about it - what are the odds Rossi’s book launch just happens to fall on the exact same date? Feels a little too coincidental, don’t you think?”

You felt a shiver run through you as he tilted his head, his lips almost brushing your ear. “I’d bet anything he planned this whole thing just to make sure Gideon couldn’t pull another stunt like last year. No way Rossi was letting him show up empty-handed this time.”

You laughed, quickly covering your mouth to stifle the sound. He slid his arm over your shoulder, holding you close to keep your laughter contained, as if he wanted this moment to stay just between the two of you, hidden from the rest of the room. “Oh, I remember that,” you whispered, still smiling. “What do you think he got Rossi this time? It’s bound to be something… serious, but just impersonal enough.”

Up close, you could see his eyes light up with a glint of mischief as he slipped effortlessly into profiling mode, his voice dipping lower in a way that made your heart skip a beat. “Gideon’s practical to a fault. My money’s on something generic yet expensive, probably a leather-bound notebook set. Engraved, maybe. ‘For Loyalty Beyond Words’. Subtle but just close enough to the mark, a reminder that unlike Rossi, Gideon has probably never cheated on him.”

You stifled a snicker, nudging him playfully. “Oh, you’re definitely right. But seriously, look at them - matching suits? They practically look like they just walked out of a wedding chapel." You rolled your eyes dramatically, biting back another laugh as Rossi and Gideon posed together, their shoulders squared, yet there was something almost too intimate about the way they stood, like a pair of grooms posing after years of knowing each other’s every move.

“They’re definitely setting up for a solo photoshoot,” Hotch murmured, his smirk deepening, the soft light catching his dimples in a way that made them seem even more striking, like something out of a Caravaggio painting. “Look at the way Rossi’s arm is resting, just barely behind Gideon’s back, like he can’t help but pull him closer. And those cufflinks? They’re identical. There’s no way that’s an accident.”

Before you could reply, Rossi and Gideon turned in unison, spotting you both. Rossi waved you over with a grin, calling out, “Early birds!” while Gideon, at the same time, called, “Night owls!” The unplanned dissonance was so perfectly them that you barely suppressed a laugh, and Hotch was already looking away, shaking his head in amusement.

As you set your drinks down, you leaned in toward Hotch, your voice low and teasing. “Well, they’ll be arguing about that later.”

Without missing a beat, Hotch leaned in even closer, his lips barely brushing your ear as he started to whisper, but before he could finish, the words spilled out from both of you, perfectly in sync. “Rossi’s already canceled the hotel suite for tonight.”

The unison caught you both by surprise, and you couldn’t hold back your laughter. It bubbled up, blending together, as you both tried - and miserably failed - to stifle it, the shared moment drawing you closer. You instinctively reached for Hotch’s shoulder, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit as your body shook with laughter. He mirrored you, his other hand covering his mouth as he tried - and failed - to contain himself, his shoulders shaking against yours.

Hotch straightened, casting you a sidelong glance with that infamous, piercing stare of his, his voice mock-serious as he said, “Okay, composure. We’re professionals, remember?”

“Professionals, yes, and incredibly mature,” you replied, grinning. “But admit it, Hotch - if anyone’s going to storm out tonight, it’ll be Rossi, and he’ll be dramatic about it as usual just to keep up with their tradition. Gideon will be left speechless, staring at the door in disbelief.”

Hotch’s grin spread wider, the mischievous spark in his eyes almost gleaming now. “Oh, definitely. You know Rossi won’t go quietly,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. He leaned in slightly as he mimicked Rossi’s cadence and dramatic flair, “‘I simply cannot believe I’ve tolerated this for so long!’”

Hotch paused for effect, just like Rossi would, his expression mock-serious before continuing. “And then, he’ll make sure everyone’s watching - dramatic pause, hand on his heart - and just when the tension’s thick enough, he’ll storm out, tie flying dramatically in the breeze, leaving everyone in awe of his theatrics.”

Your laughter spilled out again as you nudged him in the shoulder, trying desperately to maintain your composure while he kept up his increasingly exaggerated impressions, practically daring you to crack. You could barely catch your breath, finally managing to say through fits of laughter, “Aaron!”

The name slipped out before you could stop it, and you felt a rush of warmth rise to your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and surprise fluttering through you. You’d never called him by his first name before. It had always been “Hotch,” or, more often, “partner”, a term that had taken on its own intimate meaning between the two of you, a word that only belonged to you both.

He stilled, and a small, surprised smile softened his features. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, steady and warm. “Hey, it’s fine,” he murmured, a spark of amusement in his eyes. And then, with a rare, mischievous glint, he added, “You’re more than welcome to call me by my name. After all, we’ve already shared some… pretty intimate terms, haven’t we?”

Your eyes widened, feeling a fresh wave of heat flood your cheeks as you realized exactly what he was referring to. Of course, he was talking about that night you’d both sworn to never mention again. You nudged him again, this time a bit harder, your voice dropping as you whispered, “Oh, my God, Aaron”

He grinned, leaning in closer. “I think you said exactly that that night,” he teased, raising his eyebrows. “Followed by -”

“Oh, so we’re doing this?” you shot back, trying to ignore the blush creeping up your neck. “Want me to start listing off a few of the things you said that night? I’m pretty sure we’re close enough to Rossi and Gideon for them to hear us.”

His chuckle was warm, but you didn’t miss the faint flush rising on his own cheeks. He leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Backing down already? That doesn’t sound like you.”

You grinned, narrowing your eyes playfully. “If I remember correctly, we both agreed to act like it never happened. But if you’re pushing, I can bring it up anytime, anywhere. Just say the word.”

He held your gaze, his smile lingering as he tilted his head. “I’ll take my chances,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a thrill through you that you tried to hide. “I seem to recall you saying something similar… right before you practically dragged me to my bedroom.”

You bit your lip, fighting a smirk. “Well, you didn’t exactly resist, Aaron.”

He raised an eyebrow, a mixture of amusement and challenge flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t exactly hear any complaints from you either.”

With a smirk of your own, you took a step back, looking at him with a mixture of playful defiance and barely concealed warmth. “Keep pushing, and I might just bring up the part you said you’d never admit.”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he tried to recover. “Alright, truce - for now. I think we both know we’d have plenty to say about that night if we really wanted to.”

You gave him a sly smile, lowering your voice. “Fair enough. But remember, I’m keeping this card to play at just the right moment. Watch yourself, Hotchner.”

He chuckled, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze as he replied, “Guess that makes two of us.”

You both stepped toward Rossi and Gideon, who greeted you with smiles… little did they know.

Rossi leaned in first, his arm outstretched to give you the customary two kisses on each cheek. Then he moved to Hotch, who did his best to hide his discomfort, his jaw tightening slightly as Rossi followed suit. The sight was too much, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Oh, don’t look so horrified, Aaron,” Rossi teased, stepping back with a smirk. “This is a celebration, after all. And as much as the crowd loves me, I needed to be sure the two of you made it into some of these shots. You know, you clean up nicely for a couple of crime fighters.”

Gideon chimed in with a smile. “Especially you,” he said, looking over at Hotch, whose face remained perfectly composed despite the teasing. “You look more relaxed tonight than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Hotch nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just trying to keep up with my partner here,” he replied, his gaze flicking back to you with a playful glint, subtly teasing at the so-called truce he’d declared between you moments ago. “It’s not every day we get a chance to unwind like this.”

Without missing a beat, you crossed your arms, refusing to let him see you crack. He was expecting it, so you turned toward Rossi instead, playing it cool. “What’s the deal, Rossi? Miss us already? Need a little inspiration for that next bestseller?” Your voice carried just enough teasing to shift the attention, and you caught the faintest smirk from Hotch out of the corner of your eye, knowing you’d managed to keep the upper hand - at least for now.

Rossi shot you a sly look. “Not at all, especially not Aaron. I still remember the night he woke me up in the middle of the night, convinced he’d cracked the case.”

Hotch shrugged, his lips curving into a small smile. “Someone had to keep you on your toes, Dave.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You say that now, Rossi, but I know you’d be secretly disappointed if we weren’t here. Why else would you be pulling us in for pictures?”

Gideon, smiling, looked over at you and Hotch, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I have to say, you two look sharp tonight. It’s nice to see you out of your usual work clothes. Especially you, Y/N—it’s good to see you in an actual color for once. That dark blue really suits you... both of you.”

You glanced down, suddenly noticing that the deep, rich blue of your dress matched Hotch’s shirt perfectly, right down to the exact shade. Hotch caught your eye, a faint smile playing on his lips as he feigned innocence, clearly enjoying your surprise. “Pure coincidence,” he murmured, his tone dripping with quiet amusement. “Great minds think alike, I suppose.”

Rossi rolled his eyes, giving you both a look of mock exasperation. “Sure, keep up the act. We all know you two are practically telepathic by now. Matching outfits, finishing each other’s sentences - what’s next, a joint desk at Quantico?”

You laughed, playing along, the banter slipping effortlessly between you. “Oh, that’s never happening. You don’t know how particular he is about his desk. But we might just take over your old office for ourselves, it’s starting to collect dust.”

Gideon chuckled, nudging Rossi with a grin. “Watch out, Dave. Give it a few more years, and they’ll be running this whole place.”

Hotch chuckled beside you, his laugh low and warm, and for a fleeting moment, you felt the gentle weight of his hand on your lower back. It was subtle, but not meaningless - not for him, that was certain. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep through the fabric of your dress, almost as if his hand were resting on your bare skin.

Your eyes met his for a brief second, a quick, almost tentative smile passing between you, and in that heartbeat, his hand was already gone, faster than the speed of light, leaving you bare of that ephemeral touch.

As you gathered for the photo, the opening notes of “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” began to play softly in the background, filling the room with its familiar, haunting melody. Gideon chuckled, shooting you a knowing look. “Perfect timing. They’re even playing your song.”

You shot him a playful glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you, and as the photographer raised his camera, Hotch’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His hand was warm and steady, grounding you even as your heart raced but not as fast as his. You felt his fingers press lightly against your waist, sending a shiver up your spine.

The moment felt suspended in time, the music swelling softly around you as you reached up, slipping your arm around his neck, your elbow resting lightly on his shoulder. Your other hand - on his chest, fingers gently splayed. You leaned in, your bodies naturally angling toward each other, close enough that you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing and catch the faintest hint of his cologne. The warmth of his presence, the closeness - it felt far too natural, a quiet intimacy that left you almost breathless.

As you looked up at him, you caught a flicker in his eyes, something that wasn’t wrapped in the usual teasing or the shared jokes that had become your comfort zone. Instead, it was something raw, something unguarded and completely sincere, a depth that made your heart stumble.

As Rossi and Gideon drifted away, already pulled into conversation by a colleague, Hotch’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch grounding you. You turned to look up at him, and he met your gaze with a quiet smile, his expression carrying a hint of something more.

“So,” he started, his voice teasing. “Seems like Rossi and Gideon’s anniversary isn’t the only remarkable event happening today.”

You tilted your head, completely oblivious to what he meant. “Oh?” you replied, eyebrows raised. “What else could possibly compete with the vow renewals of our favorite BAU lovebirds?”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head. “Today also marks your first anniversary with the BAU,” he said, his tone softening. “It’s been exactly one year since you walked into the bullpen and, by some twist of fate, ended up as my deskmate.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, a flutter of warmth and something deeper spreading through you. Between the long hours, the grueling cases, and the late nights, you hadn’t even realized what day it was. But Hotch had remembered, and that simple fact made your heart skip a beat.

Before you could say anything, he picked up the glasses of whiskey you’d left on a nearby table, raising one in a silent toast. “Here’s to you, and to one hell of a year,” he said, clinking his glass against yours.

You laughed, lifting your glass, still a bit dazed. “I didn’t even realize it. I guess I owe you a toast then, for putting up with me for an entire year.”

He smirked, setting his glass down and meeting your eyes with an intensity that softened as he spoke. “Actually, I have a gift for you,” he began, a playful glint in his eyes. “It’s a little different from my usual attempts - no pens this time. I noticed you haven’t even used the last one I gave you.”

You laughed, feeling the warmth of his words, and his gaze remained steady, almost vulnerable as he continued. “This gift is… well, something I think you’ll appreciate more. You’re always the one diving into these philosophical speeches, so I figured it’s about time I gave it a try. Lawyers aren’t usually the introspective types,” he added with a smirk, “but I’ve learned a few things from you.”

He took a steadying breath, as if collecting his thoughts, before he began. “You once gave me “Hegel for Dummies”, and in all my time bearing you rant about philosophy, there’s this one concept that’s stuck with me – please correct me if I’m wrong: In order to fully understand itself, a self-conscious being needs to be seen and acknowledged by another. This process of seeking recognition is central to how we grow. We aren’t just… self-contained. We become who we are through the recognition of others.”

You blinked, surprised and deeply touched as he paused, his voice softening. “That recognition - of seeing and being seen - I felt it from the first day we worked together. I knew, right then, that you were meant to be my partner.” He smiled, the words flowing with a quiet sincerity that left you breathless. “In just one year, you’ve managed to become one of the most important people in my life, even with our ongoing rivalry - who’s at the office first, who’s cracked the case, and who’s snooped into the other’s files,” he added, his grin widening. “I’ll remind you, by the way, that I’m still unbeaten in arriving first.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling your heart swell as he continued. “But you’re more than just a colleague. You’re my partner, my best friend, and tonight, I wanted you to know that you have all the recognition you’ll ever need from me.”

He held your gaze, a softness in his eyes that he rarely allowed to show. “I don’t usually talk about these things out loud, but I know how much words matter to you. So, I’ll say it once, just to make sure you don’t let it go to your head.” He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “I love you, philosopher.”

The words, though lighthearted, hit you deeply, his sentiment so sincere that it brought a sudden welling of tears to your eyes. You blinked quickly, smiling as you took a shaky breath, overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude. “I love you too, lawyer,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grinned, his hand finding your shoulder again, giving it a gentle squeeze. For a moment, neither of you spoke, simply holding each other’s gaze, the weight of the moment settling between you like a promise.

You smiled at him, but a twinge of guilt twisted in your chest. “I feel terrible, you know,” you admitted softly, lowering your gaze before looking back up into his eyes. “You remembered our anniversary, and I didn’t even think to get you anything. I mean, this day is just as much about you as it is about me. It’s our anniversary as partners, after all. I’m no better than Gideon, forgetting about Rossi a year ago,” you added, with a small, self-deprecating smile.

You paused, letting the weight of the moment settle between you. “Even if we weren’t officially partners at first, I’ve always felt this day mattered for both of us.”

Hotch’s expression softened, his gaze steady and reassuring as he took a small step closer, his hand resting on your arm. "You don’t need to give me anything," he said quietly, his voice low but filled with sincerity. "You being here, by my side, is more than enough. I couldn’t imagine what any of this would be like without you, what a day without you sitting across from me would even look like."

His words sank into you, the depth of his sentiment catching you off guard. For a man who rarely spoke about his emotions, this was as honest and open as you’d ever heard him, and it struck you deeply.

"Maybe there is one thing," he added, a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, breaking the seriousness just enough to ease the moment. "It’s a stupid deal, really."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity tugging at your smile. "A stupid deal?"

He nodded, his voice warm and playful, yet beneath it, you could feel the gravity of his words. "Promise me that you’ll only leave me if you get tired of me. Otherwise," he paused, eyes locking with yours in that way that made you feel like the rest of the world had faded away, "I’ll always fight to have you back - and you have to let me. Deal?"

Your heart clenched at the sincerity behind the teasing tone. It was such a simple promise, but in that moment, it felt like everything. You blinked quickly, trying to push back the emotion threatening to spill over, and you smiled, a little shakily.

"You don’t need to worry about that," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you get tired of me first."

Hotch shook his head, a small, affectionate smile pulling at his lips as he looked down for a moment before meeting your gaze again, his eyes filled with a rare, raw emotion. "I could never get tired of you," he said, his voice so quiet it felt like it was meant just for you, a secret he was letting you in on.

"Deal," you whispered, a small smile curving your lips. "But just so you know, I’m going to hold you to that."

---

JJ looked at you carefully, reading the emotion that flickered across your face. “Why did you leave the BAU? I mean, we know you left to teach, but... you and Hotch? You had something here. Don’t you miss it?”

Your heart clenched again. You missed it more than you could ever admit, even to yourself.

You don’t need to worry about that.

I’m not going anywhere.

Not unless you get tired of me first.

The fieldwork, the adrenaline, the puzzles you’d solved together.

And Hotch.

God, you missed him.

But life now felt more complicated than it did in ’99. there was also Peter waiting for you back home. He wanted stability, a life where you could start a family and youl couldn’t just deny him that. You knew that staying at the BAU, returning to those long, chaotic hours, would mean giving that up. And Peter? He wouldn’t forgive you for it.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “I do miss it. I miss the field, the cases, all of it. But... Peter and I, we want different things. He wants to settle down. I thought teaching would give me that balance.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow. “But does it? Give you balance?”

You paused, the answer hanging in the air between you.

No, it didn’t.

Not really.

Not at all.

Teaching filled part of that void, but the truth was, your heart had never really left the BAU.

Morgan sighed, stepping closer. “I know we’ve only heard the stories, but it’s obvious you and Hotch were more than just partners in the field. You two had something special. And from what I can tell, he’s not the same without you. He doesn’t laugh like that anymore. Hell, he barely smiles.”

You being here, by my side, is more than enough.

I couldn’t imagine what any of this would be like without you,

what a day without you sitting across from me would even look like.

JJ smiled softly, “You could tell he really trusted you. And seeing the way you worked in just one day? Yeah... you’re definitely missed here.”

You glanced away, the melancholy creeping in.

You did miss the BAU.

You missed the work.

You missed him.

But could you really walk away from the life Peter wanted for you?

Could you sacrifice the chance to start a family for the pull of the field?

The silence in the room felt heavier now. The team could sense the conflict in you, the tug-of-war between your head and your heart. And as much as you tried to focus on the case, you knew that the real question was whether or not you could truly walk away from the one person who had always understood you completely.

Morgan broke the silence. “You’ve got two weeks with us, Teach. Maybe that’s enough time to figure out what you really want.” His tone was light, but the underlying message was clear.

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe,” you whispered.

But deep down, a part of you had already made the decision.

All that was left was for you to recognize it.

But you couldn’t do this alone.

---

Phi's Corner: I hope the binomial unsub/victim captures how the unsub denies the victim participation in the intimate act of recognition, yet demands society’s acknowledgment instead. In contrast, the philosopher/lawyer dynamic allows both to engage fully in the process of mutual recognition. This reflects her realization: to understand she belongs back at the BAU, she needs Aaron too. Recognition falters when it’s one-sided; together, it’s complete. I hope that conveys the theme with a touch of badly written philosophy.

Repeat after me AS A FRIEND, AS A FRIEND, AS A FRIEND. It's honestly hilarious the English language doesn't have a term that differentiates platonic love with actual love. All the betterrrrrrr

P.S. Yes, a part of me wants to believe the smile Aaron had in the pic was similar to the one I've chosen for the thumbnail. Yes, I edited the color of the shirt myself. Yes, it looks horrible.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader

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idontcaboose · 3 months ago

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Haunted Car Au part 13

Previous. Masterpost

“You done figuring out the sound files yet?” Duke asked while tapping on the hood of the Batmobile.

He was excited to hear a campy “Yes, Sir!” Come out of the open windows of the car.

“Neat, first off, any files that have your name in it?” He was a little disappointed, but still snorted to hear the tragic ‘Noooooo’ from Darth Vader.

“I think Red Robin has some pronoun type files in there, what are yours?” A mix of sir’s, dude's, and bro's were played until Duke had to stop the guy.

“Ok, what about age?” He wasn't expecting to get a straight answer, but when the car played a Scooby-Doo cut of ‘those meddling kids’, he was confused.

“So a kid?” Duke questioned. He got a weird mix of 'Ehhh', 'Kinda', and 'close enough' type files.

“We can worry about that later, any ideas how you got stuck?” A short ‘Nope’ with a pop on the P played.

Talking to the car guy was strange. Getting answers could be easy or turn into 20 questions trying to clarify an answer. So far, Duke knew the person:

is male or male presenting

a meta

has no clue how he possessed the car

has a good understanding of current memes

was possibly in their teens (probably a bit younger than Duke, but older than Daimian)

was a street kid? (When asked where he lived the car played “Why should I worry” from an older Disney movie about homeless animals in New York or something. He had to look it up.)

has a good sense of humor

and is taking their situation in stride.

Duke really had to wonder what their life has been where this is not a vast problem to fix…. And whether or not he should argue his ‘notification tone’ being a choir singing.

He really does not get paid enough for this, but it is better than the other stuff Gotham throws at the Bats.

“Mind if I get you up on the lift and check the engine? Might give us some clues.” After an affirmative from the car guy, Duke got to work.

@kizzer55555 @sebas-nights @candeartist422 @trappednyourheart @fandom-life-corrupted-me @tkiesai @2lbballpeenhammer @admiralwidow @rewrittenwrongs @whotfevenknowsanymore @symmetricalastigmatism @thespacedragons @atinygracie @okami-love @lesbian-spider-drone @1n0sss @forgetmenot-bluepurple

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #haunted car au #not totally happy with how this one turned out #but dialog is kinda wierd when one side is memes and audio clips.#but hey its is getting closer to the fun bits #but slow plot lines for now #next chapter amuses me though #also please remember I am using more the Batman Wayne adventures mixed with cherry picking of other comic runs #so.... come characters might be a bit ooc #that being said #next chapeter has plenty of cursing and simular language #but yaknow... Jason and Duke in the same room #I like to think they default to street manners and not Alfred approved ones #Duke Steph and Jason together just desolves into slang and neighborhood rivalry #not always friendly either #thats my headcannon anyway #Oliver and Company was one of my sisters favorite movies #100% Dick cries throughout the entire movie #Jason and Duke mock/rate the survivability of the animals #Damian took home any stray that he could catch after watching it #Cass helped

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pretzel-box · 2 months ago

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Sebastian had this one customer—a face that haunted his thoughts for reasons he couldn’t grasp. You were always so plain, so quiet, yet you stuck out in his mind like a whisper that never fades. You would crawl through the vents, the sound of metal groaning under your weight, a hollow echo that mirrored the despair you carried. It had become your life, your routine—a ritual of survival, though survival had long lost its meaning.

And every time, the moment you emerged, his eyes would find you—fluorescent, cold, taking in the same details as if he were seeing you for the first time. He would greet you, his voice mechanical, offering his usual lines. He noticed it all—the diving suit that clung too tightly to your skin like a second layer, the cobwebs that lingered in your tangled hair like a constant fellow, the smudge of dirt beneath your left eye that never seemed to fade but go down to the corner of your nose. The cuts on your hand that were almost symmetrical and in a deep red, the blood seeping through the cracks in your glove.

But it never changed. He would tell you who he was, a shopkeeper, trading assets for items. And every time, you would say nothing. You would grab the keycard on the table, knock the files to the floor that you collected, take that same cursed battery, and leave without a word.

Then, you’d crawl back into the dark, into the wet hallways that swallowed you whole, the battery clutched in your trembling hands like a lifeline to sanity. The same battery. Over. And over. And over.

You loathed it. The weight of it was like chains around your soul, dragging you deeper into the madness. And yet, it was the only reason you had left. The only reason you came back—to see him. Sebastian. You don't need this cursed battery, it was as useless as all your previous actions. You needed Sebastian.

And you would see him, again and again, as if trapped in some cruel, twisted purgatory. You memorized everything—his disheveled hair falling into his face, barely covering that eerie third eye. His clawed hands, always rubbing together in that strange, almost hesitant greeting. The slight twitch of his tail fin when you took the battery from his table, his gaze watching you with that same hollow indifference. He looks at you like a stranger, ready to discard you as the rest. You are like everyone else to him.

Yet you remembered everything. Every time. Desperate to hold onto the fragments of him, as if they could save you from drowning in the void. You watched him, hoping for something—anything—that might tell you he knew you too but it was more like a poor try to comfort yourself.

At first, you befriended him, drawing close with cautious hope, talking for hours about everything—about the world above, the stars you longed to see, the stories you carried like fragile treasures. He would listen, at first distant, but slowly, he began to warm to you. You saw it in the subtle shifts, the way his gaze softened, the way his words became less rehearsed, less hollow. He knew you. You were sure of it.

But then, you died.

And when you stood before him again, it was as if none of it had ever happened. His eyes—those same fluorescent eyes—looked through you, cold and empty, seeing only a stranger. Every memory you shared, every moment that felt like it meant something—it was gone. You were gone from his mind, erased as if you had never existed at all.

So, you tried again. You spoke of the past, reminding him of the conversations, the laughter, the secrets you once shared. You poured out your heart, telling him of your memories, your feelings, the fragile pieces of yourself that only he had seen. But it didn’t matter. You watched the recognition fade from his eyes, slipping through his fingers like dust. Once more, you became a stranger.

And then it happened again. And again.

You would die. You would return. And each time, you were met with the same hollow stare, the same indifferent greeting, as though the bond you had forged was nothing more than a fleeting dream. No matter how much you told him, no matter how many times you bared your soul to him, it was always the same. He would forget.

The loop went on—relentless, merciless—until the truth began to sink in, crushing the last remnants of your hope. You realized it then.

You were trapped in this endless cycle of loss, of being forgotten, while your heart still remembered. And no matter how many times you came back, no matter how hard you tried to reach him, he would always forget you.

You were forever a stranger to him.

And that was the cruelest cut of all.

To him, you were no one. A nameless customer. Every time you returned, for him, it was always the first time. There were no seconds or thirds. It was a constant one-time visit.

You were a ghost in his world, trapped in a cycle of endless remembering, while he—forgot you, over and over again. Your death in each try would be the button that resets it to the start. Setting you back with the memories while Sebastian forgot.

And yet, you kept coming back. You couldn’t stop. Even as the pain of being forgotten over and over again tore at your soul, you kept coming back. For a glimpse, for a fleeting moment in his presence.

But he would never remember. He would never know.

And you—lost in a loop of endless grief—were doomed to remember.

#pretzelthoughts #sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #roblox pressure #sebastian solace x you #pressure #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader #drabble

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lemondoddle · 3 months ago

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what happens when you type into the computer (BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS)

HELLO THE WEBSITE HAS UPDATED and different things happen when you type things into the computer on the screen. if a character/word isnt relevant the computer gives a red X. so far i've found:

stanley: takes you to an ebay search for brass knuckles, entering his name repeatedly will take you to various grunkle-related eBay searches until you get to bill's wheel of shame with much more to click

mabel: adds stickers to the set. you can keep hitting enter until the the room has been "fully mabelized"

ford/sixer: a case file on ford's extra digits

soos: a long set of notes about how soos is doing running the mystery shack

dipper: a note presumably from bill to dipper "informing" him that he can decode messages by staring into the sun. if you enter his name multiple times bill urges you to keep looking with words of encouragement as each note becomes progressively blurry and splotched with black until the entire notecard turns black

bill: this youtube video (and no it's not a rickroll)

gideon: an audio recording plays of gideon humming/scatting to the tune of "we'll meet again", ending with a whispered message of "i love you, mabel"

wendy: a note pranking you with the the 👌 emoji

mcgucket/fiddleford: the cotton eye joe music video

pacifica: a warning note about the book of bill mabel made her write

robbie: chat messages between him and thompson as they prepare to summon bill (as mentioned in tbob) with an image of their encounter

tad strange: the computer plays clips of bread being sliced set to jazzy instrumentals. this enables the glowing red button on the computer to turn green to switch the bread videos on and off at will

blendin: a message appears on the screen reading "time agent lost and presumed incompetent"

weirdmagedon: a newspaper page from the gravity fall's gossiper utilising the "nevermind-all-that-" act and stating "nothing happened" that day

axolotl: text onscreen appears: "you ask alotl questions"

T.J. eckleburg: text onscreen appears: "never mention that name again"

cipher: links to a wikipedia page about triangles

blanchin: pulls up a youtube tutorial on how to blanche vegetables

triangle: one half of a parenthesis appears on the computer ")", will also pop up with "tri harder"

dippy fresh: links to this image

mystery shack: links to a google search for confusion hill

gravity falls: text appears onscreen reading "never heard of it"

portal: text appears onscreen reading "portal.exe has been deleted. i bet you could build one"

theraprism: a notice sign appears- "in case of (coded words) do not use elevators" with a graphic of a person and a cthulu like monster on stairs

blind eye: an eye chart utilising the same string of letters- "WKHBOOVHH" that gets smaller each line, paired with blocks of color- the cursor turns into a "zoom in" tool that actually just makes the page blurrier with each click

creepypasta/horror: an entry on the urban legend "the always garden"- a liminal space/backrooms style restaurant anomaly

alex hirsch: links to a google search for flannels

toby determined: links to a google search for restraining order

dorito/chip: a dorito slowly enlarges on the computer screen and then becomes a jumpscare of a toothy bill, who periodically screams for a bit before the video finishes

love/boyfriend/romance: pulls up the parody romance novel, clicking starts an audio recording of the book

death: text appears onscreen: "life's goth cousin"

book of bill: text appears onscreen: "hide it under shirt during pledge of allegiance"

life: text appears onscreen: "life: 72% complete. now loading: death"

baby/lalala: an ultrasound of a baby bill in a womb and a message congratulating you

pines: text appears onscreen: "a good family tree"

weird: a video of weird al yankovich appears on the screen, he's confused and shouts for bill to get him out of there

waddles: links to a pig adoption website

mickey/disney: text appears onscreen: "rat.gif censored for your protection"

ducktective: text appears onscreen reading "ducktective stars in 'love, quacktually', coming to 'oi, it's the cockney channel innit?' this fall"

mason: a note from dipper about ford teaching him anagrams, plus a coded message with that technique

tyrone/clone: a picture of the janky dipper clone with a message that he's yours now

matpat/game theory: a video of matpat and a conspiracy board, he turns to say "hello internet, you're on... you're own... good luck" as he holds the book of bill

skeleton: text appears onscreen: "the one with the sword! he found you!"

scary: pulls up a parody goosebumps book "spookemups", clicking on it starts an audio recording of neil cicierega reading a section

divorce: pulls up a logo for "o'sadley's'"

music: enables you to click the dial, clicking the dial plays loud static

math: bill recounting an encounter he had with plato

conspiracy: a video of charlie day in a tin foil hat rambling about the website's previous state, holding the book of bill

okay that's enough from me, there's SO MUCH MORE that I just can't keep up with!! Happy searching!

#lane speaks #look i typed this in real time just goin off my dome if you have suggestions GIMME #gravity falls #the book of bill #tbob #tbob spoilers #bill cipher #the book of bill spoilers #long post #already edited to add the toby one i just saw LOL

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mo0nfairy · 1 year ago

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ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART TWO !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 5.8k

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, yandere!jill, yandere!carlos, sexual themes, stalking, gore, nightmares, weapons, breaking and entering, drugging/drug mentions, nudity, kidnapping, noncon touching, jill is a greasy rat basically lol.

jill valentine's yandere traits are . . .

possessive, dominant, & stalker

──── Jill Valentine hates the taste of coffee. Yet still, her kitchen cabinets are full of it.

Littered around her apartment, there are mugs stained with days-old coffee. The caffeinated scent clings to the walls and makes her stomach coil. A mess of documents sits on her cluttered desk. The October wind whistling through the window sends a few pieces fluttering down to the dirty floorboards. 3:57 AM is read on a digital clock in its neon red hues; the flickering lamp light on the desk illuminates the mess of broken pencils, coffee stains, and case files. With an accelerated heartbeat and heaving breaths, Jill hastily analyzes the CCTV footage on her jagged laptop.

Every person, every street sign, every single pixel on the screen. Maybe, just maybe, she'll find you among this mess.

Other tabs display missing persons' documents, reports from private investigators, and checkpoints on satellite imagery. Ms. 'I don't mind a little detective work' has spent every day of the past six years doing this exact thing. Weaving through any bit of information and manipulating every resource she could get her hands on. Everything she does is to try and find the one thing that matters more than anything to her.

Y/N L/N. The name she will never forget.

Jill remembers your sultry body, your delicious gratitude, your sweet blood staining her clothes; she will never forget how you sparked the beginning of her life in Raccoon City. She will always remember how she didn't know what emotion was until she met you and how Raccoon City was the best night of her life because of it. A raw flurry of fuzzy, warm feelings embraced her, as well as the cold fingertips of rage, envy, and fear. It was messy, but it was so, so beautiful.

There is nothing now.

Her worst fear had come alive. To continue to live every day just for the sake of living while desperately trying to fill the empty void within her — it had all come back in a flash. Just when she had wrapped her fingers around happiness, it was torn from her grasp like candy from a baby. And if you had asked where Jill thought she would be six years after that night, the image she would paint for you would be far more illuminative than the life she now lives. A rundown studio apartment infested with rats and cockroaches, but she'd be able to endure any germ-infested danger with the light of her life beside her. Every day would be spent deconstructing your facade and dissecting the beautiful person you are; every day would be spent dragging her fingertips along every inch of your body, blithely taking note of what makes you blush and squirm.

She would be happy. And you would be, too.

Jill is now stuck in a cave. Adorned in darkness and devoid of life. In a city she doesn't know, becoming a person she doesn't recognize — she can't fathom how disastrous her life had become since she lost you. She can't fathom the idea of you not being here with her, to begin with.

Skimming through the fatuous clues laid out before her, Jill takes a peek at the satellite imagery in one browser and something catches her eye. A habilitation, of some sort. Located in the middle of nowhere, overwhelmed with heaps of endless trees. She searches for any further information regarding this strange building, only to find there is no trace of this place even existing. It is certainly odd, yes, but does not relate to you in any shape or form. With that, she lets her curiosity go and occupies her time with more productivity.

Another hour drifts by. Waiting for a returning email from one of the numerous private investigators she hired, Jill reads through medical records in hopes of finding anything reminiscent of you. Maybe by some brush of luck, you'd still be treated for your broken arm six years later. However, this mysterious building still fogs up her mind. How could such a large structure be built with not a single trace existing? Surely, someone would have stumbled upon the property by now, right? Snuffing out her pride, Jill gathers the coordinates and sends them out to Tyrell. With his technology skills, he may be able to uncover something about the strange place. Even though Jill knows in her heart it's nothing but a dead end, it's still something, nonetheless. And after all this time of relentlessly doing the same thing over and over again, she has become desperate.

A sudden flare of lethargy envelops Jill. With her persistent intake of caffeine, this isn't anything abnormal. She's prone to just crashing at her bed, her desk, or sometimes, even onto the floor. With drooping eyelids, Jill folds her arms on the table and rests her head against them. There's no harm in a little shut-eye, right?

What she didn't expect is to be abruptly woken by a gentle tap on her shoulder. And she most certainly didn't expect to find you standing there beside her. Saccharine-sweet smile, skin clean of any zombie-induced grime — you're at her side wearing an old S.T.A.R.S. hoodie with your upper thigh peeking out of your sweatshorts (inevitably sending a flare of heat to Jill's core). In your hand is a cold beer, a prize for Jill after the hours of hard work she has endured at her desk. And she is just in pure awe at the sight of you. She discards the beverage in favor of pulling you into her lap. You swing your arms around her neck like a newlywed bride with that damned, heart-stuttering smile of yours growing from the sudden act of affection.

Jill's eyes peer down to your hips. Her rough fingers fidget with the elastic band of your shorts, subtly asking you to let her hands wander further. Her touch wanders beneath the hem of the ragged sweatshirt you were wearing. When her hand makes contact with the warm skin of your stomach, a gasp escapes her chest at the intimate contact. You gently place your soft hand atop hers, causing her vision to go hazy with clouds of lust, devotion, and rapture. You're here; you're alive. Her sweet, adoring, blue butterfly has returned to her and Jill can't handle the sheer euphoria that comes from the revelation.

It isn't until she feels your chest begin to stutter from silenced coughs does she finally return her focus to your face. Only to find your eyes had gone milky white, your skin growing purple in rotting hues, and decomposing gashes opening themselves all over your body as they gush out with puss. The wheezes protruding from you accelerate into harsh gags. A splurge of red-hot blood then spurts from your mouth and onto Jill. She has no time to revel in the burning fantasy of being covered in your bodily fluids, she can only stare in complete horror at what has befallen her beloved. You then push yourself off of Jill, to where you begin convulsing on the ground like a dying insect. It is horrifying. And to suddenly be without your touch after so long of hungrily basking in it — Jill hates to admit how badly it hurts her.

A sharp cry accompanied by a horrified gasp permeates the lonely air. Reality suddenly washes over her and Jill buries her face into her hands with a sigh of defeat. Another nightmare. Another fucking nightmare of millions. She should've known it'd be too good to be true; she should've known that a perfect life with you by her side was nothing more than a fantasy. And God, does it fucking kill her.

Stepping away from her disordered desk, she walks to the dresser sitting on the other side of the room. Jill digs through the unfolded mess of dirty laundry until she's finally able to dish out what she intended. The old S.T.A.R.S. sweatshirt you had worn in her dream. Despite the loose threads protruding from the hems and gaping holes littered against the fabric, you made it look like a piece of high fashion etched with velvet and silk. She wraps the article of clothing around her figure and snuggles into the article, pretending it's you she is holding in her arms. Jill then crouches down at the foot of her bed, plucking out a dilapidated shoe box from underneath. Inside is a singular item that has and always will remain the most important object Jill has ever possessed.

A bloodied bandage. Covered with dirt and riddled with age, this singular bandage was what she had taken from Kendo's first aid kit six years ago.

She remembers how your skin felt beneath her as she wrapped the bandage around you; she remembers how she slyly slipped the garment into her pocket when Carlos was caught up in tending to your broken arm. Jill presses the bandage to her cheek, pretending it's your comforting hand against her face instead of some tattered piece of gauze. If only she had known what the future had in store for her that night, she would have never let you step foot onto that train. Hell, she would have never let you step foot out of her sight ever again. Until the end of time, however, Jill will continue to search the world over and over again to find you. You are the only thing keeping her alive, after all.

The quick tune of an email alert brings Jill out of her lovesick, grief-burdened daze. She discards the precious cargo in her hands back to its home beneath her bed, then returns to her desk. In the three hours Jill had been knocked out cold, Tyrell had managed to bypass the security system that was "a bitch to get through" (his exact words). In the email, he provided several files that contain security system footage from cameras scattered around the area. Feverishly, Jill double-clicks the links and analyzes the pixelated footage. She knows what she is looking for, and despite the voice of logic on her shoulder whispering of what a waste of time this was, she still persevered.

A hallway filled with bustling doctors, a garden filled with meditating patients, and a cafeteria swarming with warm food and activity. Lastly, the final file shows a library. Unlike the others, the peaceful environment was scattered with little activity. The only form of life in the room was a few faces around who had their noses buried in books. A figure then ventures around the corner of a bookshelf, a stack of books held tight to their chest. Through the mess of pixels, a familiar face comes clear into frame.

You.

Something bright fills her chest. Hope, relief, elation. It bubbles in Jill's heart and paralyzes her entire body. The only thing she can do is stare at the screen with her jaw on the floor. You are her butterfly, beautiful and fleeting. She's been nothing but a worm trying to squirm its way through the soil and into the sky. Now, however, she can finally hold your hand in hers; she can finally fly with you at her side. Her teeth chatter behind her smile as she leans closer to the laptop, watching intensely. You merely bring the collage of books to a lone couch and flip open the page of a new book. Little do you know the sheer effect such a mild action would do to the woman you presumed to be dead. Her thumbs grasp the corners of the monitor, caressing the surface as if it were your skin beneath her.

"I found you... I found you...!" Tears seep from her eyes uncontrollably. Finally, this void within her is filled.

Pure laughter, a sound she hasn't expressed in years, bounces from her tongue with glee. It's as if a symphony of angels had invaded Jill's apartment, pervading the lonely silence with euphonious melodies. They sing and cheer for her success, promises of a new beginning filled with light and laughter tumbling from their lips. It appears as any other CCTV footage you'd see, but to Jill, she has never seen anything so breathtaking, so magnificent. Jill rewinds the footage for what may be the umpteenth time, just to ensure this wasn't another dream she'd inevitably wake up from. Fortunately, it is the truth. And she can't refrain the pure joy from escaping her body.

Despite her heart pulling at her strings in an attempt to give in to her desires, Jill knows she must learn more before she can finally get you back. As desperately as she wants to storm the place, guns-a-blazing and all, being messy with her efforts may send her back to square one. Alone, without the one she loves most. The thought itself sends a cold shudder down her spine. She pours herself another cup of coffee. This will be the last one, she guarantees. From thereon, Jill begins her research into this lion's den. Located directly in the middle of the woods, this mysterious habitat began its organization exactly six years ago. Mere months after the incident in Racoon City, to be precise. With a few more hours of digging, the truth practically slaps Jill across the face.

This "sanctuary" is just a facade for Umbrella.

Even after all these years, that damned corporation still has its bloodied claws sunk into every fraction of Jill's life. They had been keeping survivors of their personalized epidemic safe in this establishment, under the guise of 'healing them through these tough times.' In reality, it was to ensure they kept their mouths shut and Umbrella's mistake could be safely swept under the rug. Seething with rage, Jill asks herself: why not me? Why am I the only exception? The last thing she could ever want is to be held captive by Umbrella of all people, but to be locked up with you? That's a different story.

It doesn't take long for Jill to connect the dots. Her occupation gave her that extra layer of protection against Umbrella. So, she remains untouched. However, with your job as a cashier at a gas station, you weren't as fortunate as Jill. Otherwise, you and she would have spent every day of these past six years at each other's side in euphoric harmony. Jill is sure of it.

The sun begins to set after a long, exasperated day of breaking the immeasurable walls Umbrella had built to protect their precious organization. Jill, heavy-eyed and exhausted, has finally concluded the great mystery that is your disappearance. She takes every penny of her rent money and urgently gives it all to Tyrell in exchange for more security footage. When asked about her desperate efforts, Jill makes the excuse that it is the location of a potential crime scene. And in a way, she isn't wrong. It is about to be.

With footage from every camera of the past month (as well as some good spank bank material for later on), Jill has a firm layout of every nook and cranny within the building. She fawns over the videos of you meditating in the garden and reading the hours away in the library. She also tenses up with jealousy over the clips of you laughing with your friends in the cafeteria and bonding over shared experiences in group therapy. It should be her you're doing all these things with. With a pout, Jill then plans her route on retrieving you. Although she has enough anger within her to tear the entire premise asunder, she is humble enough to recognize the extensive security is out of her element. After hours upon hours of trying to find the best way to carry out her plan, Jill accepts defeat.

As much as she wants to, she cannot do this alone. So, she contacts an old friend.

A simple email that reads "I found them" and Carlos Oliveira is at the door of her apartment within hours. His face sheen with sweat, hands trembling at his side, eyes blown wide in crazed worry. God, it's almost like he ran the entire way here. It isn't until Jill sees his face does the all-too-overwhelming revelation settle. It's time to finally get you back.

Deep in the middle of the woods, Jill and Carlos have nothing but the brimming sunset and heavy-duty flashlights to illuminate their path. A maze of trees and tight security kept the establishment well hidden from any wandering eyes. With swift movements from the two military-trained individuals, they were able to pass all barricades with ease. Out of sight from any cameras and wandering security guards, Jill and Carlos soon make it to a single window that has been left slightly ajar. It was your attempt at enjoying the last gusts of seasonal warmth before Winter arrives. A tame smile forms on their faces at the prospect. You'll be able to enjoy every season forevermore with them at your side. Whether it is your skin glowing beneath the warm haze of summer's heat or cozying up with the other during the harsh chills of Winter. They'll make sure everything is perfect. Just for you.

An ear-piercing screech pervades the late October air as Jill pries the window open. They cringe, wait for the other shoe to fall and bring this plan to its fateful end. But, there is nothing. No blaring alarms there to jeopardize their schemes, no wonderful, perfect you there to run into the arms of your surprise guests and drown them in kisses. Nothing. Continuing attentively, the two manage to slip through the window, where they then find themselves in your bathroom.

Jill and Carlos become entranced with the mere sight of your bathroom and the utilities within. Rested by the sink is your toothbrush, sat beside a tube of toothpaste and accompanied by a clutter of skincare products. Jill shakily brings the brush into her hands, fingers hovering over the bristles with belated breath. Your teeth, your tongue, your spit. Your mouth has been on this item and Jill salivates from the idea alone. Before she can quaff out every bit of you she can garner from the toothbrush, she snaps out of her fantasy and shoves the brush into her pocket. For later use, she assures.

Carlos, however, is trapped tight in his own daze. By the shower, a cluster of damp towels had been leisurely swung upon a towel rack. He takes one into his hands, shivering at the idea of this cloth once making contact with your nude body. Squeezing, the water that seeps from the tight contact and down his fingers causes a pool of vehemence to form within him. Lips trembling in response, Carlos then brings the towel to his face. His warm breath wafted back onto his face as he heavily inhaled the scent still lingering upon the fabric. Oh, Y/N, how he worships you. Carlos imagines how your scent would sit in your body while he drags his lips among the skin of your chest, your stomach, your thighs, and then your-

A harsh smack to his arm brings his thoughts to an abrupt, depressing halt. Just when he was about to indulge his tongue in the taste of what was once on your wet body, Jill had to go and ruin his fun.

The dulcet tune of humming diffuses through the area like a soft fragrance. Whatever libido-stained hysteria these lovesick fools had found themselves in faded away as quickly as it came. Jill feels her heart bloom like a spring flower — your voice. One of your most important attributes her deadbeat brain had so frivolously forgotten. It has finally returned to her. And the way you fill the air with such heavenly sounds is something straight out of a fairytale, the two think to themselves. Like a siren, leading the people who love you more than anything to their inevitable demise. And if they're being honest, the sight of you after six years without you may kill them with its sheer force.

In a way, they were correct. Jill takes a step out of the bathroom and into your kitchen, peering around the corner of a wall to find you on a couch. Your back to her, headphones nestled on your head and book held tight in your hands. Nothing could have prepared her for such a heartwarming, yet gut-wrenching sight. Nodding your head to the tunes blasting in your ears, foot tapping in rhythm against the floor. God, how much more beautiful could you get? How much more can you do to Jill and her sanity by simply existing?

With a deep, shaky inhale, Jill continues with the plan at hand. She tiptoes past the threshold of your living room and ventures further into the kitchen. With gentle, yet expeditious movements, she opens every cabinet and searches through for anything of importance. On the very edge by the stove, Jill opens the cabinet door and finds shelves full of jumbled mugs and different tea flavors. Taking a paranoid glance behind her, she finds Carlos peering around the same corner she had stood behind moments before. And the man is just relishing in the pure sight of you. His eyes drooping and coated in a dreamy luster; his mouth hung agape with the corners curling into a weakened smile. She'd say how pathetic he looked if it weren't for the fact she was in his exact state just seconds ago. With a roll of her eyes, Jill returns to her work in your kitchen.

How clueless you are to what is happening just over your shoulder. Who knew that you catching up on some late-afternoon reading could conjure up such staggering emotions within Jill and Carlos? And who knew that the two people you presumed to be dead had crushed up sedatives and hid them in your teabags?

Mere minutes go by as the two reside in your bathroom, waiting for you to unintentionally complete the next part of their plan. The creaking sound of a door opening halts their enthusiastic exploration of your bathroom. A voice, one that certainly does not belong to you, pervades the air of your home. Apparently, you and this stranger have some plans to go stargazing? Jill and Carlos give a confused, knowing look to each other. Who the fuck is this? Jill buries her unkempt fingernails into the palm of her hand. Clenching her fists inevitably causes moon-shaped scars to form. They're mine, they're mine, they're mine. Her nails soon break through the skin, to where blood oozes into her hands. It seeps down her wrists and onto the white tiles beneath her boots. The faint drum of your footsteps prevents her from acknowledging how she has left a trace of her behind.

Through the crack of the door, Jill finds you entering the kitchen with a thick blanket draped upon your shoulders. Like clockwork, you tread to the cabinet at the far end of the room and begin to make yourself a cup of tea. For the second time that day, Jill gives a harsh smack to Carlos' arm to stop him from inhaling your towels like a depraved junkie and pay attention. The two now watch in trepidation and enthrallment as you go about your nightly routine. Sitting at your rickety kitchen table, watching the kettle steam upon the stove, strolling down memory lane. How can you be so perfect in such simplistic ways?

You inadvertently shape your future by placing the tea bag into the messily painted mug made for you by one of the younglings who survived Raccoon City. A fond smile grows at the thought of them while you pour out the boiling water. You have absolutely no clue what is in store for you by doing this. And to the people standing in your bathroom, it is so endearing.

Taking a small sip as you walk back to the table, a sudden wave of fatigue crashes over you. Your vision doubles, overlapping every perceivable object in front of you into a blurry, distorted mess. The mug falls from your weak hands. It shatters against the floor and the sound reverberates like a blaring alarm. You hear muffled voices, a sharp ringing, and your own panicked breathing. What the fuck is going on? Once your vision goes black, you can barely feel how your numb body splats against the ground. Your hyperventilated gasps decelerate into tame breaths when oblivion finally welcomes you.

The only thing you can do is lay here and hope that when you wake up, whatever welcomes you isn't anything reminiscent of the nightmare you faced six years ago. You hope so.

There are black holes in your memory. Collapsing in your kitchen to being nestled in the backseat of a car. Trying to piece together this puzzle was nothing short of a pipe dream. When you wake, however, you find yourself enveloped in a strange sense of warmth. The senses in your body awaken from your head and travel down to your toes. Almost as if it was rain cascading down a window; as if it was a teardrop coursing down your cheek. From your waist down, you can feel how your nude body is submerged in warm water. You inhale and are overwhelmed by the stench of body soap that perfumes the humid air. Candle lights flicker in their calm hues and bounce against your closed eyelids.

In an attempt to thrash around and escape whatever has taken you from the safety of the sanctuary, your body fails you in your attempts to move. You are completely and utterly paralyzed, much to your dismay. The only control you can accumulate is nothing but a choked whimper that you push out of your throat. The immediate cooing that purrs into your ear from someone behind you causes your blood to run cold. You then sense how your back is pressed against someone's naked chest. The strands of their choppy short hair stick to your sweaty face. Hot breath fans against you as they press long, gentle kisses to your neck.

A bathtub. That's where you have found yourself in. It is romantic, in a disturbing sense. You could almost be convinced this was nothing more than a fulfilling Valentine's Day. A pair of scrawny arms then tighten themselves around your form with possessive constriction. Their chapped lips trail down to your shoulder; their wet tongue adorns the expanse in an array of affection. The intimacy sends a shudder down your skin. Calloused hands grope your chest and indulge themselves in the feeling of your flesh touching theirs, seemingly drunk off of you. The graze of their jagged teeth against you causes a gasp to escape you. A hum of quiet laughter vibrates in the chest of your assailant in response.

"My butterfly, you have no idea how long I have dreamed about this..." The soft tone of their voice lulls you back to sleep. This is getting old, you think once more before unconsciousness envelops you once again.

Jill simply cannot believe it. At this moment, you are here, alone with her. She couldn't imagine a better fantasy if she tried. And in a way, the effect your mere touch has on her made all six years of suffering worth it. Only now, she can scrutinize you completely and thoroughly. As opposed to the zombie-induced nightmare being the only contact she had with you. And your physicality has haunted Jill. She traces the jut of your cheekbone, the curl of your lashes, the texture of your lips. More importantly, she indulges her greedy taste buds in the taste of your mouth-watering skin, your delicious sweat, and your candy-sweet saliva.

Your flavor — never has Jill known she could be transported to such paradisiacal heaven. And never has Jill known she could ever be so... vulnerable.

Vulnerability has always equated to weakness in the eyes of Jill for as long as she's been alive. Trying to swallow the lump in her throat and constrict the overflow of bottled emotions these past six years are certainly no strangers to her. Raccoon City, however, opened the floodgates to a tsunami of revelations. To bask in emotion, to revel in you. Most importantly, to feel you here with her right at this moment. She can discard the facade of a cold heart and thick skin, to where she can embrace the exhilaration that follows with your presence. There will never be a second where Jill isn't thanking the universe profusely for such a wondrous gift.

As much as she disdains the idea of breaking contact with you, the hour spent in such stifling heat would not be good for you. And the prospect of your deteriorating health causes her to persevere through her selfish desires. This doesn't refrain her from being a little too touchy while drying off your body, though. Jill then dresses your unconscious form in a fresh, newly bought pair of fuzzy pajamas (despite the incessant suggestions from Carlos to please have you wear his clothes). The sensation feels like a cloud against your skin that had just been massaged with warm water, loving hands, and ambrosial lotions. So cozy, so cuddly.

With easy effort, Jill nestles you into bed. The late-night brume and heavy rain complement the tranquility within the room, naturally soothing you into a deeper sleep. She then presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead, whispering a promise of returning soon.

Her gaze and her hand linger on you before returning to the bathroom. While you are now sleeping, Jill sits on the tiled floor of the bathroom and rests her arms against the rim of the tub. Her fingers cascade among the still-wet walls of the tub, shivering over the prospect of your naked self touching the surface just moments before. She takes her index and middle finger into her mouth, lapping her tongue around the digits and cleaning them of any excess of you still left on them. The other hand is used to caress the parts of the bathtub you had sat in before as if she were touching you. And it is just heavenly. Having you beneath her, her tongue tasting every inch of you, all the sounds you would gift her in return. It practically makes her feral with desire.

Shakily sinking her hands into the lukewarm water, it pools in her hands before escaping through the slits of her fingers. Mouth agape, skin gleaming with sweat — the only thing present in Jill's mind is how your flavor has mended with the bathwater. With rapid movements, she scoops some of the water into her palm and slurps the liquid with fervent haste. Six years of her lust-ridden head overcome with these fantasies, Jill has finally come one step closer to turning this dream into a reality. Her eyes fall shut and she lets the reverie flood her body. Wrapping her lips around your sex and adorning it in a mess of her saliva and your essence; every whimper and moan that escapes your mouth making her slick with arousal. After turning your brain into mush, she would then wrap you in her embrace and soothe you to sleep, still preserving the taste of you on her tongue.

Oh, one day. One day...

Birds singing, rain dancing. Once again, it is the first thing you are able to scrutinize once you come out of your state of comatose. The sun has now risen, hidden beneath an array of stormy clouds. Daylight bleeds into the room you have awoken in. A bedroom, as it appears; you are in a bedroom you are oblivious to the location of. With its pristine environment, expensive comforters, healthy plants, and modern decoration scattered around, you can't help but be astonished at how gorgeous it is. A window takes up the entirety of two walls, displaying nothing but miles upon miles of endless forestry. You would assume this was a gorgeous retreat if not for the confusion staining your mind. Have I been kidnapped? The thought bounces back and forth in your brain like a ping-pong ball.

Your original idea of being held captive consists of a dank basement, restraints around your limbs, and a lone mattress on the dirty ground. If you had been kidnapped, it would be nothing as luxurious as this, surely. Had the sanctuary brought you to a new location? Had your friends taken you on some sort of a surprise vacation? What the fuck is going on here!? Trying to venture down memory lane to find out how on Earth you have ended up here, your efforts are unfortunately brought to no avail. All you had done was drink some tea and somehow in the span of twelve hours, it had led you here. The only thing you can do now, however, is find some answers.

Wobbling like a newborn fawn on legs, you try and catch your balance after you attempt to stand. A door stands to the right of you, which you stumble to. Using every fiber of strength in your exhausted body, you try and turn the doorknob. The wall is there to catch you when your body then gives up on you. With a few deep breaths upon collapsing, you fight to regain consciousness and continue to tread forward. You would not let yourself pass out again, you're determined of such.

Upon opening the door, a hallway presents itself to you. The scent of something cooking pervades the air. You only realize you had skipped dinner the previous night when the aroma of natural spices and flavors makes your mouth water. You hear the clanking of pots and pans, as well as the murmur of two strangely-familiar voices. The decorations in the hallway also grasp your attention as you stroll through, tip-toeing past any squeaky floorboards. Numerous other plants sit around the area and picture frames are placed neatly on the walls. The frames are all empty, ready to be filled. It causes a strange chill to course through your body. However, the only thing you should be concerned with right now is receiving some answers. As worrying as it is, the prospect of your kidnapper potentially filling these frames with new pictures of you is irrelevant right now.

Treading forward, you then find yourself on the threshold of the kitchen. And what you find within makes your heart sink to the pit of your stomach.

You catch sight of no other than Jill Valentine and Carlos Oliveira. At the breakfast bar is Jill, whose legs are crossed and resting upon the surface of the counter. Carlos stands by the stove, stirring something delicious in the pan before him. The conversation between them is cut short upon your entrance and the three of you all stare at each other like a group of deer in headlights. Silence sits like a thick stew.

You're the first to break through the quiet.

"What the fuck?"

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 ۫ you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ RECURRING VISIONS

OF SUCH SWEET DAYS . . . ❞

for anyone wondering, this, this, this, this, and this are what i imagined jill and carlos' house to look like. also, i will delve into characters and whatnot in further chapters. so dw!! and thank u!

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