#and I feel like there's meant to be a pattern there

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You sit beside Xavier on the bench in the park, watching people pass by as golden afternoon light filters through the leaves. The air smells of fresh-cut grass and distant food carts. A stylish couple walks past, the woman’s laughter musical, her confidence evident in every step.

“I wish I was pretty like her,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, your fingers absently tracing patterns on the wooden bench.

Xavier turns to you, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. His brows furrow deeply, eyes widening just a fraction.

“What... did you say?” he asks, his tone remaining even despite the clear puzzlement in his eyes. He shifts his body toward you, giving you his full attention.

“Nothing, just...” you gesture vaguely toward the retreating couple. “Sometimes I don’t feel very attractive. Especially around people like that.”

Xavier stares at you for a long moment, looking genuinely bewildered. The silence stretches between you, broken only by distant children’s laughter and birdsong.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says.

You start to explain, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his unwavering gaze, but he gently places his hand over yours, the warmth of his palm surprising against your skin.

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I mean I don’t understand why you would think that. It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he states matter-of-factly. “I’ve always thought so.”

Coming from Xavier, the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“You don’t have to say that,” you protest weakly, looking down at where his hand covers yours.

Xavier shakes his head, leaning closer. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I don’t...” he pauses, carefully selecting his words, “understand how you can’t see what I see.”

His fingers tighten around yours, the pressure gentle but grounding. “Every time I look at you, I...” He struggles with the words, clearly moving outside his comfort zone. A faint color touches his usually pale cheeks. “From a purely objective standpoint, the way you look—” He stops, frustrated with himself, and takes a deep breath.

“That’s not what I meant to say.” He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s a rare vulnerability there. “What I mean is that you’re beautiful. In every way that matters. Your smile when you’re excited about something. The way your eyes light up when you talk about things you care about. How your whole face changes when you’re lost in thought.”

He reaches up with his free hand, hesitating just shy of touching your face. “I’ve remembered every expression you make. I’ve studied them all.” He looks away, embarrassed by his own earnestness. “You’re beautiful. Please, don’t think otherwise.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, as if relieved to have expressed something he’s held inside for too long. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the afternoon.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You’re helping Zayne organize his medical journals in his office as late afternoon shadows stretch across the polished floors. The pristine space feels both clinical and comforting—much like the man himself.

As you reach up to place a heavy volume on the top shelf, you catch your reflection in the large window overlooking the city. The bright lighting does you no favors.

“Ugh,” you mutter, tugging self-consciously at your clothes. “I look awful today.”

Zayne glances up from his desk where he’s been meticulously updating patient files. He sets down his pen, the soft click audible in the sudden silence. His eyes, usually so focused on his work, now study you with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath surfaces.

“What brought this on?” he asks, his voice filling the room.

“Nothing specific,” you say, turning away from your reflection. “Just... some days I don’t feel pretty, that’s all.”

Zayne stands. He gestures to the leather chair beside his own. “Sit.”

You comply, watching as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest. The setting sun through the windows casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.

“Are you overthinking again?” he asks directly, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Or did someone say something to you today?”

“Just overthinking, I guess,” you admit, fidgeting under his steady gaze.

He nods once, as if confirming a diagnosis. “I see.” He’s silent for a moment.

“Beauty is subjective,” he begins. “But if you’re asking for my opinion...” The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You’re more than perfect. Inside and out.”

When you start to protest, he raises a hand to stop you.

“I don’t make observations lightly. You know that.” His eyes hold yours. “I’ve studied human anatomy for years. I’ve seen thousands of faces.” He leans forward slightly. “None of them affect me the way yours does.”

The admission seems to surprise even him, a rare moment of vulnerability from someone so carefully composed.

Suddenly, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil. It’s from the exclusive chocolatier across town—the one he pretends not to favor.

He places it in your palm, his fingers lingering against yours longer than necessary. “Here,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sweet for the sweet.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. The momentary closeness allows you to catch the subtle scent of his aftershave mingled with antiseptic.

“Now,” he says, straightening himself, “wait for me to finish organizing these journals so we can go home. I’m thinking of dinner at that place you like on Fifth Street.” He turns back to his desk, but not before adding, “And no more nonsense about not being pretty. I won’t have the person I care for most questioning their worth.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You’re sitting on the private beach adjoining Rafayel’s seaside studio, watching him add final touches to a vibrant seascape painting. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. The air tastes of salt and fresh breeze. Seagulls circle overhead, their calls mingling with the gentle lapping of water against sand.

Rafayel stands before his painting, completely absorbed in his work. Paint splatters decorate his rolled-up sleeves and there’s a smudge of blue across his cheekbone. The wind tousles his already disheveled hair as he captures the dance of light on water.

A group of beautiful people laugh further down the beach, their perfect silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. You glance down at yourself, then back at them, feeling suddenly out of place in this picturesque setting.

“I don’t think I’m pretty enough for this place,” you whisper, the breeze carrying your words away—or so you think.

Rafayel’s hand freezes. He turns to you slowly, paint-speckled fingers stilling on the canvas, his expression transforming from focus to complete disbelief.

“What did you just say?” His usually playful voice has an edge to it now, sharp as broken glass.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” you reply, regretting having spoken at all.

“No, no, no,” he sets his palette down with a clatter on the small table beside him. “You don’t get to say things like that and dismiss them as ’nothing.’” In an instant, he takes a seat on your side. “Did someone say something to you?” he demands, looking around the empty beach as if searching for culprits. “Which human do I need to have a word with?”

“No one said anything, Rafayel. It’s just how I feel sometimes,” you admit.

“That’s even worse! Your own mind betraying you like this?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “This is an emergency. A catastrophe of the highest order!”

He grabs your shoulders. “You are an absolute masterpiece. Do you understand? A masterpiece. I know art. I create art. I live and breathe beauty in all its forms. And you—” he pokes your cheek lightly, leaving a tiny dot of turquoise paint, “��are the finest creation I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

When you try to look away, embarrassed by his intensity, he gently tilts your chin back. The setting sun reflects in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold. “The ocean is jealous of your depths. The stars envy your brilliance.” His voice softens, becoming almost reverent. “And I would swim across every sea before I let you believe you’re anything less than stunning.”

He wraps his arms around you suddenly, clinging like a child. “Now don’t say such ridiculous things again. It offends my artistic sensibilities.”

He then stands, pulling you up with him. “Come on. We’re going to watch the sunset together. I’ll show you how I see you.” He places a brush in your hand, his fingers lingering. “And maybe then you’ll understand why I can’t look away.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You stand before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows in Sylus’s penthouse suite, overlooking the sprawling N109 Zone from stories up. The city stretches below like a circuit board of neon and shadow, vehicles and people reduced to tiny moving points of light. The luxurious room behind you is bathed in the soft glow of artfully placed lamps illuminating his collection of rarities—collections plucked from across time and space.

Catching your reflection in the darkened glass, superimposed over the glittering cityscape, you murmur without thinking, “I don’t know why you keep me around. I’m not even pretty.”

The room falls silent. You hear Sylus set down whatever gem he was examining, the soft clink of crystal against metal followed by his steady steps as he approaches.

“What an odd thing to say,” he remarks, his voice silky yet sharp as a blade, “because you’re entirely incorrect.”

You turn to find him watching you, head slightly tilted.

“Did I hear you questioning your beauty?” A smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes remain serious, almost stern. “After all this time with me, you should know very well that I have exceptional taste.”

He closes the distance between you. He places his hands on your waist, positioning you both so your reflections are visible in the window. His gaze in the reflection holds nothing but admiration.

“Do you think I surround myself with anything less than perfection?” He gestures to the rare treasures adorning his collection shelf—items worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. “Do you imagine I would waste my time on someone who didn’t captivate me entirely?”

His fingers trace your jawline, feather-light. “Hundreds of rare gems, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—I collect only the extraordinary, the unique.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “And yet, not one of these treasures compares to your presence and beauty.”

When you start to protest, he places a finger gently against your lips. “I don’t tolerate self-deprecation from the one person in this universe I genuinely cherish.”

He turns you to face him fully now, both hands cupping your face with surprising tenderness from someone so powerful, so used to taking what he wants. Your disbelief must show on your face because he chuckles softly.

“Your beauty is not up for debate, not even by you. Challenge me on anything else if you wish, demand whatever your heart desires—but on this matter, I will not yield.”

He steps back after brushing a kiss against your forehead, apparently considering the matter settled. “Now come here and tell me what you want instead of what you think you lack. That’s much more productive, don’t you agree?”

He gestures to the plush sofa. “Sit down and tell me about your day today. I haven’t heard you talking about it.” His expression softens further. “Let’s talk about that instead.”

As you join him, he casually drapes an arm around you, pulling you closer. “And tomorrow,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’ll show you exactly how beautiful you are to me. I have something special planned—something worthy of you.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

You’re absently scrolling through your phone as you accompany Caleb while he sorts through Fleet reports in his home office. The space reflects his dual nature—military precision in the organized shelves and structured workspace, but touches of warmth in the photographs and mementos from his DAA days. The soft glow of multiple screens illuminates the room as rain patters against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere.

Caleb sits at his desk, brow furrowed in concentration as he reviews security protocols. His uniform jacket hangs on the back of his chair, sleeves of his standard-issue shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. Despite the late hour, his posture remains perfect—the Colonel, always on duty.

Glancing up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective surface of a dormant monitor. The unflattering blue light highlights every perceived imperfection.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, running a self-conscious hand through your hair. “I look terrible today.”

Caleb’s head snaps up from his work. “What did you just say?” There’s a sudden alertness in his posture, as if responding to a threat.

“Just that I’m not looking my best,” you shrug, trying to downplay it, surprised by his intense reaction. 

Caleb stands, his chair rolling backward. His eyes narrow as he scans the room like he’s searching for enemies in a combat zone. “Who put that idea in your head?”

The protective edge in his voice takes you by surprise.

“No one, Caleb. It’s just how I feel sometimes.” You set down your phone, touched by his concern even as you try to ease it.

His expression darkens for a moment before he walks towards you. “Hey,” he says, crouching beside where you’re seated and taking your hands in his. “Look at me.”

When you meet his eyes, they’re filled with the same warmth they held when you were both kids, before the Fleet, before the incident—before everything changed.

“I’ve watched you grow more beautiful every single day since we were kids,” he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The calluses on his palms catch slightly against your skin. “Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to be with you.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a private world just for the two of you.

“You’ve always been the prettiest person in any room to me. Always will be. Nothing compares to coming home to you.”

His smile returns. “And trust me, I’ve had plenty of people try to catch my eye over the years. None of them even came close. It’s just not possible when my mind can only think of you.”

He presses a soft kiss onto your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “So no more of this ‘not pretty’ talk, okay? Or I’ll have to issue an official declaration about how gorgeous you are, and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Based on this request.

[strawberry-bubblef]

the post about the great seven made me think of a lot of things, but I now only remember one ╥﹏╥

Could I request the dormleaders with a reader that's immortal, and is the great sevens child ? Like for example, reader is the child of the queen of hearts

Feel free to ignore this lol ^_^

Dormleaders with an immortal!s/o that is the child of the great seven

Riddle Rosehearts

“You may be the child of the Queen... but you are nothing like her. And thank the Great Seven for that.”

No one remembers your name.

Once, it echoed through marble halls and velvet chambers, sewn into tapestries and whispered with reverence or fear. But when the Queen of Hearts died, everything that was hers was buried with her: her name, her reign… and you.

You were never crowned. Never introduced to the world. A shadow behind red curtains, a secret hidden even from her most loyal court. Perhaps she was trying to protect you. Or perhaps she knew the world would never accept a child raised by her.

You fled the Queendom the night it fell,when her court turned on itself and the roses bled. You remember the scent of scorched velvet, the last trembling lullaby she sang when she tucked you in that final night.

And then… nothing. Just centuries. Drifting.

You don’t know why you stopped aging. Maybe it’s the magic in your blood. Maybe it’s the curse of royalty. You wandered, studied, observed. Watched Heartslabyul rise in her image,flawed, rigid, hollow.

You didn’t plan to return. You didn’t even know how.

But the mirror chose you. Dragged you into a world echoing with her legacy. And now, you walk Night Raven College’s halls like a ghost wearing flesh, your past stitched beneath your skin, every step retracing memories that no one else remembers.

When you first arrive at Night Raven College, Riddle treats you like a wildcard,mildly irritating, overly cryptic, far too relaxed for someone claiming to know the Queen of Hearts' laws so intimately. To him, you're a contradiction. How could someone speak of Heartslabyul's customs with such precision, and yet flout them with the casual grace of someone who’s memorized every loophole?

You quote ancient laws in fluent Old Queendom dialect. You tie your cravat in the royal fashion,her fashion. And one day, when you're late to a dorm meeting, you offer an apology he recognizes, word for word, from a speech the Queen herself once gave to Parliament.

He doesn’t confront you at first. No, Riddle does what he always does. He observes, watches, collects evidence like petals pressed into the pages of his memory. You’re infuriatingly poised, with that slow, knowing smile. You rarely show emotion in public, but there’s an elegance to you that feels eerily timeless.

And then one day, he sees it.

You’re alone in the rose maze. Crying, not out of sadness, but from some invisible, ancient grief. A single red petal rests in your hand, crushed between your fingers. You whisper something he can't hear, but he knows it's not meant for this era.

He steps forward too loudly, and you stiffen.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice low and trembling. “Really.”

You turn, tired. Not annoyed. Just... worn down.

“I told you,” you say, voice soft. “I’m the child of the Queen of Hearts.”

Riddle doesn’t believe you.

At least, not at first.

But the proof starts stacking: the way you predict ceremonial patterns he hasn’t even memorized yet. The way you refer to royal events like you were there. The way you slip and say “when she was alive” with too much weight behind it.

He confronts you again. This time, behind closed doors, arms folded tight.

“You expect me to believe you’re centuries old? That you were born of one of the most famous monarchs in Twisted Wonderland’s history?”

“No,” you say calmly. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”

“…But it’s the truth.”

You meet his eyes,his furious, brilliant eyes and something in you aches. He looks just like one of the Queen’s pages. The same fire. The same hunger for order. But the fear in him is new.

He’s afraid you’re right.

“…She wasn’t who they said she was,” you whisper. “Not always. She was terrifying, yes. Powerful. Cold. But she held me like I was porcelain, kissed my forehead every night before I slept. She taught me that rules were how she kept her heart from breaking again.”

Riddle stares. Unmoving.

“You knew her…” he says. Not a question. A quiet surrender.

You nod.

“But she died, Riddle. They all do. I’ve watched kingdoms rise and fall. Watched laws be rewritten. Watched people try to become her, wear her like a title. And every time, they fail.”

Then you look at him, gaze unwavering. “Even you.”

That hits him. Hard.

He’s spent years trying to be a perfect heir for his mother. To learn that he will never be enough in her eyes cuts deep. But deeper still is the quiet horror in your expression when you say it. You're not judging him. You're begging him not to become what she was.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But if I’m going to be immortal, I want to at least feel like I'm living.”

And that… is something Riddle understands more than he wants to.

From then on, he starts treating you differently.

At first, he’s hesitant. Unsure. But the more you talk, the more he sees the scars hidden beneath your stillness. You tell him stories of palace life. Of your mother’s sharpness, her loneliness, her ambition. Of the moment you realized you would outlive everyone and she was already gone.

He listens to you in the quiet hours between classes. Starts sneaking you teas he thinks you might have tasted in the court. Lets you revise the rules, not to manipulate them, but to restore the humanity lost in them.

You, who were once raised as a symbol, now walk beside him not as a relic, but as a person. A strange one. A sad one. But someone who understands what it's like to have your identity shaped by someone else's legacy.

And Riddle, for all his perfectionism, finds something freeing in your honesty. In your quiet wisdom. In your unflinching view of the past.

He asks you once:

“If she were here now… what would she think of me?”

You answer truthfully, gently, “She’d see you as a threat. Because you’re trying to do what she couldn’t,rule with kindness.”

He doesn’t cry. But he looks away.

You take his hand, fingers cool against his trembling ones.

And in that moment, immortal or not, past or future aside, Riddle Rosehearts is simply a boy.

And you are simply someone who understands.

Leona Kingscholar

"You come from the King… but you aren’t his echo. And maybe that’s the greatest blessing of all."

They called him the second son, the shadow beneath a golden crown.

But long before Falena was declared heir, before the pride lands of Sunset Savanna settled into peace under a careful rule there was you.

You weren’t born into the Kingscholar line. You were born into the original one.

The First Bloodline. The one that history erased you like you were a stain on the throne.

Your father, the King of Beasts, wasn’t just a ruler,he was a storm in a lion’s skin. Cunning. Unrivaled. Feared. And you were the child he kept hidden, not out of shame, but out of protection. His enemies were many. His politics ruthless. You were a secret too valuable to let out into the open.

But then he vanished.

Some say he was killed. Others believe he was betrayed by his own council. But you? You were only a child when they tore you from the palace and declared the bloodline broken.

The nobility chose another branch to carry the throne,one less “cursed,” more “obedient.”

The Kingscholars.

You were never mentioned again.

Until now.

You cross paths with Leona after a skirmish in the Spelldrive field. Dirt still on his cheek, sand in his boots, he snarls at you as you walk past, eyes narrowing like a lion scenting a rival on his territory.

"You walk like you own the place."

You don’t even look at him when you say, “I did. Once.”

He scoffs. “Right.”

But the words lodge in him like a thorn. And later,after too many coincidences, after hearing you speak in royal dialects that no one outside palace walls should know,he corners you behind the botanical garden greenhouse.

“You’re not from here. But you know too much.”

You exhale. The silence after that is long. Heavy.

Then: “I was born before the throne ever touched your bloodline.”

He stares. “You’re saying…?”

“My bloodline ruled before the Kingscholars were chosen.”

Leona scoffs the moment the words leave your mouth.

“Child of the King of Beasts? Right.” His arms fold, tail flicking with sharp annoyance. “Next thing you’ll tell me, you’re here to reclaim the throne.”

You don’t even blink. Just tilt your head slightly, expression calm.

“I’m not here for a throne.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“To exist,” you answer simply. “I’ve done enough hiding.”

Leona narrows his eyes. He’s not stupid,he can see the way you carry yourself. Proud. Collected. Like someone who’s had centuries to learn how to wear masks. But that doesn’t mean he’ll believe you. Not without proof.

“Fine. You’ve got five seconds to make me care,” he growls. “Or I walk.”

You pause.

Then, from under your coat, you pull something on a chain,worn, but gleaming faintly in the light. A pendant.

It’s shaped like a lion’s head. Old, far older than anything in Sunset Savanna’s current monarchy. The eyes are carved from faded sunstone, and around the mane are markings,etched in a script that hasn’t been taught in generations.

Leona’s scoff dies on his lips.

“…Where’d you get that?” His voice is quiet now. Sharp.

You don’t hand it to him. Your fingers curl around it instinctively.

“It was my father’s,” you say, gently. “The last thing I have of him.”

Leona takes a slow step forward, staring.

“I’ve seen that design. Once. In the sealed royal archive. Back when I still gave a damn.”

You nod. “You’d only see it once. The crest of the First King before the Kingscholars.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“And you’ve been hiding this,why?”

“Because it’s not a crown,” you say quietly. “It’s grief. It’s centuries of watching others wear his name, rewrite his story, and erase me from it. I didn’t want to rule. I just wanted my father back.”

Leona’s jaw clenches. There’s something raw in his eyes. Familiar.

“…They erased me too,” he mutters. “The second son. Always in the background.”

You nod. “Then maybe you understand.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes flickering to the pendant again.

“…You keep that,” he says eventually, gruff. “I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you.”

“Tch. Fine.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he speaks, softer this time:

“So… what are you gonna do now?”

You exhale. “Live, I guess. For him. For me.”

Another silence.

Then, with a huff, Leona turns on his heel.

“You coming or not?”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the greenhouse. I’m not gonna sit around thinking about history all day. But if you wanna talk legacy or whatever… I’ll listen.”

You smile faintly, fingers still tight around the pendant.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he grumbles again. “Just don’t vanish.”

“I already did. Not doing it again.”

And somehow, as the sun filters down on the golden plains beyond the dorm, there’s a strange, quiet peace in the air,two ghosts of old royalty, still learning how to be people.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Born of the Sea Witch, yet so far from her shadow… and honestly, the world is better for it.

Everyone knows who you are.

There’s no secret to your identity. The Sea Witch’s heir, that title follows you like the tide, carved into every introduction, every sideways glance. Most students keep their distance, unsure whether to bow or bolt. And Azul… Azul doesn’t know what to do with you at all.

Because he revered her.

Studied every scrap of her legend, built his entire image from the pieces of her legacy. Her cunning, her ambition, her raw, terrifying brilliance, Azul built the Lounge with those values in mind. But then you arrive. You, who could command a room with a breath and haven’t. You, who could claim dominion over the sea and haven’t.

You don't need to speak loudly,people listen anyway. You don’t bargain like a predator,people offer things to you freely. You carry your heritage like a pearl: luminous, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Azul tries to treat you like anyone else.

He fails.

You step into the Lounge and every glass seems to hush. You give advice to Jade that he actually takes. Floyd calls you “Little Queenie” and follows your directions with that rare, dangerous glint of respect.

Azul is torn between admiration and envy.

Until one night, when he finally dares to ask.

“You don’t act like her,” he says quietly. “Why?”

You pause, hands stilling over a half-folded letter. “You mean like the stories?”

He nods.

You smile softly, something like nostalgia darkening your gaze. “My mother was… magnificent. The world remembers her power. I remember her songs.”

He’s silent. You continue.

“She taught me that power should be earned, not stolen. That knowledge is the real currency of the sea. She gave me her voice, not just to speak but to listen.”

You open your palm, revealing a small, polished nautilus shell,golden and glimmering, humming faintly with stored magic. “This is all I have left of her. And it’s enough.”

Azul stares at it. He’s never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. Power, ancient and soft. Not cold. Not cruel. Just vast.

“I admired her,” he whispers.

“So did I,” you reply, not missing a beat. “But I am not her. I could never be. And the ocean… doesn’t need a second Sea Witch. It needs something new.”

That’s when Azul sees it.

You could have built an empire. Could have drowned this school in your magic and crowned yourself without resistance. But instead, you chose something gentler. Something wiser. Influence without intimidation. Intelligence without cruelty.

And he realizes,painfully, humbly, that you have everything he wants to be. But you’ve already grown beyond the shadow of your legacy.

He watches you slip the shell back into its velvet pouch, tucking it away inside your coat like a promise.

“You may be the child of the Sea Witch,” he says, almost breathless.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

A beat of silence.

“And thank the Great Seven for that.”

You give him a long look. Thoughtful. Unreadable. But then your expression softens, and your voice dips low and personal, like a lullaby meant only for him.

“I’m not her,” you repeat, stepping closer, “but I still know how to make wishes come true.”

Azul's breath catches. You reach up and gently cup his cheek ,the motion graceful, tender, intentional. His glasses fog just a little from how close you are.

"And what if mine’s already come true?" he murmurs.

“Then you’d better hold on to it,” you whisper, “before I swim away.”

And this time, Azul doesn’t try to be like anyone else.

He just holds your hand.

Kalim Al Asim

"Though you carry the blood of the Sorcerer of the Sand, you are nothing like him and that, in itself, is a gift."

Everyone knows who you are.

When you arrive at Night Raven College, the whispers don’t stop. The child of Jafar, the legendary sorcerer from the sands, the one who wielded dark magic and commanded the winds, it’s a title that carries weight. Most students are cautious, staying on the sidelines, unsure whether to smile or bow in respect. After all, Jafar’s influence was legendary, his ambition was terrifying, and his downfall? Well, it’s still a cautionary tale.

But you? You’re nothing like him.

Kalim notices that immediately. It’s one of the first things he learns about you. You’re not cold like your father. You don’t speak in cryptic riddles or draw power from ancient relics. You don’t even seem interested in the wealth or the control he had. You just… exist. And Kalim, for all his brightness and enthusiasm, can’t help but be fascinated by you.

You’re mysterious, yet open. You don’t flaunt your magic, and you certainly don’t try to intimidate others. You smile when you need to. You laugh. You cry, even. And you have this air about you, a quiet elegance, as if you were made to rule, but chose not to. He can’t help but find it captivating.

On the surface, Kalim is an open book. He’s cheerful, full of life, quick to embrace people, quick to trust, quick to love. But you? You keep your emotions locked away, always playing the role of the calm, collected individual, hiding all the things you feel under a polished, neutral facade.

One day, after a particularly intense school event where everyone’s on edge, Kalim finds you alone in the desert garden, sitting cross-legged beneath the stars. You’re holding a small glass vial, the one your father once kept on his person, filled with a grain of sand that never seems to settle.

“What’s this?” Kalim asks, plopping down next to you without hesitation, his voice full of curiosity.

You glance at him, your face unreadable. Then, you slowly open the vial, letting the sand inside drift slowly, the grains twinkling in the moonlight. “A piece of something that’s gone,” you say softly. “A piece of him.”

For the first time, Kalim feels the weight in your words. He’s seen the way you carry yourself, how you’re both haunted by and detached from your father’s legacy. He knows you’re not here to claim power or revenge, but there’s something else in you,something bittersweet.

Kalim watches you closely, then gently nudges your arm with his.

“Hey,” he says with his usual enthusiasm, “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to carry all of that by yourself.”

You blink, surprised by his straightforwardness. Kalim, in his warmth and innocence, doesn’t seem to understand the weight you carry. But maybe that’s what makes him so special, he doesn’t carry that same burden. Maybe he can lighten your load, even if just for a little while.

“I’m not him,” you murmur quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be him. But people expect me to be, and sometimes, it’s just easier to let them think that.”

Kalim tilts his head, clearly not understanding. He watches you for a long moment, before his face brightens with his usual, radiant smile.

“Why not show them who you really are, then?” he suggests, his voice teasing but gentle. “I mean, you’re you, right? And that’s way more interesting than some old sorcerer’s name, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by his confidence. Kalim’s words are so simple, so pure , yet they feel like a revelation. Maybe you could live for yourself, without the shadow of your father looming over your every move.

Kalim scoots closer, his smile softening, his eyes sparkling with kindness. He gently takes your hand in his, his fingers warm, a stark contrast to the cool, distant air that’s always surrounded you.

“I know it’s tough,” he says softly, “but you don’t have to be that person anymore. You don’t have to live up to anyone else’s expectations. You get to choose who you are.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you feel the cracks in your walls start to show. Kalim isn’t afraid of your past. He doesn’t look at you like a reflection of your father. He just sees you. And in that moment, you wonder if it’s possible to finally start living on your own terms.

“I think…” you start, your voice soft but gaining strength, “I think I might just try that.”

Kalim’s smile widens, his eyes lighting up. He moves closer, and for the first time, you allow yourself to lean into someone without fear of what they might think.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m here for you, okay?”

And when he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something new to hold onto. Not the legacy of the Sorcerer of the Sand, but something far more precious: your own future.

And as Kalim’s infectious laughter fills the air, you let yourself believe that, for the first time, you might just be ready to walk away from the past and forge your own path.

Vil Schoenheit

“You may carry the blood of the Fairest Queen… but your beauty shines in ways even she could never claim.”

Everyone knows your name.

It’s spoken with reverence across Night Raven College’s halls, embroidered on silk and memory both:

the heir of the Fairest Queen.

Your presence is like walking history but not something dusty or forgotten. You are a living embodiment of grace, refinement, and an impossible, devastating beauty that the world thought it had lost when the Queen’s mirror finally cracked.

The Fairest Queen was not simply beautiful.

She was an icon. A legend. A dream.

And you, you are her continuation.

No one knows exactly where you’ve been all these years. Some say you were hidden away to protect you from jealous enemies. Others whisper that after the Queen’s death, you chose exile, unable to live in a world without her. Whatever the truth, when the Dark Mirror summoned you to Night Raven College, the world held its breath.

Especially Vil Schoenheit.

Vil, who grew up studying the Fairest Queen’s philosophies like sacred scripture.

Vil, who shaped himself in the image of perfection she defined.

For Vil, meeting you is like meeting a star plucked from the heavens. No,worse. You aren’t just a star.

You are the night sky itself.

And he will not disgrace himself before you.

The first time your paths cross, you’re standing in the courtyard, a soft breeze stirring your clothes. Everything about you is effortless, the way you hold your posture, the tilt of your head, the calm, poised patience in your eyes. You look as though you were born to be admired.

Vil approaches,his steps are silent. Controlled.

He bows,not exaggeratedly, but perfectly, with a hand over his heart.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs. “It’s an honor.”

You smile, a small thing, but it lights you from within. Vil feels a rush of warmth, a heady, dizzying awe he hasn’t experienced since the first time he saw the Fairest Queen’s portrait.

“You don't have to call me that,” you say gently.

“But I choose to,” Vil replies, his voice low and steady.

Because to him, you are royalty not merely by blood, but by right.

He studies you shamelessly. Not to find flaws,no, he knows there are none.

Rather, he drinks in your existence the way an artist would, memorizing the way sunlight halos around you, the regal way you incline your head, the serene confidence in every breath.

Vil has spent his whole life pursuing beauty, striving to become something greater, something untouchable. Yet standing before you, he realizes:

You were born as the standard he’s been chasing all along.

Over time, Vil's respect only deepens.

He listens when you speak, genuinely attentive.

He offers you only the finest,handpicked skin-care products, rare imported teas, elegant gifts that speak of thought rather than extravagance.

He doesn’t flatter you meaninglessly; he gives the kind of honest praise that means everything coming from someone like him.

“You move with grace unmatched.” he murmurs one evening after a Dorm Assembly. “It’s as if the world bends itself to your will, simply to be worthy of your touch.”

And somehow, you never let it change you.

You are kind, but not naïve. Beautiful, but not arrogant. You carry your lineage with dignity, not pride.

And so Vil watches you. Studies you. Learns from you. Not as a rival. Not even as a mentor.

As something rarer.

As an equal he desperately hopes to be worthy of standing beside.

One night, when the stars hang low and silver over the horizon, Vil finally says it aloud.

“You could command the whole world to kneel,” he says softly, when the two of you are alone on the balcony of Pomefiore. “Yet you choose to walk among us.”

You tilt your head, amused. “And would you kneel for me, Vil?”

The question is playful. Teasing.

But Vil, proud and unyielding Vil Schoenheit, sinks gracefully onto one knee without hesitation.

“For you,” he says, voice like velvet and iron, “I already have.

And somehow, the knowledge of it doesn't make you feel more powerful.

It makes you feel seen.

Truly, fully seen.

Not just as the Fairest Queen's child.

But as you.

Idia Shroud

"You may be the child of the King of the Underworld… but you don't have to follow his path."

The first time Idia hears about you, he nearly chokes on his snack.

The child of Hades?!

The actual King of the Underworld?!

A real life demigod roaming the halls of NRC like it’s NBD?!

It’s the kind of thing that sounds like the premise of a high-level RPG questline,not something that actually happens in real life. But there you are, flesh and blood (and... well, probably something even more mystical), walking through the halls with an aura of death and ancient power so thick it almost glitches the atmosphere around you.

Most students are terrified of you.

Or obsessed with you.

Idia?

He’s hiding behind a pillar, peeking at you like you're some kind of ultra-rare mob he's too scared to approach.

He’s absolutely fascinated, of course.

You don’t strut around like you own the place (even though, technically, being the heir to the Underworld, you probably could).

You're oddly down-to-earth. Quiet. Almost reserved.

And that? That makes it even worse for Idia’s poor heart.

He overthinks every possible interaction with you for weeks. He even drafts multiple conversation scripts on his tablet,ranging from “cool aloof mysterious type” to “friendly casual gamer type” but never uses a single one because just thinking about talking to you makes him want to disintegrate into pixel dust.

You, however, notice him almost immediately.

Not because he’s super subtle (he’s not ,bright flaming hair behind a corner isn’t exactly stealthy) but because you can sense things most mortals can’t.

And Idia? Idia’s aura is like a beacon ,pulsing with intense, chaotic energy barely held together by layers of anxiety.

One day, when he’s hiding (badly) in the library, you finally corner him.

"You’re good at sneaking around the living," you say casually, leaning over the back of his chair.

Idia nearly dies on the spot (pun intended). His hair flares up bright pink, his tablet clatters to the ground, and he whirls around like a caught anime protagonist.

"ACK—!! I-I-I wasn’t staring!! I was just—researching!! Buffs intelligence +10!!! It’s not creepy, I swear!!" he stammers, practically vibrating with panic.

You just blink at him, expression unreadable, then... smile.

"Relax," you say, voice low and a little amused. "I don’t bite."

Idia freezes like a lagging game character.

He’s convinced he’s hallucinating.

You, literal royalty of the underworld are TALKING to him. Casually. Like it’s normal. Like he's normal.

From there, it’s a slow, awkward, chaotic friendship that blossoms into something deeper.

You’re one of the few people who understand when Idia talks about souls, afterlife theories, and obscure mythos.

And when you finally confess, it's clumsy, adorable, and very, very Idia:

"I-I know you could like... have literally anyone... or summon a loyal legion of, like, skeleton admirers or whatever... b-but uh... if you ever wanna, like, uh, game with me or whatever, I promise to only lose most of the time and...and maybe, uh, not die of happiness if you smiled at me again...?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head, reaching out to gently tap his forehead with your finger.

"You’re an idiot," you say affectionately. "But you're my idiot now."

If Idia could, he’d be on the floor, blue-screened from sheer joy.

Instead, he just short-circuits with a shy, wide, stunned grin,the kind only you get to see.

Malleus Draconia

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy… but you don't want to be like her.”

Everyone knows who you are.

Whispers trail behind you like mist: The heir to the Thorn Fairy. The last legacy of the fairest queen. In Diasomnia, you are regarded almost with reverence. In the halls of Night Raven College, where lineage means everything and legends walk in flesh and bone, you are already immortalized.

And to Malleus Draconia,you are more than that.

You are a living bridge to the one he reveres most.

The Thorn Fairy, the untouchable queen, the mistress of thorns and dreams and undying majesty.

The one whose wisdom shaped kingdoms.

The one whose power commanded storms and silence alike.

Malleus is enthralled by you from the start.

He watches you with an intensity few dare withstand, caught between awe and aching loneliness. You do not command attention,you draw it, effortlessly, as if the air itself leans toward you.

And you, for all your lineage, carry none of the cruelty history once feared.

You walk gently where others would conquer.

You speak thoughtfully where others would decree.

You smile softly where others would sneer.

It confounds him.

And yet, it delights him.

One evening, beneath a withering tree in the Diasomnia gardens, he finally approaches you, green eyes catching the silver of the stars in their depths.

“You are different from her,” Malleus says, not accusing,almost... wondering.

You look at him then, and your expression is so full of something ancient and mournful that it stills the breath in his lungs.

“My mother,” you say, voice quiet, “was majesty incarnate. Her beauty, her wrath, her sorrow… they shaped the very lands you and I walk upon.”

You reach into the folds of your cloak, and Malleus watches with sharp, expectant eyes as you withdraw a simple object, a thorn, long and blackened, gleaming like obsidian. You hold it as one would hold a relic, reverently.

“This is all I have left of her," you whisper. "One thorn. One fragment of the forest she once called her own."

The thorn hums faintly in your palm, old magic stirring like a sleeping dragon.

Malleus lowers his gaze, his heart a storm of emotion.

He had idolized her, the stories, the grandeur, the tragedy but you had known her. You had been loved by her.

“I am not her," you say at last. "I will never be her. I was not made to rule through fear or flame. I was made to remember."

The thorn vanishes back into the folds of your cloak, your hand brushing over your chest like a silent vow.

Malleus steps closer, the gravity between you almost suffocating.

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy…” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

He bows his head slightly, a rare gesture of deep, genuine respect.

He finds a companion.

A kindred soul.

Someone who remembers the past,and dares to walk beyond it.

English is not my first language !

[studioeisa]

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays. 

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person. 

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown. 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” 

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep. 

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air. 

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air. 

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is. 

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua. 

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred. 

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him. 

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends. 

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal. 

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do. 

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation. 

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise. 

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.” 

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.  

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful. 

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?” 

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.” 

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same. 

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy. 

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time. 

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.” 

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves. 

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils. 

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship. 

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you. 

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions. 

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too. 

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates. 

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent. 

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you. 

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination. 

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available. 

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad. 

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise. 

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.” 

“That hasn’t changed. You?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole. 

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester. 

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.” 

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water. 

“That was a good night,” you say. 

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his. 

“Your turn,” he urges. 

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile. 

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too. 

It’s a terrible memory. 

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous. 

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive. 

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.” 

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.” 

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.” 

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done. 

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe. 

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal. 

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too. 

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for. 

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand. 

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road. 

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets. 

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?” 

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style. 

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.” 

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.” 

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him. 

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game. 

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it. 

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?” 

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three. 

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness. 

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge. 

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers. 

Not exes. Not you and Joshua. 

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full. 

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new. 

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.” 

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest. 

Will you be now? 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him. 

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard. 

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite. 

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved. 

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable. 

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately. 

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages. 

“Why not?” you say defensively. 

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.” 

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began. 

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in. 

There’s none of those jokes today. 

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her. 

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done. 

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.” 

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence. 

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you. 

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder. 

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say. 

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing. 

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both. 

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says. 

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing. 

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left. 

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?” 

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest. 

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love. 

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately. 

You open your mouth. Then close it. 

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new. 

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?” 

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.” 

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to. 

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too. 

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve. 

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe. 

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand. 

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips. 

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect. 

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile. 

The ocean gives— 

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands. 

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough. 

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth. 

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly. 

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go. 

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave. 

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job. 

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make. 

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was. 

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck. 

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good. 

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word. 

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night. 

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice. 

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s. 

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.” 

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely. 

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing. 

You open the email. 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: hong.jisoo@mabik.kr Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you. 

For your reference and kind consideration. 

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance? 

– J. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

hiii booo, can i request anything with vergil where vergil is chilling and reader suddenly come in the room and cuddle him, and just telling him how much they love him and he gets all vulnerable and let them do because I NEED HIM TO BE LOVED AND ADORED AND HUGGED 😤

(i love you btw <3)

Of course you can my beloved, anything for you, literally. (I love you too sweetheart, forever and always 🥰😍😘)

You knew Vergil’s makeshift study was meant for him and him alone. No one else was allowed in, but Dante claimed you had privilege to walk into his brother’s study without getting stabbed, or how Nero basically got told to leave through a well crafted glare upon his father’s face.

You? You could walk in there and Vergil would wordlessly shift himself a little so that there was room for you to sit next to him while he reads; which is exactly what happened the second you walked into his study, smiling as you saw the sliver of space reserved only for you as the half demon merely continued his reading, but it was obvious that his body was more relaxed and his gaze lost it’s natural intimidation as the perfect blue eyes of his looked at you over the book.

He almost look expectant, like he wanted something from you and for a second you were left confused, wondering if you had completely missed something. Only to remember that you had unknowingly formed a routine within his head whenever you entered his study -whether it was wanted or unwanted- and you couldn’t help but laugh as you moved over towards him to hold his face in your hands. ‘Hello my beloved.’ You said softly as you kiss his forehead, feeling him purr under your touch.

‘Sorry for the intrusion but I felt a little lonely without you while your cooped up here.’ You add as you pulled your hands away from his face, just to see that he was still very much keeping you within his line of sight, even as you sat down next to him on the surprisingly good two person sofa he had found in a undisclosed location.

‘You do know the reason I stay here, correct?’ He asks raising a brow and you only pout back at him as you reached to kiss his cheek, seeing his guard effectively crumble as you allow your head to rest upon his shoulder.

‘I do.’ You start, tracing the patterns of his jacket, loving how even the shade of blue belonged to him and only him, you couldn’t see a shade of the damn colour without thinking of your blue half demon; so much to the point where you had made it a thing to buy him objects the same shade of blue as his eyes, much to his confusion until you told him the reason that you’ve done so, then all of a sudden his cheeks and tips of his ears were red as beetroot and his eyes were looking at anything but you.

Only for the trinkets you bought him to be found decorating his study a week later, something you didn’t address outright but the look upon Vergil’s face as he saw you looking told you all you needed to know.

A favourite memory of yours regarding him being anything but what the stories you’ve heard of him present him as. Yet to you Vergil was a man who had been lost for a long, long time, been through too much and was crafted into a different man because of it. He was someone that craved power from an all too human need to protect. So you do everything in your own power to show that he was loved and respected, despite everything he’s done, he was deeply loved even if he didn’t see it but you did since you were one of them.

‘However you never said anything about me when I come in here.’ You tell him with a shrug. ‘That and I don’t like you being in here alone, no one should ever be alone even if you’re doing something like reading.’ Vergil knew you weren’t exactly talking about reading, yet he didn’t pry and was glad that you didn’t nor say it out loud, he still was learning that it was okay to lean on another person; this person being you but he’s a stubborn as a half demon could be, and that was extremely but he was starting to see the benefits of having someone in his corner with blinding faith in him.

‘What if I like being alone to read, has that thought crossed your mind?’ Vergil asks.

‘It has,’ you replied, ‘multiple times but my statement still stands, no one should be alone. So you’re stuck with me unfortunately.’ You smile as you kiss his cheek again, now practically cuddling his arm close to your chest with your cheek squished to his shoulder still, leeching off of his human warmth. You did cuddle his devil trigger once and were left cold as fuck, but you couldn’t move as you had made too much progress with Vergil, only just to move away because you were cold but it was undeniably worth it.

Vergil scoffs, a small, missable smile breaking across his face. ‘Unfortunately.’ He says as though the word was hilarious to him. ‘Is it really unfortunate fate if I have become…fond of you and the memories you’ve given me?’ He gives you a sideway glance before looking upon the window sill of his study. ‘I know you’re aware that your gifts have been scattered throughout my study ever since you said it was too dull.’

‘Don’t forget lifeless and in desperate need of personality.’ You added, smiling as you gazed at the trinkets that you’ve noticed were kept clean of dust as the windowsill they sat upon, almost as if Vergil kept them that way for a reason, whatever the reason was it was bound to warm your heart regardless if he ever said it or not; his actions were more than enough to understand.

Vergil hums. ‘I wasn’t exactly impressed with you that day.’

‘I could tell, you were glaring daggers into my head that day.’ You said as you recalled the day where you first stepped into his study, unannounced no less, while he had only looked at you from over his book with a guarded gaze as he tried to deduce what you were about. ‘But I’m glad you took my advice sooner or later.’ You added as Vergil hums again.

‘It adds life to an empty space, reminding it of the things it could have if it opened up to the aspect of allowing life to shine light on the darker spots.’ He says and you knew he wasn’t talking about how empty the study use to be before it was filled to the brim with his shelves of books, or how the window sills were filled with your silly trinkets and funny looking plushies you’ve won him from arcades.

It indeed was indeed filled to the brim with life, but when you thought of it the way that he did, then it was made all the more beautiful as the study was once a place that had nothing, left abandoned with nothing of value to show it’s purpose. Yet it had found it’s purpose when Vergil claimed it as his own, filling it with his minimal possessions in the form of books, only to have more purpose as you added your own touch to the place overtime.

The study was a room you and Vergil created together at your own pace, at your own time, content with the existence of the other as long as they didn’t collide too much. Yet soon enough neither you nor Vergil could envision the study without your trinkets on the window sill accompanying the shelves of books when both of you weren’t there to fill the air with conversation.

‘The light can’t touch everything,’ you told him, ‘it can’t reach certain corners but it can learn to accommodate with knowing it can’t brighten every darkened corner and love them anyway.’ You finished as you look at him, loving everything about him, even his darkened corners of his being that your light may not be able to touch and you were more than okay with that.

Vergil looks at you to read your face, read your every expression as all he could see was truth and honesty staring back at him, holding his intense gaze with all the genuine love you had for him as well as unwavering patience for when he was ready to ever say such an emotionally charged words. ‘Even if I slip back into questionable habits? Do things that many would never forgive?’ He asks softly.

‘Even then.’ You replied confidently as you lifted the hand that wasn’t holding his book -since he mainly did that one handedly while the other rested on Yamato’s hilt- and kiss the back of it several times, unbothered by the callouses that kissed your palm with equal affection. ‘Even then.’ You repeated softer this time as you felt Vergil rest his head against your own, a low purr emitting from the back of his throat that made you smile as you nuzzle him in response.

Vergil allows to bookmark where he was at within the story he held within his hand, before resting it on the table next to the sofa, right next to the small trinket you had bought him that he had somewhat favouritism towards; a small blue crow.

[salemrph]

"Dangerously Persuasive"

Sylus x You | Public Flirting | Flustered

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. Standing in front of the boutique window, you pointed at the display, nearly doubling over.

Hanging behind the glass was, quite possibly, the ugliest set of underwear you had ever seen—bright colors clashing horribly, ridiculous patterns that no amount of confidence could fix.

You turned to Sylus, grinning wide. "Sylus, if you ever wear that..." you said giggling, "consider yourself banned from my bed indefinitely."

Sylus stood next to you, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but the slight frown on his face was pure pretend like he was trying to look disapproving and failing miserably.

"Sweetie..." he murmured. Oh that tone, silky smooth but threaded with warning, made the hair on your arms stand up. You knew it would annoy him but you say it anyways. You immediately took a step back, raising your hands defensively. But you didn’t make it far.

"Where do you think you're going? Come here."

Sylus reached out with ease, catching you by the arm and pulling you back toward him. Before you could even blink, he cornered you against the side wall of the shop, his body looming close, his big frame casting you completely in shadow. You swallowed, trapped between the cold wall and burning heat. He leans in. You still have that stupid grin on your face, you can't avoid it.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, voice low, velvet soft and deadly sure. His smirk was lazy. "I'm very sure..." he leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear, "that even in that hideous thing... you wouldn't be able to resist me."

You try to break free from this grip, laughing, but he keeps you there. He only huffs, the sound vibrating against your skin. His lips brushed just beside your ear as he murmured, "Should I remind you how you begged for me last night?"

You squirmed, your pulse skyrocketing. "Sylus—!" you hissed. "We're in public!"

His hand tightened just slightly on your arm—not hurting, just holding you there as he whispered each word like a secret meant only for you.

"How you couldn't even breathe when I pressed my fingers inside you... "

Your entire face went up in flames. You pressed your free hand against his chest, desperate to push him back, but he didn’t budge. He just grinned, completely satisfied with the way you froze, wide-eyed and incredibly flustered.

"How deep I buried myself..." You immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus! Stop talking!" you hissed, staring down at the floor, your face burning hot.

He removed your hand with ease, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a gentle but unrelenting grip. And in one smooth, practiced movement, he trapped you in his arms, pulling you flush against him.

"Am I wrong?" You pouted, feeling your face burn even hotter. This man is going to kill you with embarrassment.

"You're cute." Sylus said with a victorious hum. He released your arm and casually caught your hand instead, lacing your fingers with his as if nothing scandalous had just happened. You stumbled along beside him, cheeks burning, still too stunned to think about a clever answer.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To all my crows—If you’ve been here a while, you know I usually haunt the angsty, aching, slow-burn corners of the fandom. Fluff? Domestic chaos? This is all new territory for me. But sometimes, the right prompt (and the right queen) can coax even a gloom-monger into the light.

So here’s my first real venture into soft moments and kitchen concerts. I hope you enjoy a singing, dancing MC, a teasing, unexpectedly-soft Sylus, and the kind of found family comfort that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

This was a big step out of my comfort zone, so please be kind in the comments—your support (and softness) means the world!

𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : For @someprettyname — Thank you, your majesty, for this delightfully fluffy prompt. Without you, this kitchen would be a lot quieter (and far less sparkly). This is yours.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 to wander.

It started as just a walk—an excuse to stretch her legs, to shut up the static humming beneath her skin after sitting too long in a place that didn’t even echo her name, let alone remember it.

But Sylus’s mansion was never meant for soft things. Not for bare feet on chilled marble, or cotton pajama pants brushing against furniture that probably cost more than her entire existence. Every inch of the place screamed: You don’t belong here. With a very tasteful, very intimidating accent.

And honestly? She felt it. In her bones, in her lungs, in the careful hush of every step.

The hallway stretched ahead like something out of a villain’s Pinterest board—endless, empty, lined with faceless portraits and obsidian statues so shiny they probably judged you if you wore cheap mascara. Silver light puddled across the floor in cold, dramatic swaths, filtered through frosted windows that showed her absolutely nothing.

This place is a villain origin story waiting to happen, she thought. And I’m the idiot wandering into it in bunny slippers.

She almost laughed. Almost.

But the air was too still.

Behind her, the soft flutter of metal wings sliced through the quiet. Mephisto landed on the bannister with a delicate clink, his red optic blinking slow. Watchful. Patient. Judgy.

“You again,” she murmured, not bothering to turn. “Of course you’re the nosy one. You probably have spreadsheets.”

Mephisto, as expected, said nothing. But the crow tilted his head, mechanical feathers gleaming like razor-thin blades. She didn’t need words to feel his gaze settle along her spine—a second, silent heartbeat.

Weirdly enough, it was... comforting.

Like the house wasn't watching her anymore.

Someone was.

Not with suspicion. Not even with disapproval, which would've been understandable.

Just... interest. Measured. Curious. Maybe a little ominous.

She slowed, fingers trailing velvet-lined walls as she drifted deeper into the hush. She didn’t know where she was going—only that her pulse was finally calming down. That this—this strange, silent domesticity—felt more real than anything waiting outside these walls.

The fear didn't vanish.

But here, it was... negotiable.

As if the mansion, with all its sleek menace, had decided she might be worth tolerating. As if Mephisto had already logged her movements in some terrifying database labeled Potential Threat: Probably Harmless. As if Sylus—

Nope. Absolutely not.

She cut that thought off so fast it probably got whiplash.

She was still a guest here.

Still a girl in borrowed clothes and morally questinable slippers.

But when she glanced back and saw Mephisto trailing her—silent, loyal, and radiating mechanical judgment—she found herself smiling.

Just a little.

And kept walking.

She followed the corridor’s gentle curve, the floor cool beneath her feet, the air laced with the faintest trace of something botanical—expensive, rare, the kind of scent that whispered you’re underdressed. The light softened here, splintered through patterned glass that painted restless shadows across the walls like they were having a mood.

Mephisto perched on the edge of a side table, talons tapping out an erratic rhythm—half warning, half invitation. He was practically theatrical in his stillness: unblinking, overly dramatic, like a judge in a reality show no one signed up for.

She paused, glanced back over her shoulder, and smirked. “He’s not about to jump out from behind a curtain, is he?” Her voice was low, swallowed by the hush.

Even the security sensors seemed to lean in.

She spun on her heel, calling out, “Sylus? Are you lurking? Or did you finally decide to trust me not to set the place on fire?”

Her laugh slipped out, sudden and small—a startled sound she immediately pretended wasn’t hers.

She turned back to Mephisto, raising a brow. “You’d warn me, right? Blink twice if the twins are about to pop out and scare me into early retirement.”

Nothing. Just the soft, mechanical whir of Mephisto’s gears—a helpful reminder that she was never entirely alone, and never entirely not being judged by a bird with WiFi.

She dragged her palm along the back of a velvet chair, fingertips tracing unfamiliar swirls. It felt oddly intoxicating—unchaperoned, unsupervised, a tourist in a house built for control freaks and beautifully repressed secrets.

“Just you and me,” she murmured, voice warming, shrinking the room to something less vast and more… negotiable.

A hush settled. Not quite comfort—she wasn’t reckless—but almost. Closer than she’d been five minutes ago.

With a last conspiratorial look at Mephisto, she stepped into the light and warmth spilling from the next room. The kitchen—blessedly, miraculously—looked like it might have let someone human inside.

The kitchen was a revelation.

Amber lights crowned polished countertops, casting soft warmth over chrome and ceramic. The air hinted at citrus and something herbal, like a garden had once flirted with the windows and left behind a secret. It was the only room in the mansion that didn’t seem to mind a little clutter: a perfectly folded dish towel, a fruit bowl with exactly three apples, a single mug air-drying beside the sink—proof that someone, somewhere, had been here and survived.

She lingered at the threshold, part-thief, part-tourist, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. “I guess this is as close to normal as I’ll get,” she muttered, glancing back for Mephisto’s verdict.

He’d already claimed the highest cabinet, talons wrapped around the molding like a gargoyle at a black-tie gala.

She drifted to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, letting the cold rush over her like an interrogation light. Inside, everything was arranged with military precision: brand names she’d only seen on TV, more imported cheese than actual food, and a rainbow of jars so organized it was either genius or a cry for help. She stared, half-impressed, then plucked a pear and set it on the counter, grinning.

“You think he alphabetizes his condiments?” she whispered to Mephisto, like she was sharing state secrets.

The silence practically cheered her on.

Her confidence grew with every discovery: drawers lined with artisanal teas, a militant row of spice jars with intimidatingly perfect labels. “Of course he drinks white tea,” she scoffed under her breath. “Probably the kind that comes with a rulebook and a thermometer.” The knots in her shoulders began to unravel, replaced with the quiet thrill of snooping somewhere slightly forbidden.

She made a slow lap around the kitchen, poking at spice jars, lifting lids, seeing how much she could get away with before a robot army descended.

“All right, featherhead,” she called up, “I need your expertise. Are you a sous chef or more of a kitchen overlord? Because I don’t work for tyrants.”

Mephisto shifted, wings fluttering with all the enthusiasm of a disinterested judge.

She dropped into a theatrical bow, pear in hand. “Your Majesty, may I have your blessing to steal exactly one snack and promise not to poison your master in the process?”

No answer. But she could’ve sworn the angle of his head was a yes.

This time, her laughter lingered—a little brighter, a little more hers. In the gentle chaos of everyday life, her heart remembered how to settle.

For the first time since arriving, she felt almost safe.

Almost herself.

The quiet shattered—split by a low, traitorous grumble. Her stomach, voicing its concerns in no uncertain terms.

She blinked down, then glanced at Mephisto, who held his perch with the regal calm of someone who’d never skipped lunch. They exchanged a slow look: hers mildly accusatory, his forever inscrutable.

“Don’t give me that face,” she muttered. “You’re the one who made me forget I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t vacuum-sealed or 90% caffeine in days.”

Her gaze slid to the pantry, then the fridge. She could’ve grabbed something quick—a handful of crackers, a wedge of terrifyingly expensive cheese—but it would’ve felt like stealing. Worse, it would have felt temporary.

She didn’t want a snack.

She wanted to cook.

“Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands like she’d just been handed her own Food Network special, striding to the countertop with all the misplaced confidence of someone about to burn water. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Mephisto cawed, sharp and judgy—a sound that said, Oh no, she’s serious.

She shot him a look. “Relax, Mephie. I’m not about to hack Sylus’s music archive unsupervised. I know how he gets with his precious things.”

But the kitchen had already started to melt into a lounge she’d previously avoided like a tax audit—walls in matte black, brass accents winking in the low light like secret agents. And there, in the far corner: the record wall.

She stopped. Whistled. Tried not to look like she wanted to marry the entire vinyl collection.

Floor to ceiling. LPs filed with such aggressive neatness it bordered on a kink. Jazz, classical, synthwave, operatic rock, imports in languages she’d need Google Translate just to insult. Each spine lined up like soldiers in a musical army, daring her to touch.

She drifted closer, fingers skating the spines. “I knew he was intense, but this…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, awe and mischief doing a duet. “This is serial-killer-level obsessive.”

Mephisto cawed again, the sound pure disapproval.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she sighed. “No breathing near the vinyl. Don’t even think too hard in their direction. But—” She paused at a battered sleeve. “He actually owns this?”

The record was worn at the corners—loved, not just collected. She slid it out, lips curving, nostalgia blooming for a memory she hadn’t lived.

“Oh, I definitely like him more now,” she told the bird, as if Mephisto was taking notes for a future roast.

She lifted the lid, set the record down with the reverence usually reserved for ancient relics and overpriced shoes, and dropped the needle. A heartbeat of crackle—then music, lush and golden, pouring into the room. The kind of song that demanded kitchen dancing and a reckless disregard for dignity.

She glanced at Mephisto, cranked the volume with a devil-may-care grin. “Hope your circuits are ready, because we’re doing this my way.”

The first beat dropped—crisp, insistent, absolutely not optional.

She felt it before she moved. Drums slipping under her skin, bass strutting in like it owned the lease, and suddenly the whole room felt like it belonged to her and her alone.

“Oh, this?” she called, eyebrows doing a victory dance. “This is what music is supposed to feel like, Mephie. Take notes.”

He lingered in the doorway, feathers bristling, optic blinking in a way that screamed, I regret everything.

She did not care.

Not with Amy Winehouse swirling through the air—silk, smoke, and heartbreak. Not when the rhythm took her hand and refused to let go. Not when, just for this moment, nothing belonged to Sylus, or the Hunters, or anyone who thought they could tell her how to be.

This moment belonged to her.

She spun, playfully reckless, toes sliding on cool tile, shoulders grooving to the beat. One hand claimed an invisible mic; the other thumped her thigh, mouthing lyrics with the confidence of someone who’d never met shame.

“Why don’t you come on over, Valery…” she crooned, dragging every syllable, gloriously off-key.

Mid-chorus, she spun, pointed dramatically at Mephisto—conductor summoning a deeply reluctant soloist.

“You going to flap a wing or what? No? Suit yourself, but you’re officially in the band.”

He didn’t budge. But for a second, she’d swear his optic squinted—a fine line between judgment and a tiny bit of ugh, fine, I’ll allow it.

“Come on!” she laughed, arms thrown wide, slicing the air. “This is peak music, my guy. Not dancing is basically illegal.”

The tempo soared. So did she.

Not literally, but in the way her body caught the horns, rhythm rolling through her hips and knees, her spine arcing with joy. Hair swinging, laughter bubbling—breathless, real, the kind you only set free when you finally, truly stop caring who’s watching.

No fear. No surveillance. No expectations.

Just music. Just movement. Just her.

And the echo of joy, blooming in a room that—until now—had probably thought “fun” was a security risk.

She glided back into the kitchen, hips swaying, beat urging her into a performance no one had requested—but one she desperately needed. She sang without a shred of shame, lyrics tumbling wild and loud from her lips, filling the cavernous space until it felt a little less like a luxury mausoleum.

With a flourish, she flung open the fridge. Tomatoes, basil, fresh pasta—she gathered them up, spinning toward the counter as if every ingredient had been choreographed. A jar of sauce, a hunk of cheese, a heroic fistful of garlic. She lined them up and delivered a deep, theatrical bow.

She snatched a spatula, twirled it like a baton, and pointed it straight at Mephisto. “Your solo, maestro,” she declared, matching her voice to the music’s drama.

And—miracle of miracles—Mephisto obliged. He cawed, sharp and perfectly on beat, then hopped from cabinet to counter, displaying that strange, mechanical grace only he could pull off. Every time she brandished the spatula his way, he responded on cue—an unlikely duet that dissolved her into helpless, infectious laughter.

The song faded; a new track flared to life—brass, synth, swagger: “Uptown Funk.” She whooped, unable to help herself, and kicked her dance into a higher gear. Shoulders popped, feet tapped, she shimmied past the stove like she’d been training for this her whole life, waving a box of pasta overhead like a victory banner.

A saucepan clattered onto the burner. Garlic hit the oil, sizzling, the air swelling with the scent of home she’d never had. She never stopped moving—spinning to chop basil, hair flying, spatula now her fearless microphone as she belted out every lyric, off-key and glorious, head tipped back in total abandon.

Mephisto watched, cawed again, wings flapping in a half-hearted attempt to keep up with the madness. She grinned, emboldened, hips swinging even more, letting herself dissolve into the music. Every chorus, she leaned in, spatula pointed at her unlikely backup singer. He never missed his cue.

She was everywhere at once—stirring sauce, salting water, tossing pasta with the casual confidence of someone who’d never been a guest. Flour streaked her wrist, sauce marked her cheek, a wild, reckless light igniting her eyes.

For the first time, she wasn’t a guest.

Not a captive.

Not a girl lost in someone else's fortress.

She was chaos incarnate, barefoot and divine—lips parted mid-lyric, apronless goddess conjuring a universe from steam and song. Every pot and pan a moon in her orbit. Gravity bowed to her, not the other way around.

And Sylus…

Sylus stood in the doorway, silent as a ghost, all sharp lines and softer shadows.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat. His entrance was seamless, slipped in between bass lines and the golden haze of garlic and laughter. Now he leaned against the frame—one arm folded, the other draped loose, mouth curved in something gentler than a smirk.

A smile no one else ever saw.

Reserved. Unscripted. A secret shaped by her presence alone.

She hadn’t noticed him—not yet.

Too busy performing for the only audience that mattered: herself, and a crow with questionable taste.

The music swelled, brazen and bright. She answered it with her body—hips snapping, shoulders rolling, fearless and free. She bounded as the chorus demanded—dance, jump on it—dropping low and springing back up, joy unraveling in every line of her.

“If you sexy then flaunt it…”

The spatula jabbed at Mephisto, daring him to keep up.

“If you freaky then own it…”

She spun, breathless and beaming, surrendering to the moment, utterly unguarded.

And Sylus watched.

He watched the tumble of her hair, the dusting of flour on her temple, the clatter of a wooden spoon dropped and forgotten. The mess she made of his kitchen. The much greater mess she made of him.

He’d seen her composed. Cautious. Sharp.

But this—this was something else entirely.

This was softness, wild and unmade. Chaos with a beating heart. The raw, unfiltered version of her that bloomed only when she forgot to care who might be watching.

And gods, she was beautiful like this.

Not in the way he could protect. Not in the way he could teach, tame, or control.

But in the way that made him ache—to stand silent in the doorway, memorizing every untamed, radiant beat she spun through, already lost to her orbit and far too willing to stay there.

She spun mid-chorus, spatula raised in triumph, lips curled around the next lyric—

—and froze.

Her body stalled first. Then her breath. The words died, caught in a hush thick with shock. The music played on, gloriously oblivious.

He was there. Still leaning in the doorway, still watching—smirk deepening, lazy and devastating, stretched across his mouth like he had nothing but time. His eyes—red, amused, unblinking—had never left her.

They’d been there the whole time. Fixed. Steady. Impossible to ignore.

She stared. Spatula midair, hair stuck to her cheek, sauce bubbling behind her like a forgotten subplot.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Then, louder, horrified and breathless: “How long have you—?”

Sylus pushed off the frame, arms unfolding with the kind of deliberate grace that should come with a warning label. “Long enough to consider selling tickets.”

A strangled sound escaped her—half squeak, half mortified groan, all dignity in retreat.

He stepped fully into the room, his presence sweeping away the last shadow of cold. “Tell me,” he drawled, voice pure velvet, “was that rehearsed? Or should I come back for the encore?”

Her cheeks caught fire. She tried, desperately, to salvage her dignity. “It was… not for you. Obviously. It was just—”

She flailed the spatula, as if she could swipe the memory away.

He arched a brow. “Your way of buttering up the bird?”

She spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage. “No, I was cooking. And vibing. Alone.” She shot a betrayed glare at Mephisto, who cawed—perfectly on cue—then preened like a theater critic after a standing ovation.

“Et tu, Mephie?” she groaned.

Sylus blinked. “Mephie?”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh god. Did I say that out loud?”

“You gave him a nickname.” He sounded genuinely scandalized. Then, with growing offense, “Where’s mine?”

She stared, deadpan. “Do you want one?”

“That depends.” His eyes were all secrets, mouth curving. “Does it come with a song and dance routine?”

She laughed—breathless, pink-cheeked, ruined in the best possible way. “Only if you bring your own spatula.”

He stepped closer—just a fraction, but everything felt different. Mischief still glinted in his eyes, but something softer simmered underneath, private and reverent, like a secret meant only for them.

She felt it: humming between them, threading through the quiet.

Something had changed.

Not just the air, not just the tension, and definitely not just the fact that she’d just given an impromptu kitchen concert while pasta boiled in the background.

It was the knowing. The being known.

And for once, it didn’t feel like she’d been caught.

It felt like she’d finally been seen.

Then the pot hissed.

Violently.

She jolted, eyes wide as the pasta water surged up in a steamy revolt, bubbling over and crashing onto the burner with all the fury of a kitchen crime scene.

“Shit—shit, no, no, no—”

She lurched for the stove, nearly tripping over her own feet, spatula abandoned mid-air. Mephisto cawed in protest, scandalized by the chaos.

Steam curled upward, warm and sticky against her cheeks as she scrambled to turn down the heat, muttering curses under her breath—none of which remotely matched the delicate melody still drifting through the kitchen.

Behind her, Sylus didn’t budge. He stood like a living sculpture—arms crossed, mouth quirked, one brow arched with glacial amusement.

“Is this part of the performance?” he drawled, his voice drier than the air outside N109.

She didn’t even look at him. “This is what happens when someone materializes out of nowhere and distracts the chef.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head, feigning deep thought. “So it’s a staged kitchen emergency.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, exasperated. “I was hungry. And I didn’t want anything vacuum-sealed or—what was it—science-project adjacent. So I made pasta. Like a normal person.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered, intent, as if she were a puzzle that would solve itself if he watched long enough. “And the dancing?”

She stabbed at the noodles. “That was for morale.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly—his humor softened at the edges by something warmer: “Of course it was.”

He didn’t offer to help. Not yet. Just watched her—the way her shoulders loosened with every stir, the way she exhaled like she was finally figuring out how to breathe.

Steam rose between them, a shimmering veil—more charged than distant, more invitation than barrier.

Something had shifted.

Not quite close. Not quite far.

Just enough space for him to wonder how long she’d keep dancing when she thought no one was watching.

And how long it would take for her to let him join in.

He moved at his own pace—unhurried, unbothered, like he’d always belonged here. He slipped past her shoulder with barely a brush of fabric, rolling up his sleeves and baring skin she’d only glimpsed in stolen seconds. Light caught on the veins of his wrists, the old scar along his knuckle, the flex of tendon as he took the wooden spoon from her hand.

She clung to simple tasks: slicing tomatoes, stripping basil, listening to the sauce hiss and thicken. But she was acutely, almost painfully, aware of him—every movement amplified, every shared breath somehow heavier.

Sylus tasted the sauce, slow and deliberate. “You’re heavy-handed with the garlic,” he observed, lips quirking.

She shot him a glare that tried to be scathing, but ended up affectionate. “Maybe I like flavor. Not everyone’s a food snob.”

He feigned horror, brushing past her again—close enough that the heat of his arm sent goosebumps racing up hers.

Suddenly, their hands reached for the same jar of pepper. Her fingers grazed his—just a flicker, just enough to spark. She pulled back, hiding the jolt behind a soft scoff.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Relax. I don’t bite,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for her.

She nearly fumbled the grinder. “That’s not what the rumors say.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into a private smile—the kind reserved for empty rooms and, apparently, this kitchen. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He added pepper with theatrical precision, glancing at her like he was challenging her to critique his style. She nudged him with her elbow—light, playful, the opening move in a game she’d only just realized she wanted to play.

“Fine, chef. Show me how it’s done.” Her voice came out a little breathier than she meant.

He obliged, and for a heartbeat their hands overlapped on the spoon. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed hers—just a second, just enough. She tried not to react, but the electricity was impossible to hide.

Sylus’s gaze lingered on her face, sharp and unexpectedly gentle. “I thought you were fearless,” he teased.

She ducked her head, pretending to scrutinize the bubbling water. “Only in the field. Not in… domestic warfare.”

A low laugh rumbled from him—rare and unguarded. “And yet you take on my kitchen like it’s an enemy base.”

She grinned, letting her own laughter bubble over and fill the room. “I go where I’m needed.”

They slipped into a new rhythm—awkward at first, then easier by degrees. Sylus corrected her grip on the knife, his hand wrapping over hers, lingering a fraction too long before letting go. She dusted flour off his forearm with a shy flick, only for him to follow the movement with softened eyes and a half-smile that felt almost private.

At one point, she reached across him for the colander, her hip bumping his. “Sorry,” she mumbled, cheeks prickling with warmth.

He looked at her—really looked, like he was searching for a way out but finding none.

Instead, he reached up—almost tentative—and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles traced the curve of her jaw, gentle and reverent, leaving heat in their wake. She blinked, lips parting, the whole world shrinking to the space between them.

The air turned thick and honeyed, everything suspended—neither of them quite willing to move, everything balanced on the knife-edge of something quietly, breathtakingly new.

From the counter, Mephisto cawed—sharp as a starting bell, shattering the spell just as it threatened to turn into something else.

She ducked away with a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He’s judging us,” she said, nodding toward the bird.

Sylus’s smile didn’t fade. “Let him. He’s seen worse.”

And, for the first time, she believed it. The tension melted from her shoulders, replaced by something warmer, lighter, threaded with laughter she couldn’t keep in.

Cooking got easier after that—messy and collaborative, punctuated with whispered jokes and shared glances. They moved around each other, learning a duet older than language.

With every accidental brush of skin, every glance held a beat too long, she let herself trust the moment.

Just a little more.

The kitchen quieted again. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the earned hush of familiarity—a quiet that wrapped around them like a secret, where nothing needed explaining anymore.

Steam curled from the pot in lazy ribbons as Sylus plated the pasta with a care that almost surprised her. The dish looked elegant, considering its riotous birth, and when he handed her a bowl, there was no ceremony—just the simple, practiced ease of something shared.

“Chef’s orders,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She grinned, accepting the bowl with both hands as if it were a holy offering.

Without asking, she hopped onto the counter, legs swinging above the tile, tucking one foot behind the other. The bowl settled warm in her lap, steam curling under her chin as she leaned in for a bite.

It tasted… right.

Not perfect. Not fancy. But real—tangy, warm, too much garlic, just enough salt. She hummed, cheeks full, then offered him a forkful with a conspiratorial tilt of her hand.

He didn’t move to take the bite. Just watched her, elbow braced against the counter, his own bowl resting forgotten in his palm.

“What?” she asked, half-muffled by a mouthful of pasta.

Sylus’s gaze lingered—not sharp, not analyzing. Just… seeing her, like he was piecing together a puzzle and realizing he liked not having all the pieces.

“You should sing more often,” he said at last.

She blinked, startled.

There was no irony in his voice. No teasing edge. Just a quiet certainty, so sincere it made her throat tighten around her next bite.

“It suits you,” he added, softer this time. Then he turned his attention back to his food, as if he hadn’t just cracked her heart wide open.

She stared at her bowl, cheeks warming, not quite sure what to do with all that tenderness he’d just given her—no games, no flirty dodge, just something rare and quietly dangerous.

Because when he said it, she knew he didn’t just mean her voice.

He meant this—her, barefoot on his tile, wild-haired and flushed from the stove, music still humming in her bones. He liked her messy. He liked her real.

And she liked being seen that way.

Maybe more than she should.

Her chest lifted on a slow, careful breath—the kind that settles deep, the kind that whispers you could stay. Just a little longer.

Maybe even longer than that.

She glanced at Sylus—posture easy, expression unreadable, but somehow softer than before. Then at Mephisto, grooming himself on the windowsill as if chaos had always included him.

The kitchen was still a beautiful disaster.

But for the first time, she didn’t feel like an intruder in it.

She felt… woven into the fabric of it. Of them.

Like the chaos and the calm had finally made space for her. And so had he.

She dipped her spoon back into the bowl, taking another bite—slower this time, as if to savor the moment—and thought:

This feels dangerously close to home.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[dismalflo]

dinner to stay!

sirius black x reader ✩ 2.1k words

summary: dates with a particular barista have been going exceptionally well. tonight, Sirius is determined to cook dinner for you.

coffee to go! (part 1)

cw: barista!sirius, fluff, alcohol, little bit of awkward n nervous reader

an: all i thought about while writing is the phase of a relationship where domesticity is all new and fun and sweet.

Sirius—the barista who made you dumb—has taken you on a few dates now.

The first was coffee, naturally. He picked a quiet spot tucked away from the bustle, one he'd deliberately chosen because it wasn’t somewhere he’d ever worked before—which, as it turns out, rules out a surprising number of cafés in the city. He made a joke about being a “former coffee mercenary” as he slid your drink across the table, fingers brushing yours just a little too long. You pretended not to notice. Or maybe you didn’t pretend very well.

The second was the art museum, where you drifted together through tall, echoing halls and laughed quietly in the corners of exhibits no one else cared about. That turned into a long walk through the city as the sun sank lower, painting everything gold. Shoulders brushing, and when your hands bumped once, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

Then there was dinner. The kind where you both forgot what time it was until the restaurant started dimming the lights and wiping down tables. You left only because you wanted to keep talking, feet wandering nowhere in particular until you found yourselves tucked into the corner booth of a dimly lit bar, music playing just loud enough to let your conversation slip into something softer, closer. Neither of you really wanted to leave.

Each night has lingered longer than the last. Not on purpose, not exactly. Just a pattern you’ve both fallen into, stretching the time like taffy—one more street to walk, one more drink, one more story. An excuse to stay just a little bit longer.

So when he asked—grinning, eyes lazy and knowing—if he could cook you dinner, you said yes before he even finished the sentence.

He’s sweet. Ridiculously so. The kind of sweet that sneaks up on you, folded between his sharp jokes and even sharper cheekbones. He’s kind, too—gentle in the way he listens, thoughtful in ways he doesn’t draw attention to. And unfairly handsome. But beneath all that, he’s a gentleman, through and through.

Except when he isn’t.

Like when he claims he meant to call your mum, not you.

So when he opens the door barely five seconds after you knock, you already know what’s coming.

“Fuck,” he groans, and the corner of your mouth twitches, betraying the grin you’re trying to hold back. “I thought you were your mum.”

“I know,” you sigh, mock-disappointed. “She’s busy with her other boytoy, so she sent me instead.”

He guffaws, already tugging you inside and into a hug. “Oh, you’ve got jokes now? I miss when that kind of talk made you all flustered.”

“You’re too predictable for your own good, Sirius.”

He ushers you in with a grin that’s more boyish than smug. And then—too casually—a kiss is dropped to your cheek. Just a whisper of lips. Barely there. But your heart stutters anyway, completely ignoring your best efforts to play it cool.

“You look lovely, poppet.”

It’s sweet. Too sweet. The kind of compliment that should feel smooth, effortless—but from him, it lands somewhere between disarming and dangerous. You're still learning how to navigate this version of Sirius—the soft-spoken flirt who says things like that and means them. Or maybe he doesn’t. You’re not entirely sure yet.

What you are sure of is that it's becoming comfortable, but even so, you linger in the doorway to the kitchen unsure of what to do or where to place yourself, where you are and aren’t allowed to look. It feels a little like you’re intruding, despite the fact that Sirius’ invite was as enthusiastic as you’ve ever seen him. 

Your eyes follow him as he moves around the kitchen, the ease with which he works is both impressive and amusing.

 After a few seconds of watching you from the corner of his eye, he turns fully, brow raised.

“Why are you still standing there, love?” His voice is warm, teasing—but not unkind. He flicks a hand toward the table. “Come on, make yourself at home. Sit. You’re not gonna be any help in here unless you fancy stirring the sauce?”

It’s an olive branch, and you know it. A very thoughtful attempt at making you comfortable, giving you options. You latch onto it like a lifeline.

“I—I can stir,” you say, the words tripping out too quickly, like your brain wasn’t sure whether to joke or accept. A half-laugh slips free after, nervous and breathy, before you nod like you’re convincing yourself it was the right answer

He smirks, leaning one elbow on the counter like he’s posing for a portrait. “Oh, so you are trying to impress me tonight?”

“In your dreams,” you fire back, but your voice lacks the usual snap. There’s a smile tugging at your lips you can’t quite hide. “I’ll just sit here and let you work your culinary magic, then.”

With a theatrical sigh, he steps toward you, takes your wrist gently and leads you to the table like a dance partner guiding the first move. His fingers are warm. His touch lingers a little longer than it should. You try not to notice, but your body does anyway—heat blooming low and traitorous. Every touch from Sirius is golden.

“Just sit there and look pretty,” he says over his shoulder, like it’s nothing. But there’s a wink with it. A twinkle. It’s enough to send your pulse skittering again.

“That’s more than enough. Anyway—drink? Wine?”

You raise an eyebrow, daring him. “Good wine?”

He snorts, crossing the tiny kitchen like he’s gliding. “You’re about to find out, darling.”

He grabs a bottle of red with one hand, corkscrew already in the other. The ease with which he uncorks it is borderline ridiculous—like he was born in a vineyard. You can’t help but watch the way he moves, the light in his eyes when he’s showing off, even if he pretends he’s not.

He places the glass in front of you with a small, almost shy smile—like he’s waiting for your verdict. You take it with both hands, fingertips brushing the stem like it might steady you.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, gently clinking his glass against yours.

You smile—really smile this time—as the glasses meet.

-

Dinner, as it turns out, is incredible. You don’t even try to hide it when you take the first bite. Sirius watches you expectantly, elbow on the table, fork hovering in mid-air, invested in your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you say around a mouthful, borderline scandalized. “You made this?”

He grins like he’s won an award. “I did warn you I was a man of many talents.”

“You did not. You said, and I quote, ‘I mostly survive on toast and charm.’”

“Which is technically true,” he says, raising his glass with a smirk. “This is a very special occasion. I had to dust off the actual pots.”

You snort into your wine. “Is that why you had to waft the smoke alarm with a tea towel?”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay that was sabotage. I swear I didn’t even burn anything.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it stays with you even after the plates are cleared, glasses topped off, and the kitchen starts to dip into darkness. You offer to help clean up, and Sirius waves you off with a dramatic “Not on your life, doll.” So instead, you find your way to the sofa, toes curling into the rug as you settle into the cushions.

A moment later, he drops down beside you with a satisfied sigh, two fingers brushing casually over your knee as he settles the wine bottle on the coffee table.

And then… you’re just there. Close. Close enough that the heat from his shoulder warms your skin. Close enough that your knees are almost touching. You hadn’t meant to sit this close, but neither of you makes a move to change it.

He turns his head slightly toward you, hair falling into his eyes. “Comfy?”

You nod, and then—with a breath you hadn’t meant to say anything on—you murmur, “Thank you. For tonight. For all of it.”

His brow quirks, smile softening. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do, though,” you say, turning to face him more fully. “It’s just… this has been really lovely. You’ve been really lovely.” Your voice dips, a little unsure now that it’s actually coming out. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect to feel so… happy. Being around you.”

His eyes widen slightly, just for a second, before he beams—this wide, unguarded smile that lights up his whole face. It hits you right in the chest.

“I’m glad,” he says, voice lower now, more sincere than you’ve ever heard it. “Because I feel the same. Every time we hang out, it’s like…” He trails off, looking at you like he’s trying to find the right word. “It’s just easy. Being with you feels… right.”

You don’t say anything at first. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like you're some kind of rare find. A small silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Then, as if drawn by something invisible, your hands find each other in the space between you. His fingers wrap around yours, slow and certain, like he’s done it before in a dream and is just now remembering how.

You glance down at your interlocked hands—his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Then you look back up at him.

“That’s what it feels like,” you say quietly. “Right.”

He hums softly at your words, and something shifts behind his eyes—like he’s turning a thought over and over in his head, polishing it until it shines. Then, slow and deliberate, his hand slips from yours.

His fingers brush your cheek first, warm and sure, before they trace upward—tucking a stray lock of hair gently behind your ear. The touch is impossibly tender. It makes your breath catch, your chest rise and fall a little faster. He lingers there a moment longer than necessary, his knuckles brushing against your skin.

His hand drops back to his lap, but the space between you stays charged. Like a wire has been strung taut from his heart to yours, and neither of you wants to pluck it just yet, too scared it might snap.

Swallowing, you think maybe you should say something—but what? That your heart is trying to climb out of your chest? That if he doesn’t kiss you soon, you might never recover?

But you don’t have to say anything. Because Sirius leans in.

Just a fraction.

His eyes flick to your lips. Once. Twice.

He’s giving you time to pull away. Room to say no. But you don’t.

You don’t want to.

So you meet him halfway.

And when you do, it’s like slipping into something you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

His lips are soft, warm—familiar in a way they shouldn’t be, not yet. Not after only a few dates. But they are, and that’s what startles you the most. Not the kiss itself, but the way it fits. Like it was supposed to happen, like the build-up wasn’t nerves or chance or coincidence, but inevitability.

It’s not rushed. Not some fiery, frantic first kiss born from impatience. It’s slow. Lingering. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, memorizing it for later. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw—fingers light, thumb grazing your cheekbone—and the gentleness of it nearly undoes you.

You sigh against him, and he catches it with a hum, like he’s been waiting to hear that exact sound.

There’s a moment, brief and dizzying, where time feels completely suspended. Just the press of your lips, the curve of his smile when he realizes you're smiling too, mid-kiss.

When he finally pulls back, it’s by millimetres. He stays close, forehead brushing yours, noses nearly touching.

His breath is still warm on your lips when he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that since you tried to flirt with me by giving me the wrong number.”

You laugh, too surprised to be embarrassed. “That wasn’t flirting! I was nervous.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough and smiling all at once, “I thought you were gonna melt into the floor.”

You hum, a little dazed, a little dizzy with the closeness. “Still might.”

His hand slips down to yours again, fingers lacing easily. His thumb brushes over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them. His voice drops even lower.

“Don’t,” he says. “Stay.”

And you do.

masterlist <3

[parasolladyansy]

Hello, I hope you’re having a wonderful day/afternoon/night! I love your art style. It’s so cute >w<

Could you give any tips for beginner artists both in drawing for characters and Pokemon?

Hi-ho! I can try ouo;

⬆️ Made in 2010 - the oldest Pokémon drawing I have on file (though I have much older ones on paper!)

First tip I’d say is to practice! ✍🏻

I’ve been drawing since I was very little, & that included Pokémon fanart. There was a point where I was drawing every single day for years - I have all these journals where instead of writing through my thoughts & feelings, I just filled it to the brim with drawings & even little comics!

They don’t need to be perfect, or better than anyone’s - they just have to be yours. 🩵

⬆️ Made in 2016 - I started trying for a softer look with a lighter, blue line-art instead of the thick black one.

Getting into the more technical art stuff I learned in college, drawing just about anything becomes easier when we break them down into shapes.

Humans, Pokémon, or even shadows, ripples, & water patterns can be broken down into basic shapes that you build up with added details. Like here: we can see circles, ovals, semi-circles, & all kinds of angular shapes.

Take a look at the Pokédex, & try seeing the different shapes that make up each Pokémon. Even the most complex Pokémon in the ‘dex becomes less daunting when we break them down into manageable shapes. Same for human characters.

⬆️ Made in 2023 - from Sword x Shield

Another (less technical) tip I have is study other artists you like to help you find your style!

When I made the step to go line-less, I took a lot from my love for Impressionism (eg. Monet), & was also very much inspired by K. O’Neil’s Tea Dragon books, especially in Sword x Shield.

I think it’s safe to say just about every single artist to pick up a pencil was influenced by someone. The “father of manga” himself, Osamu Tezuka, was inspired by early Disney animations - if you look closely, you can see it in his earlier work. It goes both ways, as we see Disney emulate Tezuka (to the point of plagiarism >_> Lion King)

On that note, try not to feel bad if your style starts off looking too much like the original artist’s - I think that’s natural. After all, we artists emulate what we see, what we like, & how we see those things.

What matters is building on it, finding those personal touches to make it yours. ^_^ Like with Pokémon, you can go by the original art Ken Sugimori & the other official artists, or take your own spin on it (exaggerate features, play with color, etc).

⬆️ Made in 2024 - a little less than a year ago & I already draw Sora a little differently!

I think art is a journey, & you can only stand to improve over time & practice. I’m still refining my work, & sometimes that means crumpling it up & starting again.

Maybe the most important tip I have is: don’t give up.

There were a lot of people who wanted me to quit drawing. I’ve had my doodle ripped up by a teacher, told I wouldn’t amount to anything, told that no matter what I did someone will always be better than me.

Even through all that, I never gave it up, because it’s something I love. I could happily draw all day (though sometimes I have slow periods, like where I’m at right now), & drawing helped me get through the darkest times as well as celebrate when things were good. ^_^

So don’t give up. Take breaks if you need it, but don’t give up if it’s something you love & gives you life. 🩵

—

Ha…I realize that’s probably a lot deeper than what you meant to ask. I said I’d “try” lol 😂 I hope this helps you all the same 😅

[ausp-ice]

Rhythm, an Edeia representing the Idea of Rhythm: a strong, regular, repeated pattern of movement or sound.

Rhythm refers to a system of four personalities: Cadence, Lilt, Measure, and Pulse. Their identity divisions are not fully distinct; they share memories, and there are times that two or more personalities can blend together. They can be referred to as Rhythm or the name of the personality present.

Edeia Site | Edeia Discord | Personal Website

Rhythm

Cadence 

Name: Cadence Gender: Male Pronouns: he/him

"Come with me, feel the beat—dance to a tune, move your feet! I'm Rhythm, or Cadence, if you'd like to be specific. I am the rhythms of intensity—the stage, crowds, competition. I'm the Rhythm that pumps you up!" 

Cadence is passionate and charismatic. He lives for the spotlight and the energy of a performance, feeling the rhythms of dance and heavy beats of music. He is highly driven, seeking to always provide profound experiences for his audience and others in his company. When meeting others, he is friendly, though he does have a flair for dramatics. He tends to emerge most during high-stakes situations, such as during large performances. 

He has a degree of perfectionism, and can sometimes become competitive with others. Though he brims with confidence most of the time, he is also the personality most prone to sudden bursts of anxiety, panic, and burnout—though when that occurs, other personalities (Measure, usually) often take over. 

Associations: Stadium concerts, EDM performances, idol pop, competitive dance styles, any music meant to energize large crowds.

Lilt

Name: Lilt Gender: Genderfluid Pronouns: he/she/they

"Hi! I'm Rhythm, but you can call me Lilt too. I've had this song stuck in my head for several days now, and I just really wanna share… I can sing it for you, if you're willing! If not, that's okay too. We can just hang out, if you're up for that, hehe."

Lilt is spontaneous and playful, thriving in casual social settings. He loves creating connections with others through shared joy. They enjoy a good laugh and a light joke, and they approach life with a sense of wonder and appreciation. They empathize deeply with others, often crying when others cry and laughing when others laugh. She tends to emerge when Rhythm is relaxed. 

Associations: folk dance, fusions of folk with other genres, jazz, playground chants, social dance music, "earworms" and catchy tunes.

Measure 

Name: Measure Gender: Bigender Pronouns: he/she preferred

"Since this version of me is here, you can call me Measure. I embody rhythms of order and elegance, of precision and formality. Of all versions of me, I would describe myself as the most tasteful in preference. So, then. What rhythms do you bring today?" 

Measure is analytical, sophisticated, and disciplined. He appreciates structure, tradition, and the mathematical beauty of rhythmic patterns. He is oddly patient with students who are willing to learn, but cold towards most others. He is perceptive and insightful, but his words can be cutting and he can be overly judgmental, even to the point of seeming hostile to others. She tends to analyze others, and she can do it quite well—understanding their behaviors, personalities, and how to play them like a fiddle to get them in a better or more docile mood. 

Measure tends to emerge when Rhythm is stressed, or when in more formal settings that require high vigilance or attention to detail.  

Associations: Classical music, orchestral/cinematic music, traditional formal dances, music theory.

Pulse

Name: Pulse Gender: Genderless Pronouns: they/them

"Of Rhythm, I am Pulse. The fundamental, the profound. The beat of your heart, the rhythm of your breath, the rhythm of life and death as a soul passes from one incarnation to the next. Feel it within you, and know that you, too, are a part of the rhythms of existence."  

Pulse is contemplative, wise, and deeply intuitive. They experience the world through its natural rhythms and the rhythms that connect to the world. They have gravitas in their presence, and tend not to speak at length. While they feel deeply connected to natural existence, they tend to be quite detached from everyday human concerns. They most often emerge when Rhythm is alone for a considerable amount of time, when Rhythm gets lost in their thoughts or is deeply contemplative. 

Associations: Tribal drums, heartbeat rhythms, ambient nature sounds, traditional indigenous music, meditative rhythms.

Story Synopsis

Rhythm began as Aiden, a talented dancer born in 2003 who became the main dancer of RESONATE, a K-pop group that capitalized on his natural sense of rhythm and unrecognized idea magic. While achieving fame, he developed dissociative episodes that culminated in a public incident during an awards ceremony performance. During his hiatus, Aiden sought answers about his condition, eventually encountering Life who restored his connection to past incarnations: a tribal shaman (1102-981 BCE) who perceived natural rhythms and formed a bond with Life through rituals, a disciplined composer and music theorist (1592-1971) who developed mathematical understanding of rhythm, and a social dancer (1922-1948) whose life was cut short but understood rhythm as a force for human connection. These past lives merged with his emerging personalities, creating the four distinct aspects of his identity.

After stabilizing his new multi-faceted understanding of Rhythm, Aiden returned to perform one final concert with RESONATE, where he announced his departure before Actualizing into Rhythm. As an Edeia, Rhythm embraced his four personalities—Cadence, Lilt, Measure, and Pulse—each representing different aspects of rhythmic expression across his soul's journey. He began a new creative journey as an independent artist, continuing to wander the world while creating music and choreography that embodied his multifaceted nature. Rhythm now views his multiplicity as the perfect expression of his Idea, with each personality offering a unique perspective on the concept of rhythm itself, from primal heartbeats to mathematical compositions to social celebrations to performance energy.

See more on his profile here.

[bone-byrd]

how obvious is my love for neon green becoming..? listEN magenta and neon green is an underrated colour combo and also i just feel like it fits the fic somehow

ANYWAY fic in question is this lovely fic by @duhhtheyellowrose hiiii hello more art because THE BRAIN WORMS ARE LOOSE THE BRAIN WORMS THE WORMS THE WORMS THE WORMS TH

I don't usually schedule posts BUT by the time you see this I will be on a flight lmao. also if you truly intend to frame all of these (im honoured btw) maybe the four pack is in fact a worthy investment. Though there will likely be a pause in uploads (not meant for that everyday posting lifestyle) while I am traveling!

Ramblings of a lunatic under the cut :3

This piece plays more into the togami name literally referring to gods. and how putting someone on a pedestal is still dehumanizing. and how seeing yourself as above all other humans dehumanizes you. and also that one tumblr post which compares angels to machines following code. what do you mean repression runs so deep that to break the rules requires breaking him. always an angel never a god but he's been trained to chase perfection to such a degree that he forgot that he is human. ohhh he's so unwell! smiles

The first art piece was focused on his outward image and effort to maintain it, second one was foused on his neurosis + his patterns of repetition haunting the narrative, and this one is focused on the dehumanization

Some other notes:

The shadow cast over him!! Another no longer human cover reference. The fact that it’s a shadow in this represents a few different things

His fuckass bob is all ruffled up. His shirt collar is undone. Perfection who?

The halo. The control wrapped around him but not truly his, never truly his.

The pink background pointing at him. Wings. A title that feels more like an accusation. Two paths that always led to the same point.

I’ve rambled about my thought process wayyy too much lol but I rlly like how this one came out :3 I love green

[baltears]

im obsessed w how the different seasons explore different ways women can try to cope w abusive men

s5 spoilers!

beck -> hes normal! (no hes not. this is the simplest one bc the relationship is the most shallow, he was 100% masking the whole time he was with her up until the end and she was just whistling past red flags in a very typical and normal way for someone who's never been in a relationship with a habitual abuser)

love -> hes just like me! (true - BUT he's still judgmental of himself deep down and in denial about his behaviors atp, and he's a misogynist, so he'll be even more judgmental of you.)

marienne -> he has trauma like mine! (true but also what makes him unsafe bc he didn't respond to it with a real and sustained effort to recover. i do think it's worth noting that she was kinda last in first out as far as joe's gf/victims went, she was resistant to the relationship initially, ran as soon as she had evidence of serious red flags, and managed to just barely escape him bc she has gone through some substantial recovery and has reconnected the most to survival instinct, so was able to respond relatively functionally to the life or death situation he put her in)

kate -> he can choose be good for me! (he technically can but really no longer wants to - she might have recognized this if she ever paid close attention to what was happening, but she understandably chose willful blindness)

bronte -> i can fix him! (you can trap him into listening and then say the perfectly calculated thing in exactly the right way and it will be cathartic and emotional for him, but it's not a substitute for long term recovery that he has truly committed to and so there will not be any lasting change. i lovvvveee how bronte is written btw like truly such a masterful depiction of someone who WOULD be ok with joe not bc she's ok with murder but bc like beck she is in a moment of extreme personal confusion, looking for connection and identity, & does have a side of her that feels similarly to him in terms of wanting 'bad people' to suffer – but ultimately she recognizes that he is a misogynist and not interested at all in doing the right thing bc he's detached completely from caring about reality)

its just such a clever and empathetic fucking show because Of Course traumatized people want to connect with other traumatized people, of course we can and often will empathize with figures like Joe if we come from a background of trauma. I feel empathy for Joe throughout the entire show. But irl empathy will not necessarily protect you from someone who is unsafe and people cannot be saved unless they choose to save themselves. As heartbreaking as Joe's suicide attempt was (for me) to watch and as misguided as I think it was, that was his last real effort toward trying to save himself and trying to stay connected with reality and do the right thing. The self who knew deep down that hurting others was wrong was who died that day, because Joe could not separate the idea of doing wrong things from the idea of being a wrong person, and his survival skewed his reality completely bc he's a person who believes in patterns and the universe telling him things and he thought not dying meant he was being told it was all okay (bc not dying = "I'm a good person"* = everything i do is justifiable). it all comes from such a real place but the harm he does is so real too and that's the dilemma of his character. you can feel such kinship and connection with someone else and that can be very real but it is not a shield. if they don't see you as a human being and are no longer accessible to repeated reality checks, it's not your job to reach them and it can never be fully safe for you to try. and misogyny is not a sleeping curse you can wake someone up from, they have to want to work through it themselves.

*remember this is a false binary, like everyone else he was always a neutral person choosing to do bad things sometimes and good things other times

[therogueflame]

The Favorite

hello slutty little angels,

here is this request that i LOST but then the loml found it for me and i was like ??? i already wrote it WHERE IS IT okay anyway here is this request goodness me goodbye. its like sadder than i intended but oh well.

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Summary: You learned a long time ago how to survive the men who come and go — but he stays too long, asks for too much, and leaves you with something you never meant to carry.

WC: 4.8k

Warnings: 18+, prostitution, angst/hurt/comfort, emotional manipulation, unrequited feelings (bc its certainly not love)

Aegon II Targaryen x BrothelWorker!Reader

MDNI!

You’ve seen men like him before. They come through the doors every night, some cloaked in silk and noble blood, others in sweat and arrogance, all of them thinking themselves untouchable the moment they cross the threshold. They speak too loudly, drink too quickly, drop coin like it weighs too much in their pockets. They want to be worshipped. Seen. Forgotten. Some try to play at gentleness, others at cruelty. Most of them don’t care who you are so long as you let them believe they matter. You learned a long time ago how to give them just enough to keep them quiet—your hands where they want them, your voice soft, your eyes lowered, your smile practiced. A performance. A shield. A means to an end. It’s never personal.

Aegon Targaryen was no different at first.

He arrived already half-drunk the first time, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, mouth moving faster than his thoughts. He stumbled in with the swagger of someone who’d never been told no, laughing too loud at his own jokes, brushing past the girls in the front like he expected them to part for him. He called the madam “darling” and reached for the wine tray before anyone offered. His eyes were restless, searching the room like he was bored already. Spoiled, you thought. Sloppy. The kind of man who wouldn’t last long before burning out.

Then he asked for you.

Not by name. Not directly. Just a quiet, almost offhand, “Is she free?” spoken while pretending not to look at you. As if it didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t choosing. The madam raised a brow at the vagueness of it, but you knew. You saw the flicker of recognition in his expression when your eyes met. You said nothing. Just nodded and took his hand and led him upstairs. Another client. Another coin. Another night.

But then he came back. Again and again. Always the same question. “Is she free?” Like it was an accident, like he couldn’t remember your name, like he hadn’t asked for you the last three times too. The madam didn’t press him. She never pressed the highborn ones. You didn’t either. It didn’t matter why he kept asking. What mattered was that he paid, that he behaved, that he didn’t bleed or scream or demand more than you were willing to give.

The first few nights, he tried to impress you. Talked about his dragon, his brother, the tournament he almost won. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but there was a sharpness to him—restless, bitter, like every word out of his mouth was meant to wound something even when he laughed. You didn’t encourage it. You poured his wine, untied the laces at his throat, let him press against you and murmur things you didn’t want to hear. You let him touch, but not take. You kept a careful distance even when his hands wandered too far. And when he finally fell asleep, sprawled across the bed with his mouth slack and his hair stuck to his damp forehead, you slipped out from under him and closed the door behind you before he could wake.

It became a pattern. He’d arrive unannounced, drunk or on the verge of it, eyes half-lidded, voice too loud. He’d ask for you like he didn’t care, like it wasn’t a choice he was making. You’d lead him upstairs without speaking, help him out of his layers while he filled the space with nonsense. Sometimes he tried to kiss you. Sometimes he didn’t even undress. There were nights when he just laid beside you, face buried in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He never said thank you. Never asked how you were. But he always stayed longer than the others. Sometimes he fell asleep with his hand curled around your wrist. Sometimes with his head in your lap like a child. You never asked what he wanted from you. You never offered anything more than what was expected.

He was a prince. That alone made him dangerous. But he never hurt you. Never raised his voice, never left bruises. He never asked for anything you wouldn’t give. And you never gave him what he truly wanted—not because he asked, but because he didn’t know how to.

You wondered, sometimes, if he came because it was easier to be wanted by someone who would never love him. Someone paid to stay. Someone who would leave when the hour was up. Maybe that was the appeal. Maybe that’s why he kept returning. Maybe that’s why his fingers trembled when they curled around your hip.

The last time he came, he didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a long moment before reaching into his cloak for the coin. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. When the madam asked who he wanted, he didn’t pretend this time.

“Her,” he said.

Like it was a truth he’d always known. Like he couldn’t lie about it anymore.

After that, it becomes routine.

It happens on a night like any other. The air in the brothel is thick with perfume and smoke, laughter curling through the halls, soft music drifting up from the parlor. You’ve just finished with a client—a man from the Crownlands with ink on his fingers and guilt in his eyes—when the madam taps lightly at your door. “Another request,” she says. “He’s asked for you.” And you assume it’s him, of course you do, because who else does she mean anymore? You tie your robe, smooth your hair, open the door.

But it isn’t Aegon.

It’s someone else. Someone tall, older, not unkind. You recognize him. A knight. A friend of the prince, maybe. He smiles when you enter the room, slow and tired, like he knows exactly what he’s here for and doesn’t intend to make it difficult. He asks your name. He tells you his. He doesn’t try to impress you, doesn’t try to take too much. He’s gentler than most, quieter. He thanks you when it’s over. You’re laughing at something he said—something simple, something warm—as you walk him to the door, fingers brushing briefly, easy and unthinking.

That’s when you see him.

Aegon stands at the bottom of the stairs, halfway to the landing, his hand resting on the bannister like he’s forgotten why he came. His eyes are locked on yours. On the curve of your smile. On the way you tilt your head as the knight leans in to murmur something low and fond into your ear. You don’t hear what he says. You barely feel it. Your focus shifts instantly to the prince, and there’s something in his face you’ve never seen before. It’s not anger. Not yet. It’s something older. Something more dangerous.

You open your mouth to speak, but he turns before the words come, disappears into the shadows of the staircase without waiting for you to follow.

He doesn’t come back for three nights.

It doesn’t bother you. Not really. You’ve gone longer without seeing him before. You have other clients. Other things to worry about. But you notice it—the absence, the silence. You notice the way the madam looks at you when another noble walks through the door and doesn’t ask for you by name. You notice how quiet your room feels when no one is waiting in it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. And maybe it doesn’t.

Still, the nights feel longer.

And then he returns.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask for permission. Just pushes open the door like it’s his, like you belong to him, like nothing’s changed and no one else has touched you since. His eyes are glassy, his skin flushed. He reeks of wine and frustration, something bitter curling behind his teeth when he looks at you.

You don’t ask where he’s been. You ask if he’s all right.

He laughs at that. Sharp. Cold. Not amused.

“You didn’t wait long,” he says, stepping closer. “Didn’t even take a night off.”

You don’t rise to it. “You’re not my husband, Aegon.”

“No,” he says, and it’s not quite agreement. Not quite anything. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

He sits at the edge of the bed without waiting to be invited, eyes following your movements as you cross the room, gathering the scattered remains of the hour before. You don’t explain yourself. He hasn’t earned that. You pour him a cup of wine instead, set it on the table beside him, and let the silence stretch between you.

“You laughed,” he says finally, voice low. “With him. At something he said.”

You pause. You look at him. “It’s my job.”

His hands flex against his knees. He doesn’t touch the wine.

“Do you laugh like that with all of them?”

You could lie. You don’t.

“I laugh when I feel like it.”

He looks away. His jaw tightens. There’s something unsteady in the air now, something sharp and hot and clumsy. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s something worse. Something neither of you has the words for.

He doesn’t ask for anything that night. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you. He just sits there for a while, staring at the floor like he’s trying to piece something back together. Like he doesn’t know why it fell apart in the first place.

When he finally stands to leave, you don’t stop him. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t offer comfort.

You just watch him go, and try not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said your laugh wasn’t meant for someone else.

The room feels different after that. Still. Dim. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s come to fill the space. The days pass slowly. You work. You sleep. You forget, or try to. But it lingers anyway—in the quiet, in the hours between clients, in the echo of his words when you catch yourself smiling without meaning to.

He doesn’t come back for a week.

And when he does, he doesn’t speak as he crosses the threshold. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t smirk. He just walks in like he never left and sits in the chair by the window, the one none of the others ever use, and watches you without saying a word. His hair is tied back. His tunic is buttoned to the collar. No wine stains, no lazy grin, no hands reaching for your waist. The door clicks shut behind him and the air stills, and you know before he opens his mouth that something’s shifted. That something’s cracked open and he’s trying to pretend it hasn’t. You’ve seen this version of him before—tight-shouldered and quiet, too sober to be charming and too proud to be honest—but never for this long. Never so heavy in his silences.

You pour the wine anyway, because it’s habit now, because it gives your hands something to do, because if you stand still too long the quiet might start saying things neither of you are ready to hear. He doesn’t take the cup. He doesn’t move at all. Just sits there, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes following your every breath like he’s waiting for you to prove something.

When he finally speaks, it lands without warning. “Do you treat them all like that?”

You don’t turn. You don’t ask him what he means. You know. Of course you do. You think of the knight’s hands on your waist, the way you laughed when he tripped over his own boots, the way Aegon’s face twisted when he saw it. You think of the door slamming shut and the echo of his absence for seven straight nights. You think of the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s owed something. Like you gave it to someone else.

You shrug. “It’s a job, Your Grace.”

He scoffs. Not a real laugh, not amused. Just bitter and sharp like a blade dragged across stone. “Right. Of course. Just a job.”

You turn then, meet his gaze fully, and you don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You don’t soften.

He opens his mouth like he might say something else but doesn’t. He swallows whatever it is, like it tastes wrong on his tongue.

“What was I, then?” he asks finally. And he tries to keep his voice even but it cracks a little at the end, just enough to reveal the edge beneath it, the raw thing he’s trying to bury under all that silk and steel. “To you.”

You could lie. You could fold. You could take pity on him. But you don’t. You smile instead, just the ghost of it, not cruel, not kind, just enough to sting.

“A client who thinks he’s not one.”

The silence that follows is thick and strange and brittle. His fingers curl around the arm of the chair, knuckles pale, mouth tight. He looks away. He doesn’t argue.

Because he knows you’re right. Because that’s what’s eating him alive.

A client who thinks he’s not one.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just sits there with his jaw set and his gaze fixed somewhere near your shoulder, like if he looks too closely he’ll shatter whatever’s holding him together. You watch the muscle tick in his temple, the way his chest rises just a little too fast, like breathing around what you said costs him something. You don’t take it back. You don’t soften the blow.

He finally speaks, quieter now. “That’s all this was, then?”

You cross your arms, tilt your head. “You paid for my time.”

His eyes flick to yours and hold. “It didn’t feel like I had to.”

You raise a brow. “But you did.”

He shifts in the chair like it suddenly doesn’t fit him right. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers tight, jaw clenched like he’s biting back a hundred things at once. “You could’ve said no.”

“I never say no to princes,” you say evenly. “It tends to end badly.”

He laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter thing. “You really think I’d hurt you?”

You don’t answer that. You don’t need to. He’s not asking to know—he’s asking to be told he’s better than the rest, that he matters more than the lords who come in with rings on their fingers and guilt in their throats. He’s asking to be spared from the truth.

Instead, you walk past him, slow, deliberate. You pour a second cup of wine and set it on the table without meeting his eyes.

“You came here like all the others,” you say softly. “You pay like all the others. You leave like all the others. What would you call that, Aegon, if not a client?”

He stands so suddenly the chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is loud in the small room, startling, but you don’t flinch. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way his breath stirs the loose strands of your hair. His hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“You smiled for him,” he says, almost a whisper. “I never saw you smile like that for me.”

You tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. “You weren’t looking.”

“I was,” he says, and it sounds like a confession.

You let that hang there between you, heavy and sharp, and for a moment neither of you moves.

Then you say, low and even, “It wouldn’t have mattered if you were.”

His mouth parts, just slightly, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he knows it’s true. And that’s what makes it hurt.

After that, something in him goes still.

It isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t happen all at once. It settles in slowly, like a fog in the bones. The brat prince charm dulls. The sharp wit turns inward. The wine sits untouched more often than not. He still comes—still walks through the doors with his hood pulled low and his shoulders hunched like someone might recognize the shape of him even in shadow—but the fire is gone from his eyes, replaced by something colder, something harder, something that looks too much like hunger and not enough like power.

He stops pretending it’s coincidence. He stops asking “is she free?” Now he just says your name. Low. Final. Like no one else ever existed. He pays double without blinking. Once he paid triple and the madam tried to thank him and he barely looked at her. Just pressed the coin into her hand and walked up the stairs like the place offended him.

He stays longer now. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch you the way he used to. Sometimes he doesn’t even ask for anything. Just sits by the fire with his legs stretched out and his arms folded and watches you, quiet, unmoving, like he’s waiting for something to happen. Like if he stays still enough, long enough, you’ll give him something that can’t be bought. There are nights where he talks. Low voice, slurred sometimes, bitter always. He complains about the court. About his mother. About how everyone waits for him to fail. How it would be easier if he just did. He talks about dragons and war and the kind of king he’ll never be. Sometimes he talks about nothing at all. Just rambles, voice fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

He tells you he hates the Keep. That he hates the godswood. That the air in the Red Keep feels like poison and he can’t breathe in it. He doesn’t ask you anything in return. Doesn’t want your stories. Just your silence. Your presence. The way you look at him without flinching. The way you speak to him like he’s not a prince and never will be. And sometimes, when he forgets himself, the way your hand brushes his shoulder when you pass. The way your mouth softens when you think he isn’t looking.

You never stay past dawn. But sometimes you leave slower. Sometimes you close the door gently behind you instead of locking it fast. And he notices. Of course he does.

One night, he doesn’t sit. He stands at the window, back to you, spine tense, hands clasped behind him like he’s trying to hold something down. The fire crackles behind you. The wine sits untouched on the table. You wait, arms crossed, patient. He’s never been good at silence but tonight he wears it like a cloak. When he speaks, it’s quieter than usual. Careful. Like he’s afraid the wrong word will ruin everything. “What would it take,” he asks, “for you to leave this place?”

You blink. The question floats there between you for a long moment, hanging just above the heat. You walk to the table, pour yourself a cup, take a slow sip before answering. “Why?” you say. “You looking to save me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over your shoulder and he’s still staring out the window, profile sharp in the firelight, jaw set, mouth flat. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. Just waits, as if silence might convince you where his voice can’t. As if the weight of the question is enough to bind you to him.

You take another sip. “You can’t afford me,” you say, not unkind. His mouth twitches at that. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. You set the cup down gently. “You’re a prince,” you say. “But that doesn’t mean you get to keep what you want.”

He turns then. Slowly. Eyes locked on yours. And there’s something hollow in his gaze, something desperate, something lost. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks. “Trying to keep you?”

You say nothing. You don’t need to. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing. He steps forward once, then stops. Like he’s afraid of what might happen if he gets too close. Like he knows he’ll shatter if he touches you. Like he already has.

You tilt your head. “You can’t lock me in a tower, Aegon. You don’t get to turn me into something soft and safe and yours. I’m not your bird. I’m not your wife. I’m not your escape.”

“I know,” he says. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit it.

You walk past him, slow, and stop just beside his shoulder. You don’t touch him. But you let your voice brush close.

“Then stop asking questions you don’t want the answers to.”

He closes his eyes.You leave before he opens them again.

After that, he doesn’t come for a few nights. Not long, not unusual. But something feels different. There’s a stillness in the air now, like your absence has shape, like it means something he can’t put down.

Then he sees you.

Not in silk. Not in the hush of a room meant for forgetting. He sees you in the street and it ruins him. You’re not dressed for coin tonight, not painted in perfume or candlelight, not wrapped in artifice. You’re just walking, breathing, existing in daylight, sunlight on your hair, your mouth curved around a laugh that doesn’t belong to him.

There’s a man beside you, taller than you by a head, plain-faced and unremarkable, but your hand rests easy on his arm as you lean in and say something that makes him smile and Aegon watches from the shadow of a stone archway like he’s been struck across the face. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t call your name. Just stares. Watches the way you look up at this stranger, the way your shoulders relax, the way you smile without thinking. It’s not what you’re doing. It’s what you’re not. You’re not looking for him. You’re not waiting. You’re not his. And the ache it stirs in him is deep and sudden and stupid, because it’s not supposed to matter and it never has before and it shouldn’t now. But it does. And when you brush your hand over the man’s arm in farewell, when you step into the crowd without glancing back, it feels like a cut.

He’s waiting for you when you return. You know he will be. The air in the room is thick the moment you open the door. It clings to the walls, sticks to the back of your throat. You close it quietly behind you and don’t bother to ask why he’s here. He’s pacing, restless, his hands clenched at his sides, his face already tense and twisted like the words are fighting to get out. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just spits it toward the floor like it’s an answer to a question he never meant to ask.

“You’re mine.”

You don’t blink. You don’t take a step forward or back. You just breathe in slow and let the words hang there between you for a moment, heavy and familiar and wrong. Then you say it. Calm. Final.

“No. I never was.”

The silence after that feels different. It isn’t cold. It isn’t loud. It just settles in the space between your bodies like ash. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick up to meet yours and he looks at you like he’s trying not to fall apart. There’s something ugly in his stare now, something raw, the beginnings of something that might break if he doesn’t hold it down.

“Why does it feel like you are?”

You don’t answer. You don’t speak at all. You just look at him and let the weight of the question settle in his chest like a stone. Let him carry it. Let him sit in the truth that he made this mess and now he wants you to tell him it means more than it does. Because he’s the one who came back. He’s the one who started asking by name. He’s the one who lingered too long and stared too hard and started treating you like a secret he didn’t want to admit to keeping. And now that he’s ruined himself with want, now that he’s seen you out in the world where he doesn’t own you, now he wants to rewrite the rules.

You just keep looking at him. And say nothing.

He sways where he stands like he might reach for you, like his hands are still trying to decide if they want to hold or destroy, but they stay at his sides. His mouth opens again, closes.” I would’ve,” he says. “If I had—if I could—”

You cut him off without raising your voice.

“You didn’t.”

He flinches like the words hit. Like he was hoping you’d be softer than that. You’re not.

And that’s where it ends.

Because he has no claim. Because wanting has never been enough.

You don’t see him for days after that. You don’t expect to. Some men leave angry. Some leave ashamed. He left with nothing at all. No closing words. No promises. Just silence, and the weight of all the things he never said when it would’ve mattered.

But then, one night, he comes again.

This time it’s different. No bravado. No wine on his breath. No coin pressed into the madam’s hand. He doesn’t ask for you by name. Doesn’t ask for anything at all. He just walks through the door like someone who’s wandered too far and doesn’t know where else to go. His eyes are quieter now. Dim. Like he burned through the last of his fire somewhere on the way here and all that’s left is smoke.

You’re alone in your room, the hearth burning low, the sheets still warm from someone else’s weight. He steps inside without knocking. Closes the door gently behind him. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You just watch as he crosses the room like he’s unsure whether you’ll stop him, unsure whether you should. He sits in the chair by the window, the one he used to lean back in like a prince pretending he wasn’t, but this time he doesn’t touch the arms, doesn’t lean. Just sits with his hands in his lap, his shoulders folded inward, his eyes on the floor.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t ask what he wants.

You just sit too.

The silence stretches. Not sharp like it used to be. Not heavy. Just still. He breathes like it hurts to do it. Like every breath is a question he’s still trying to answer. It’s a long time before he speaks.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he says. “But it does.”

His voice is low. Raw around the edges. Like the words have been waiting in his chest for longer than he’s willing to admit. You don’t ask what he means. You already know. You don’t give him the comfort of saying it aloud.

Instead, you shift beside him, just enough to reach, and brush a lock of hair from his face, gentle and slow and unremarkable. His breath stutters.

“That’s not love, Aegon,” you say. “That’s wanting something you can’t keep.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to make it more than it is. He just nods, barely, eyes fixed on the dying fire like he’s watching something disappear.

You don’t touch again.You don’t speak.

You both sit in silence until the light begins to shift at the edge of the curtains. He stands before the sun has fully crested the sky. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. Doesn’t say goodbye. Just pulls the door open like it weighs more than it should and walks out into the quiet.

You don’t follow. You don’t expect him back. He doesn’t come.

Days pass. Quiet ones. The room feels the same but lighter somehow, as if his absence left something behind even when he took nothing with him. You don’t ask about him. You don’t look for him. You keep the windows open more often. You stop pouring a second cup of wine.

And then, one morning, you find it.

You don’t hear the door open. Don’t feel a shift in the air. If he came, he didn’t stay long. The bed is untouched, the fire burned out, the scent of the room unchanged. But there it is, resting on the pillow like it had always belonged—one gold dragon, gleaming in the morning light, warm from the sun.

Not payment. Not really. You haven’t taken his coin in days. Haven’t let him buy what he never knew how to hold.

You sit at the edge of the bed and stare at it for a long time. You think about what it means. What it doesn’t. What it never was.

Then you pick it up, curl your fingers around the weight of it, and tuck it into your pocket.

You don’t ask the madam if he left it.

You don’t ask if he’s been back since.

And you don’t wait for him anymore.

[yourwitchygoblin]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ The ethics of baneful magick (curses, hexes, jinxes) ♥

Hey guys for like going missing for nearly a weak I'm on a grind so anyways here is a post that got the highest votes hope you enjoy

Also feel free to send me any questions in my inbox because I am more than happy to answer your questions.

First of all lets define it. Baneful magick is the type of spell work that’s meant to cause harm, inconvenience, or bad luck—not sunshine and sparkles. It includes jinxes, hexes, and curses, all under the same shadowy umbrella, but each with different levels of impact.

Here’s a simple breakdown:

🧷Jinxes🧷

Think: mild chaos, annoying but not dangerous. Examples:

Always stepping on a LEGO (My personal fav, never done it tho)

Catching your sleeve on every door handle

Tripping but never quite falling Use: When someone’s being a low-level pest or mildly disrespectful.

🕯️Hexes🕯️

Think: moderate misfortune, just enough to ruin their week. Examples:

Constant bad luck (breaking stuff, losing things, spilling drinks)

Embarrassing moments stacking up

People around them being extra hostile for no reason (Hex them so that they constantly run into shitty Karens) Use: When someone’s crossed a boundary, been really rude and disrespectful, or needs a wake-up call.

☠️Curses☠️

Think: big, life-interrupting energy. Direct harm to the target. Examples:

Wishing them to get sick, fired, or caught in something serious like a car accident

Long-term bad luck or patterns of loss

Spiritual or emotional disruption Use: As a last resort—when someone has caused real harm and refuses accountability.

⚖️Ethics & Consequences⚖️

Baneful magick isn't about “being evil.” It’s about justice and boundaries—but it’s also serious business. Here’s what to consider before casting:

Intent matters. Are you reacting or are you seeking resolution?

Are you punching up or punching down? Using baneful magick on someone who hurt you = valid. Using it on someone just for existing = not it.

Spiritual protection is real. If the target is also a practitioner, they may have:

Wards

Deities who protect them

Guides or spirits who do not play around

If your target is shielded, your baneful spell might:

Bounce back (Be prepared and well protected)

Fizzle out

Trigger a spiritual conflict you weren’t ready for

My Final Thoughts

Baneful magick is a tool. Neither good nor evil—just powerful.

Not every offense needs a full curse. Jinxes and hexes exist for a reason.

Don’t let anyone guilt you for using shadow work in your craft. Just be clear, be smart, and be ready.

Always cleanse and ground yourself afterward. Energetic hygiene is key

Only hex, curse, or jinx a person if they actually meant what they did. If they show remorse and apologize and make up for what they did when you're considering between the three and if they mean it then it is not wise to proceed forward.

You’re allowed to protect yourself. Just don’t forget—you’re also responsible for what you send out.

I hope my post was helpful, anyways stay stay safe guys and blessed be <3

[seriallcver]

Jamie tightened his arms around her a little, just enough to keep her snug against him without making a big deal out of it. Hearing her say it out loud—that she wanted him to catch her—it hit him, but he didn't let it get all heavy between them. They were still getting to know each other, after-all. Instead, he pressed a slow, tender kiss to the top of her head, letting the warm water and lavender do most of the talking for now. "Yeah, Brynn," he said, voice low, but steady. "I promise." He shifted a little so she could settle even more comfortably against his chest, letting his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along her arm. She felt soft and warm against him, and he wasn't in any rush to be anywhere else. "You don't have to worry about all that other shit," Jamie said after a moment, his tone easy, like it wasn't even a question. "I'm not going anywhere. You're good, we're good. No weird games, no messing around. When I'm seeing someone, they're the only thing that matters to me and will get my full attention. Nobody else." He smiled against her hair, resting his chin lightly there for a second, feeling how perfectly she fit against him because of their size difference. Everything about it just felt right, natural in a way he hadn't really expected. "And don't stress about falling," he added with a low chuckle. "Pretty sure you already have. Not like I'm complaining, though." Jamie squeezed her hand once, just a simple way of letting her know he meant it. "I like having you right here. I'm glad you decided to move in," he said, his voice dropping a little more, almost like it was just between them and no one else could hear.

the water was warm against her skin, between that, the heat from his body, and the calming aroma in the air brynn was almost positive that she could fall asleep in the bathtub, or at least take a nap as she wasn't even sure what time of day it was anymore. the time didn't matter as she sat there with him, wrapped up in his arms without another care in the world. it was almost like the rest of the world outside had disappeared and they were the only ones left. it was like they were on the same page with everything they were thinking, talking about or even feeling, and it only made brynn feel that much better about the whole thing.

❝ you're right, i didn't bend. but someday i'll show you just how much i can actually bend. ❞ she teased, turning her head back to look at him as a giggle slipped from her lips. she knew that now wasn't the time to tease him, or get him riled up as she could barely walk on her own, nonetheless start something that she couldn't finish right now. ❝ but we can talk about that some other time, when i'm not pressed against you in the bathtub. ❞ the blonde smiled, giving his hand a squeeze.

as his body shfited with hers, she could see the way he was watching her, like she was the most important person in the world and that wasn't something brynn had been familiar with. then he spoke again, letting her know that she could fall - like he was reading her mind, knowing the fears or doubts that she was having. ❝ promise? ❞ she asked, her tone barely above a whisper though she knew that he'd be able to hear her. ❝ because i don't want this to be a one time thing, and if i let myself fall, then i wouldn't be able to deal with hearing or god forbid seeing you with anyone else. ❞ she'd tore her gaze away from him, scared and maybe even a little ashamed of herself for admitting it, but at least it was the truth. ❝ but i really want you to be there to catch me. ❞  

[someone-else-entirely]

Me, a child, reading A Series Of Unfortunate Events and seeing that Duncan, Isadora, and Quigley Quagmire are meant to look eerily similar to one another: "Ah. Identical triplets."

Me, a teenager, learning about how genetics work and realizing that a boy and a girl cannot be identical twins/triplets/etc: "Nevermind. Fraternal triplets who just happen to look super similar."

Me now: "They are in fact identical and Isadora is trans"

[thirdmagic]