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yunholic-jongholic · 3 months ago

Note

Hi i’m the anon that also wants you to do the jongho fluff🤭 If your requests are still open, could you do one with Jongho where he’s protective over the reader? I think i’d be interesting to see since he doesn’t really show his emotions a lot and doesn’t like physical touch (at least out in the open lol) Thanks!!

Not Just Protective | C.JH x Reader

PAIRING | Choi Jongho x Reader

RATING | Not really bad but just in case; 16+? 18+?

CONTENT WARNINGS | FLUFF, Protective Boyfriend!Jongho, Jealousy, Hint of Possessiveness, Drinking, Alcohol Consumption, Suggestive/Talking about Smut, Bar Setting, Insecurities, Anxiety (Might be missing some. I will have to come back.)

WORD COUNT | 12.4k

AUTHOR NOTE | Omggg yes!! more Jongho fluff stories :3 (I will take all recommendations hehe) I hope you enjoy! This is a bit long hehe. I want to make an ACTUAL protective boyfriend Jongho series story... Maybe one day <3

•

You were in the middle of getting ready for work, slipping into your uniform as you caught your reflection in the mirror. You sighed quietly. The truth was—you didn’t really feel like going in today.

After finishing your associate’s degree, you’d spent months applying to office jobs, hoping for something steady, something that matched your efforts. But all you got in return was radio silence.

So, for now, you were working at a high-end hotel restaurant. Most days you worked as a hostess, other days behind the bar—wherever they needed you, really.

You grabbed your bag, gave yourself one last glance in the mirror, and headed out the door. The familiar weight of your routine settled over you as you walked to your car, keys jingling quietly in your hand.

The drive to the hotel wasn’t long, but your mind wandered the entire way—thinking about everything and nothing. The same playlist played softly through the speakers, a background to the same streets you took every day.

Pulling into the employee parking lot, you took a deep breath before stepping out, smoothing down your uniform. You could already hear the faint hum of the lobby through the entrance—soft piano music, distant conversation, the clinking of glasses from the bar.

Inside, everything was polished and perfect. The floors gleamed, the lighting warm and elegant. You clocked in, slipped on your name tag, and forced the usual smile into place. Time to play your part.

“Morning,” one of the servers greeted as they passed by, already balancing a tray of champagne flutes.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice even but distant.

Another day. Another shift. Same script.

You headed straight to the back to clock in, tying your hair up into a ponytail with practiced ease. Tonight, you were assigned to the bar—one of those nights where they were short-staffed and needed extra hands. No time to dwell, just time to move.

You made your way behind the bar and slipped into your routine, already taking orders, mixing drinks, and putting on your best "I’ve got this" expression.

Then, mid-pour, your phone buzzed from inside your apron pocket.

You let it ring the first time, brushing it off—probably nothing urgent.

But then it buzzed again. And again.

You sighed and glanced around, making sure you weren’t in the middle of something, then pulled your phone out for a quick peek.

Jongho.

Your heart softened a little at the name, even if the timing made you sigh again. You wiped your hands on a towel and quickly stepped to the side, just long enough to answer.

“Hey!” you greeted with a small smile, already feeling a bit lighter just hearing his voice.

“Hey,” Jongho replied. “Have you left for work yet?”

You sighed, glancing down at the towel still in your hand. “Yeah, I’m already here. Just started my shift at the bar.”

There was a pause on his end, then the sound of game effects filtered faintly through the call. “Hmm… I might stop by. After my game, of course.”

You could practically hear the controller clicking in the background.

“Aww, do you miss me already?” you teased, grinning as you leaned against the counter for a second, stealing a quiet moment.

“I’m just bored,” he said flatly.

You rolled your eyes, the smile still lingering on your lips. “Wow. So romantic.”

He went quiet for a beat… and then you heard him chuckle under his breath.

“You know I miss you,” he finally muttered.

That made your stomach do a little flip—like it always did when he slipped up and let the soft side show.

“I miss you too,” you said quietly, the words slipping out more tenderly than you expected.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth, and you felt your heart flutter in that familiar way only Jongho could stir—like no matter how routine the day felt, just hearing his voice reminded you you weren’t alone in it.

There was a pause on the line again, not awkward, just… comfortable. You could hear him shifting a bit, maybe setting his controller down.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, softer this time.

You smiled, still holding the phone close. “Can’t wait.”

Just as you ended the call, a coworker passed by with a smirk. “Ooooh, someone’s blushing.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, slipping your phone back into your apron pocket. “Mind your business.”

But you couldn’t help the smile that lingered on your lips as you turned back to the bar, the night suddenly feeling a little brighter with the thought of Jongho stopping by.

You slipped back into the rhythm of work—pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, checking orders. The usual. But your thoughts kept drifting to Jongho. Even just the idea of him stopping by made everything feel a bit easier.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked in, hoodie half-zipped, hands in his pockets, and that usual soft look in his eyes when he spotted you. He made his way to the bar and plopped down directly across from you.

“Apparently Wooyoung and San are coming too,” he sighed, leaning his arms on the counter like a man preparing for war.

You raised an eyebrow, already grinning. “Oh, that’ll be fun.”

He gave you a look. “Fun for you, maybe.”

You laughed, already picturing Wooyoung’s usual chaos and San’s dramatic reactions. “C’mon, they love you.”

“They love teasing me,” he muttered, reaching for the straw in your water cup like it was his now.

“Well,” you smirked, leaning on the bar and lowering your voice playfully, “I’ll protect you… as long as you tip well.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally my girlfriend.”

“Doesn’t mean you get free drinks and immunity from chaos.”

Jongho just groaned, resting his head dramatically on the bar. “I should’ve stayed home.”

You laughed again, already grabbing a clean glass and sliding it his way. “Too late. You’re here now.”

Jongho sat up again, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you move behind the bar—grabbing bottles, mixing a drink for another customer, wiping down the counter with easy rhythm. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced up, he didn’t even bother looking away.

“What?” you asked, giving him a playful side-eye as you filled a glass.

“Nothing,” he said, voice soft. “Just… you’re cute when you’re focused.”

You paused for a second, surprised by how casual yet sincere it sounded. That flutter in your chest returned, spreading warmth through you in the middle of your shift like it belonged there.

“Stop it,” you mumbled, trying to hide your smile as you turned away slightly, pretending to check something under the bar.

He smirked, clearly proud of himself. “Just telling the truth.”

You leaned back over the bar, elbows resting on the surface as you looked at him. “If you keep talking like that, I’m gonna make you wash dishes.”

“Worth it,” he said without hesitation.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already melting.

He reached across the bar, brushing his fingers lightly against yours where your hand rested on the counter. It was quick, subtle—but enough to remind you how grounding his presence was, how even with all the noise around you, it felt like everything quieted when he was near.

Before either of you could say anything else, the front doors swung open, and you both turned your heads.

“I see you, Jongho!” came Wooyoung’s voice, way too loud for the room.

You groaned, laughing under your breath. “And so it begins.”

Jongho muttered, “There’s still time to run.”

You handed him a menu. “Too late. You’re mine now.”

He smiled, already bracing himself. “Lucky me.”

Jongho pulled his hand back with a sigh, sitting up straighter just as Wooyoung strolled in like he owned the place. He made a beeline for the bar, sliding onto the stool right beside Jongho with that signature mischievous grin already in place.

“Awwww, little bear visiting his girlfriend at work,” Wooyoung cooed loudly, nudging Jongho with his elbow. “That’s soooo cute. Look at you—soft and whipped.”

Jongho coughed, clearly trying to play it off, but you could see the tips of his ears turning red. You smirked as you grabbed a couple of glasses, already starting to make drinks for the two new guests.

“Be nice,” you warned, shaking a mixer with practiced ease. “Or I’ll mess up your drink on purpose.”

Wooyoung gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

As you moved around behind the bar, you caught the little frown that formed on Jongho’s face. He slouched slightly, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, “Would’ve loved it if it was just us two.”

You glanced at him, your heart tugging a little at how sincere he sounded.

Setting Wooyoung’s finished drink in front of him, you leaned a little closer to Jongho and said softly, just for him, “We’ll get our moment again. Promise.”

He met your eyes and gave a small, grateful smile—one that said he believed you.

Then, right on cue, San walked in.

“Let the chaos begin,” you whispered under your breath.

San arrived moments later, arms spread dramatically as if he were entering a concert, not a classy hotel bar. “Ahhh, I made it! The night can officially begin!” he declared, sliding into the seat on your side of the bar next to Wooyoung.

“You’re just on time,” Wooyoung smirked, lifting his drink. “Jongho’s here being all soft and romantic.”

San raised a brow, glancing at Jongho, then back at you. “You must be something special if he’s skipping game time for a mid-shift visit.”

You chuckled, handing San his drink with a playful shrug. “I’m just that magical, apparently.”

San placed a hand over his heart. “I respect it.”

You noticed Jongho glance at San after his comment—not full-on glaring, but the look definitely had an edge to it. Subtle, but there. A silent watch it kind of moment.

Before things could get weird, you jumped in to shift the energy.

“So,” you said, offering a bright smile as you leaned on the counter, “what are you guys doing this weekend?”

Jongho finally relaxed at the change of topic, leaning back in his seat, his usual calm returning.

Wooyoung perked up. “Our friend Seonghwa is throwing a party tomorrow night. Real classy, probably candles everywhere and a strict 'no shoes in the house' rule.”

You laughed. “Sounds like him.”

“Anyway,” Wooyoung continued with a grin, “he wants Jongho to come, but you know how hard that is. Someone refuses to go to parties unless food, bribes, or emotional guilt is involved.”

Jongho shot him a look. “I just don’t like people.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung said, pointing at you now. “That’s where you come in. You’re his weakness. Help us. Use your powers.”

You laughed and nodded. “Oh, I’m totally down! I’ll just swap shifts—my manager’s pretty chill. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Bless you,” San said, raising his glass in appreciation.

You gave Jongho a wink before turning to help a customer waving from the other end of the bar. “Be right back!”

As you walked off, Wooyoung leaned over to Jongho with a smug grin. “See? She’d trade a whole shift just to party with you. That’s love, bro.”

Jongho didn’t say anything at first, just watched you as you smiled at a guest and took their order, light on your feet, completely in your element.

“Yeah… it is.”

Jongho’s voice was quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and as soon as he realized it, he quickly cleared his throat and looked down at his phone, pretending to check something—anything—to shake off the feeling.

You came back a moment later, smiling like sunshine. “You guys want anything else to drink?”

Wooyoung shook his head. “I’m good for now.”

Jongho gave you a small smile. “I’ll take another water if you’re not too busy.”

“On it,” you said, already grabbing a clean glass. “By the way… what time’s the party tomorrow?”

Wooyoung pulled out his phone and tapped through his messages. “Uhh… Seonghwa said people should start arriving around 7pm. And it’ll go till, like, 2am or something. You know how he is—candles, jazz playlists, and exact timing.”

You laughed and pulled out your phone, quickly setting a reminder with a little star next to it. “Perfect. I’m gonna go ask my manager to switch my schedule now before I forget.”

You were already halfway down the bar before they could even respond—determined, focused, and just a little too excited.

Jongho watched you go, a faint smile tugging at his lips again. Wooyoung leaned over with a teasing grin.

“She’s really doing it. For you. That’s girlfriend of the year energy.”

Jongho tried to play it cool, sipping his drink. “Yeah, well… she’s kind of the best.”

Wooyoung smirked. “You’re so gone.”

“I know,” Jongho muttered, almost proud of it.

San leaned over and playfully ruffled Jongho’s hair. “Aww,” he cooed with a grin, dragging the word out in the most annoying way possible.

Wooyoung absolutely lost it, nearly falling off his stool with laughter.

Jongho shot San a glare and immediately shoved his arm away, smoothing his hair back down with dramatic offense. “Touch me again and you’re walking home.”

San just winked. “Still worth it.”

Jongho grumbled something under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

Just then, you returned, a triumphant smile on your face. “Manager said it’s all good! I’m off tomorrow night!”

“Let’s gooo!” Wooyoung fist-pumped in the air.

But before you could rejoin the boys, a customer three seats down waved you over. “Excuse me, could I get another drink when you get the chance?”

“Of course!” you said warmly, already moving in their direction.

You chatted with them as you poured their drink, asking how their night was going, if they were staying at the hotel, and tossing in a few light jokes here and there. It was natural for you—easy. You had a way of making people feel comfortable, seen, like they belonged there.

It didn’t go unnoticed either. The guest chuckled, smiling more with every word, clearly enjoying the conversation. And a few seats away, your little trio of chaos-makers watched it unfold.

“She’s so good at this,” San said, sipping his drink. “I’d leave a tip just for the conversation.”

Jongho leaned his chin on his hand, watching you with soft eyes as you laughed at something the guest said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s why everyone loves her.”

Wooyoung glanced down at him, catching that rare softness in Jongho’s voice. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “You’re so down bad, bro.”

Jongho didn’t respond. Instead, he looked away, shifting in his seat like he was trying to shake off the weight in his chest. He sat up straighter, eyes flicking toward you behind the bar as you finished chatting with the guest—still smiling, still lighting up the room like it was nothing.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he cleared his throat and said, “Well… once you both finish drinking, may I have some alone time with her?”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this new side of Jongho. “Oh? Look at you being all bold.”

San grinned around his straw, then shrugged. “Say less.”

He immediately chugged the rest of his drink like it was a challenge, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up with a dramatic flourish. “I have no problem being a wingman. Go get your girl.”

Wooyoung, still smirking, raised his glass and finished the last sip slowly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That narrows it down to nothing,” Jongho shot back dryly, finally cracking a smile.

Wooyoung winked and slid off the stool, following San toward the lounge area. “You’re welcome.”

Now it was just Jongho at the bar, quietly waiting for you to make your way back over, fingers tapping lightly on the counter—trying to look casual, but his heart already beating faster.

As San and Wooyoung disappeared into the lounge, the bar grew a little quieter. The clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation continued in the background, but for a moment, it felt like the world had pulled back just enough to make space for the two of you.

You walked back over, wiping your hands on a bar towel as you noticed Jongho still sitting there, alone now, quietly waiting.

“No more teasing?” you asked with a playful tilt of your head.

He looked up at you, eyes softer than before, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Only from you.”

You chuckled, resting your hands on the counter as you leaned in just a little. “Everything okay?”

He nodded slowly, then glanced down at the glass in front of him, turning it absently with his fingers. “Yeah. I just… kinda wanted a minute with you. Just us.”

You blinked, heart doing that quiet little flutter again. “You have me,” you said gently, voice dropping just a little.

There was a pause—one of those quiet silences that didn't feel empty, just full of things neither of you had said yet.

“I like watching you here,” Jongho admitted, finally looking up again. “The way you talk to people. The way you make everyone feel like they belong.”

You smiled, eyes softening. “It’s just part of the job.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s you. It’s just who you are.”

Your breath caught for a second, the sincerity in his voice hitting deeper than you expected. You reached over the counter, brushing your fingers gently over his hand.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” you said quietly. “It… means a lot.”

He turned his hand under yours, lacing your fingers together, his touch warm and grounding. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I just like being where you are.”

And in that moment—amidst the low lights, the quiet chatter, and the clink of glass—it felt like the rest of the world faded out, leaving just the two of you in that small, perfect pocket of peace.

You leaned in, forehead resting gently against his, your fingers still loosely tangled with his. For a brief, breathless moment, the two of you just looked at each other—eyes locked, everything around you fading into background noise.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” you hummed, your voice low, a little playful, but full of something softer. Your gaze flicked to his lips, lingering just long enough to make your intentions clear.

But Jongho, ever the flustered and stubborn one, pulled back slightly and coughed—completely betraying how affected he actually was.

“Yeah… sure,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Just… don’t tell the others I’m staying at your place tonight. They’ll never shut up about it. I’ll hear about it for a week straight.”

He looked away, clearly trying to avoid your eyes now. But you didn’t miss the pink tint rising to his cheeks.

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smile. “God forbid your friends know you actually like spending time with your girlfriend.”

He groaned quietly. “They already know. That’s the problem.”

You laughed under your breath, leaning on the bar again. “You’re lucky I think it’s cute when you act all cool and distant.”

“I am cool,” he muttered, still refusing to look at you—but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

You tilted your head slightly, voice dropping just a little. “You know if we weren’t in public right now, I’d kiss you.”

Jongho’s eyes finally flicked back to yours, a flicker of something unreadable—desire, longing, shyness—crossing his face.

“I know,” he murmured, lips twitching into a small smirk. “That’s why I’m staying.”

And just like that, your heart did that stupid thing it always did around him—fluttered and clenched at the same time.

The night moved on around you—drinks ordered, conversations drifting in and out, music playing low in the background—but your moment with Jongho lingered, hanging like warmth in the air between you.

Eventually, you sighed, reluctantly straightening up. “Alright, I’ve got like twenty more minutes until I can clock out.”

Jongho nodded, sipping the last of his drink. “I’ll hang out here until you’re done.”

“Try not to fall asleep on the bar again,” you teased, walking away to tend to a few final tables.

He smirked behind his glass. “No promises.”

The rest of your shift flew by. You stayed busy, wiping down the counter, cashing out tabs, chatting with a few regulars. Every time you glanced over, Jongho was still there—quietly watching, head resting on his hand, a soft look on his face that he thought you didn’t see.

By the time you finally clocked out and tossed your apron in the back, the bar had mostly cleared. You returned to him, slipping on your jacket.

“Ready?” you asked.

“Always,” he replied, standing up and stretching slightly before falling into step beside you.

The walk to your place was quiet, but comfortable. The streets were calm, the cool air brushing softly against your skin. Jongho kept close, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, glancing over at you every now and then like he was making sure you were still there.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, dimmed the lights, and threw your keys in the little bowl by the door. Jongho followed behind, slower, quieter, taking in the calm of your space.

You turned to look at him. “You can borrow some clothes if you want.”

He nodded. “Thanks. You always have the best hoodies.”

You smiled and grabbed him one from your drawer—one he’d worn before, one that probably still smelled faintly like him.

He disappeared into the bathroom to change, and when he came out, hair a little tousled and hoodie slightly too big on him, your heart did another quiet little flip.

You were already curled up in bed, blanket pulled halfway up, lights low, your phone forgotten on the nightstand.

Jongho climbed in beside you without a word, slipping under the covers and immediately letting out a soft exhale as he settled in next to you.

You turned to face him, resting your hand gently against his chest. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

He looked at you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for being my peace.”

You didn’t say anything—you just leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to his cheek, letting the moment speak for itself.

And as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, you knew this was it—your safe place, your quiet ending, your little piece of forever tucked into one sleepy night.

---

The next morning, you woke up with the familiar warmth of Jongho's arms wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His body was relaxed, lips slightly parted, completely lost in sleep.

You shifted slightly, pressing your face deeper into his chest, not quite ready to leave the little world the two of you had created between the sheets. His warmth, the faint scent of his hoodie, the quiet—everything in that moment begged you to stay.

But reality tugged at the edges of your peace.

You sighed softly, carefully untangling yourself from his hold so you wouldn’t wake him. Your feet hit the cool floor as you padded to the bathroom, freshening up and slipping into your daily clothes.

By the time you came back into the room, Jongho was awake—barely.

He was lying exactly where you left him, the blanket halfway off his leg, phone in hand, earbuds in, and music playing just loud enough for you to catch the beat. His hair was a soft mess, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but he smiled lazily when he saw you.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You crossed your arms with a smirk. “Someone in this house has to be responsible.”

He stretched dramatically, his hoodie riding up just enough to reveal the waistband of his sweats. “Mmm, give me like… ten more years. Then I’ll get up.”

You chuckled and grabbed his free hand, giving it a small squeeze. “I gotta head out soon. Want anything before I go?”

He blinked at you, squeezing your hand back. “Just one more hug.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before sinking into the bed beside him, letting his arms wrap around you one last time before the day truly started.

You melted back into his arms for a moment, letting yourself indulge in the comfort of it—his warmth, the way his fingers found your waist like muscle memory, and how he let out a soft sigh the second you were close again.

“Okay,” you whispered, cheek against his chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“Mhm,” Jongho hummed, smug. “Told you I was the bad influence.”

You both stayed like that a while longer, the music still playing quietly from his phone. Eventually, your stomach let out a quiet grumble, and you groaned, burying your face into him.

He laughed. “That was either your stomach… or a really dramatic protest about leaving me.”

You peeked up at him. “Maybe both.”

Jongho finally sat up, stretching with a sleepy yawn as you got out of bed again, heading to the kitchen.

“Cereal or pancakes?” you called out.

“Pancakes if you’re feeling fancy. Cereal if you’re running late.”

“I’m always running late,” you replied, grabbing the pancake mix anyway.

He wandered in a few minutes later, still in your hoodie, hair sticking up in soft little waves. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you pour batter into the pan.

“You know,” he murmured, “you look really pretty like this.”

You looked over your shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Like what? Rushed and barefoot in the kitchen?”

He grinned. “Exactly that.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight back the smile creeping in.

He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “Let me flip the next one.”

“You? In the kitchen? Scandalous,” you teased.

“I’m multi-talented,” he replied proudly.

You handed him the spatula. “Alright, chef. Impress me.”

He flipped it… and somehow managed to fold the pancake in half mid-air.

You burst out laughing. “Wow. So talented.”

“I panicked,” he admitted, dead serious. “It betrayed me.”

The morning continued with small laughter, messy pancakes, shared bites, and clinking mugs of coffee. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t a big event. But it was your kind of morning—full of love in the simplest, most beautiful way.

Jongho had his head leaned back against the cushion, eyes half-closed as you scrolled on your phone beside him. Occasionally, he’d peek over at your screen just to see what you were watching, or randomly poke your leg with his foot like he was silently asking for attention.

You nudged him back. “You gonna nap before the party?”

He opened one eye, looking at you with the laziest smirk. “Tempting.”

You tilted your head. “If you fall asleep now, I’m leaving you behind.”

“Liar,” he mumbled.

You laughed. “Okay… maybe.”

Eventually, you both stretched and pulled yourselves off the couch, the sunlight dipping just enough to remind you the day was sliding into evening.

You walked to your room to pick out something cute but comfortable, something party-worthy but still “you.” Jongho lingered behind, checking his phone, probably responding to Wooyoung's 15 unread messages. Then you heard him call out:

“Do I need to dress up for this thing or is hoodie-acceptable?”

You grinned. “It’s Seonghwa’s place. You show up in a hoodie, he might disown you.”

“Seonghwa would never disown his favorite child,” Jongho sighed dramatically. “Guess I will try anyways.”

You pulled a few outfit options from your closet, debating in the mirror, and called out, “Wanna help me pick?”

He appeared at the door, leaning on the frame like he had nothing better to do—but his eyes lit up the second he saw you holding up outfits.

“You’d look good in anything,” he said smoothly.

“Flattery doesn’t help me choose,” you shot back, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

He stepped in, gently tugging one of the hangers from your hand. “Wear this one. It’s… very you.”

You raised a brow. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

And just like that, you could feel the shift—the lazy morning slipping away, replaced by the excitement of what the night might bring… and the quiet thrill of having him by your side for all of it.

The sun had just finished dipping below the horizon when you and Jongho stepped out of the car, the glow of streetlights and the warm ambiance from Seonghwa’s house lighting up the front porch like a welcome sign. Music thumped softly behind the front door, the kind that set the mood without being too loud. You could already hear voices inside laughing, chatting, glasses clinking.

You looked over at Jongho as you both approached the door, nudging his arm with a grin. “You ready to socialize, introvert?”

He sighed. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I’m only here because you said you’d stay near me the whole time.”

“I never said that” you teased.

He shot you a look. “Wow.”

You laughed, slipping your hand into his as the door swung open. Seonghwa greeted you both with a warm smile, dressed to perfection as always.

“Hey! You made it!” he beamed, pulling you into a quick hug and giving Jongho a clap on the shoulder. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight, man.”

Jongho gave a dry smile. “I was blackmailed.”

You grinned proudly. “Happy to be the reason.”

Inside, the space was glowing with soft lights—candles, fairy lights, and the flicker of ambient lamps casting a cozy, social vibe. Some people were lounging on the couch, others around the kitchen island, a few already dancing in the open space by the speakers.

“Drinks are in the kitchen, snacks on the table, and if Wooyoung challenges you to anything, don’t accept,” Seonghwa warned with a laugh before disappearing to greet more guests.

You glanced up at Jongho. “So… what’s the plan? Drinks? Couch cuddles? Social suffering?”

He smirked. “Surprise me.”

You tugged him gently toward the kitchen, already spotting San and Wooyoung waving at you from across the room, drinks in hand, chaos practically radiating from them.

You gave Jongho’s hand a squeeze.

“Welcome to the party,” you whispered.

He leaned in close, lips by your ear, voice low. “Just don’t disappear on me.”

“Never.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, watching his face immediately turn a soft shade of pink. He tried to play it cool, but the way his ears tinted red completely gave him away.

You plopped down on the couch beside him, legs brushing his as you leaned in comfortably. He shifted just enough to let you rest against him, your presence fitting perfectly into the curve of his side.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, giving his arm a gentle caress before leaning your head on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’m gonna grab us some drinks.”

But Jongho immediately pouted, lips poking out slightly as he gave you a look of pure betrayal.

“You just said you wouldn’t disappear on me!”

You giggled, standing up anyway. “I’m disappearing to the kitchen, drama king. That’s like… twenty feet.”

“That’s twenty feet too far,” he muttered, crossing his arms and slouching into the couch like a sulking puppy.

You grinned and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll be right back, bear. Promise.”

He peeked up at you with that reluctant smile—the kind he gave only you when he knew he was being ridiculous but couldn’t help it.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Bring something sweet.”

“You, or the drink?” you teased.

He snorted, finally laughing. “Both.”

You winked before heading off to the kitchen, leaving him there watching you walk away with that same soft, quiet look you’d caught him wearing so many times before.

You made it to the kitchen with no issues—grabbed two drinks (something fruity for you, something simple and sweet for Jongho), and even snagged a cookie from the snack table because, well, why not?

But just as you turned around, ready to return to your pouty, sofa-bound boyfriend, you heard it.

“There she is!” Wooyoung’s voice rang out from across the kitchen like a siren of chaos.

You barely had time to blink before San popped up beside him, eyes wide with fake urgency. “We need a fourth for this game, and it’s literally life or death.”

“What game?” you asked suspiciously, backing up slightly—but too late.

They were already flanking you like bodyguards of mischief.

“Never Have I Ever,” Wooyoung declared proudly, grabbing one of the drinks from your hand—Jongho’s, of course—like it was part of some secret deal.

“We already dragged Yeosang and Yunho in, but they’re boring,” San added, grabbing your wrist. “You’re chaos. You make things fun.”

“Jongho’s gonna be so mad,” you laughed, half resisting as they started guiding you toward the living room again.

“Then tell him to come join!” Wooyoung grinned.

You looked over your shoulder, already seeing Jongho still sitting on the couch exactly where you left him—until his eyes met yours, narrowed in suspicion as you were being dragged away like a crime scene witness.

“Babe!” you called, laughing. “It’s not my fault! They’re kidnapping me!”

Jongho stood up with a groan, clearly considering whether to intervene or let it happen. “I leave you alone for two minutes.”

“Come on!” San yelled. “If she’s playing, you’re playing!”

And with that, you were plopped onto the floor with a group of overly excited friends, drinks in hand, hearts already racing from the chaos to come. Jongho sighed in surrender and slowly sat down next to you, his knee pressing against yours.

“You owe me,” he muttered.

You smirked, clinking your cup softly against his. “I’ll pay up later.”

You sat cross-legged on the floor between Jongho and San, your drink in hand, surrounded by a semi-circle of your most chaotic friends. Wooyoung clapped his hands together like he was about to summon a demon.

“Alright,” he grinned. “Never Have I Ever. The classic. Five fingers up, first one out gets a punishment. Probably something dumb. Or mildly illegal. We’ll see.”

You all lifted your hands in the air, fingers splayed. Jongho, beside you, already looked so done, but his hand went up anyway.

“I feel like I should lawyer up now,” Jongho muttered.

San smirked. “Too late. You’re in too deep.”

Wooyoung looked around like a game show host ready to ruin friendships. “Okay, I’ll start us off strong. Never have I ever… kissed someone in a public restroom.”

Gasps. Scandal. Laughter.

You stayed still. So did Jongho.

But San? Down went a finger.

“Bro!” Yunho shouted, eyes wide.

San just shrugged. “Look, it was clean. And it was late.”

“Define ‘clean,’” Jongho mumbled.

Next went Yeosang, calm as ever. “Never have I ever… lied to get out of a date.”

You dropped a finger. Wooyoung dropped two, because of course.

“Wow,” Jongho teased, glancing sideways at you. “I’m scared to ask.”

“Hey,” you grinned, nudging his knee. “That was pre-you. Obviously.”

San pointed at Wooyoung. “Your turn.”

Wooyoung took a large gulp of his drink. Already ready to bring Jongho down.

“Never have I ever… have slept with someone in this room.”

You flushed and tried to hide your smile as you very slowly, very casually… lowered a finger.

Jongho noticed. His face deep red as he lowered a finger as well.

The group exploded.

“BRO.” “YOU DID NOT—” “OUR BABY BEAR AND HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!”

You shrugged with a smirk. “Might’ve been the same person who’s pouting on the couch earlier.”

Jongho bit back a smile. The group lost it.

“I KNEW IT!” San yelled.

“THEY'RE SO GONE FOR EACH OTHER,” Wooyoung added, already throwing a pillow in the air like this was some romantic K-drama climax.

You and Jongho just exchanged a look. You—grinning. Him—trying so hard not to smile like an idiot.

Yunho, barely keeping it together, wiped his eyes. “Okay, my turn… Never have I ever fallen asleep while someone was talking.”

You, Wooyoung, and Yeosang immediately dropped fingers.

Jongho leaned toward you with a soft grin. “Is this where you confess that I bore you to sleep?”

You laughed, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. “Only when you talk about video game updates.”

“Wow. Noted.”

After a few more rounds and a lot more chaos—accidental flirty confessions, someone admitting to stealing hotel slippers, San nearly losing a bet to Yeosang of all people—you were all breathless with laughter.

Jongho was still beside you, fingers long since folded, shoulders relaxed, his hand now loosely laced with yours.

You excused yourself quietly from the group, letting Jongho know you were heading to the bathroom. He gave your hand a quick squeeze before letting go, nodding with that sleepy-eyed look he always wore when he was finally relaxed in a crowd.

After finishing up in the bathroom, you made your way back down the hall, but your steps slowed as you passed the kitchen. You could hear low voices—Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

You paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but their tone caught your attention.

“I don’t know, man,” Seonghwa said, voice softer than usual. “It’s weird… watching everything change. We used to talk every day. Now it’s all catching up with me.”

“I get it,” Hongjoong replied gently. “It’s life, not distance. You’re still his person. He’s just figuring stuff out, like the rest of us.”

They laughed quietly—bittersweet, but warm. It was one of those real moments between friends. Raw, vulnerable. And it made you smile a little, heart full just hearing the closeness between them.

But before you could turn to head back, a voice from behind startled you.

“Hey, cutie…”

You blinked and turned, eyebrows raised slightly.

A guy—mid-twenties, tall, casual smirk on his lips—stood leaning against the hallway wall behind you, clearly tipsy but trying way too hard to look smooth. You didn’t recognize him immediately, but you assumed he was one of Seonghwa’s coworkers or plus-ones.

You gave him a polite smile, already stepping back slightly. “Hey. Sorry—I was just heading back to my friends.”

He didn’t take the hint.

“You here with anyone?” he asked, smile crooked.

You took another small step back, tone firm but still calm. “Yeah. My boyfriend.”

“Oh c’mon,” he chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. “Guys like that don’t appreciate girls like you. You should hang with me instead. Promise I’m more fun.”

Before you could answer—before you even had to—another voice cut in, low and sharp.

“She already said she’s taken.”

You turned to see Jongho standing there now, just a few feet away, eyes locked on the guy with that quiet intensity he rarely showed in public.

He stepped forward once, not threatening—but very, very clear.

The guy blinked, looking between you two, then laughed nervously. “Whoa, hey man, chill—was just talking—”

“Yeah,” Jongho said, voice calm but icy. “Talk somewhere else.”

The guy held his hands up, muttering something under his breath before turning and slipping back into the party.

Once he was gone, Jongho let out a breath and turned to you, gaze softening immediately. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling a little at his protectiveness. “Yeah. He was just being annoying.”

Jongho stepped closer, his hand gently brushing yours. “If I’d known someone was hitting on you, I would’ve followed you the second you stood up.”

You chuckled, leaning into him slightly. “Aww. You were keeping an eye on me.”

“Of course I was,” he said softly. “You're mine.”

You squeezed his hand, heart fluttering just a little more than it should’ve. “Let’s go back before Yunho starts a fire trying to make s’mores on the stove.”

Jongho gave you a small, almost shy smile, still holding onto your hand as you walked back together.

But this time, he didn’t let go.

You leaned up and kissed his cheek—slow, gentle, reassuring. His face flushed a little again, but this time he didn’t pull away. He just held your hand tighter.

You both settled back on the sofa, slipping into the comfortable corner you’d claimed earlier. You took a slow sip from your drink, trying to relax back into the night, but you could feel it: Jongho wasn’t quite settled.

His arm slid around your waist with a quiet kind of certainty, pulling you closer into his side. His body was warm, but there was tension in his hold—protective, almost instinctive.

He scanned the room slowly, eyes drifting across faces, especially the people you didn’t know well. His jaw was set, brows slightly furrowed. He wasn’t being dramatic or obvious—but you knew him. You could feel it.

You rested your head against his shoulder, brushing your fingers gently along his thigh in small circles. “Hey…” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, finally glancing down at you.

“I know,” he said softly. “I just… didn’t like that guy getting near you. The way he talked to you.”

You looked up at him, your voice just above a whisper. “You didn’t even hear the worst of it.”

His jaw tightened again, but he stayed quiet.

“You can relax,” you added gently, cupping his cheek for a second. “I’m here. With you. He’s irrelevant.”

Jongho looked at you, really looked at you, and slowly, you felt his grip soften. His shoulders eased, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I just don’t want anyone thinking they can treat you like that,” he murmured.

“They can’t,” you said. “And you made that very clear.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Guess I did, huh?”

You nodded, snuggling back into him. “You're kind of hot when you’re mad.”

That got a small laugh out of him, and you felt the tension start to melt away. His hand found yours again, lacing your fingers together and holding them against his chest like a quiet promise.

And even though the music played on, and the conversations buzzed around you, Jongho didn’t pay attention to anyone else for the rest of the night—only you.

Wooyoung appeared out of nowhere—again—this time holding a tray of food like some kind of chaotic party butler.

“I don’t think y’all have eaten,” he said, offering the platter with an uncharacteristically sincere smile. “Here.”

“Thanks, Woo,” you said warmly, taking it from him.

Jongho nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Wooyoung gave you both a knowing grin, already backing away. “Seonghwa’s about to start a fire out back, by the way. Y’all are welcome to join if you ever stop being disgustingly adorable.”

You giggled. “Hmm… maybe.”

“Just don’t set anything on fire,” Jongho added flatly.

“No promises!” Wooyoung called out, disappearing into the crowd again.

You turned your attention back to the food—finger snacks, a couple of skewers, something warm and savory that smelled way too good to ignore. You grabbed a piece and held it out to Jongho, who blinked at you like a cat slowly waking up from a nap.

“Open,” you whispered with a grin.

He smirked but complied, taking the bite and chewing while still holding you close.

“My turn,” he said, grabbing something off the plate and lifting it to your lips.

You took the bite, humming in satisfaction as he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap. He rested his chin against your shoulder, clearly more relaxed now, eyes half-lidded and full of something soft.

“Mm,” you mumbled while chewing, “we’re gonna get too comfortable and fall asleep right here.”

“I could live with that,” Jongho said against your shoulder, voice low and warm.

You turned your head slightly, brushing your nose against his cheek.

“You still wanna join the fire outside?” you asked gently.

He shrugged. “If you want to. I’m good either way.”

You smiled, watching how the flickering lights inside danced in his eyes. “Let’s finish this, then maybe we’ll go warm up by the fire.”

“Only if you promise to keep feeding me,” he murmured with a small smirk.

You laughed, feeding him another bite without hesitation. “Always.”

After finishing up the last few bites from Wooyoung’s platter (and playfully fighting over the final piece), you and Jongho finally stood, stretching just a little before making your way through the house and out into the backyard.

The fire pit was already lit, its flames dancing gently in the cool night air. The warmth reached out to greet you the second you stepped outside, the scent of wood smoke and toasted marshmallows floating lazily in the breeze.

Hongjoong stood nearby with a set of metal skewers, looking like a Pinterest dad with his sleeves rolled up and a mug of something warm in hand. San and Wooyoung were already seated around the fire, Wooyoung aggressively roasting three marshmallows at once while San was arguing with Yunho about the “correct” way to make a s’more.

You and Jongho walked over quietly, hand in hand, and dropped down onto a bench across from them. The fire cast a soft orange glow across his face as he tugged you closer, your knees brushing, your bodies naturally leaning into each other.

“There they are,” Wooyoung announced dramatically. “The lovebirds finally decided to grace us with their presence.”

“You’re just mad we didn’t need your s’more tutorial,” you teased, grabbing a skewer from the pile and poking the fire with it.

“I give great s’more advice,” he argued.

“You almost lit your sleeve on fire ten minutes ago,” San pointed out.

“Details.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Seonghwa passed out mugs of hot cocoa with cinnamon sticks in them—because of course he did—and you took one with a quiet “thank you,” your fingers brushing warm against the mug as you sipped.

Jongho sat back, letting you rest against his side as he draped his arm around your shoulders. He was quiet, as usual, but his eyes were softer than usual too, reflecting the firelight as he watched everyone talk and laugh.

You looked up at him, smiling softly. “You good?”

He nodded; voice low. “Yeah. I like this.”

“Me too,” you said, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

Wooyoung started telling a story that was probably exaggerated, San was already laughing before he finished, and someone tossed another log onto the fire, sending sparks swirling upward into the night.

And in the middle of all of it—your arm wrapped snugly around Jongho’s, the fire crackling at your feet, the sound of laughter all around you, and the kind of night that felt just a little too perfect to be real—you closed your eyes for a second and simply existed in it.

That peace, however, was short-lived.

Wooyoung, with his signature smirk and zero sense of personal space, suddenly swooped in and grabbed Jongho’s arm, dramatically wrapping it tighter around you like he was making a grand romantic gesture.

“There we go,” Wooyoung grinned. “Make it look like a K-drama, come on.”

Jongho blinked, processing the moment… then immediately blushed, his entire face turning that soft pink hue he always got when someone caught him off guard. He glared at Wooyoung and threw a light punch to his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make a point.

“Ow!” Wooyoung fake-cried, laughing even as he stumbled back. “Abuse! I’m just trying to spread love!”

San, witnessing the chaos from the other side of the fire, snorted into his drink. “He’s so whipped. It’s adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh as you leaned into Jongho a little more, smug. “You know… you didn’t have to pull me closer.”

“I was already holding you,” Jongho muttered, flustered as ever.

“Mmhm,” you teased. “Sure you were.”

He groaned softly and buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t hang out with you when they’re around.”

“Yes, you can,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You just have to accept your fate.”

“Unfortunately,” he mumbled, but you felt the way his grip on you tightened slightly, like even in the embarrassment, he wouldn’t change a thing.

And as Wooyoung retold the moment to Yunho like it was a dramatic soap opera twist, and San tried to burn a marshmallow into a torch for no reason at all, you and Jongho just stayed wrapped up in your own little world.

A little chaotic. A little sweet. Just perfect.

After the fire had burned low and the group began to scatter with tired smiles and warm goodbyes, you and Jongho decided to call it a night too. This time, though, instead of him staying at your place—you went home with him.

His apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the hum of the city faint through the windows. You kicked off your shoes and stretched with a sleepy sigh, the scent of smoke from the fire pit still clinging to your clothes.

You frowned, tugging at your hoodie. “Ugh, I smell like burnt marshmallow and regret.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow as he tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. “So… the usual?”

You gave him a dramatic look. “Rude.”

He chuckled as you wandered into his room, flopping onto his bed without a second thought. You buried your face into his pillow and groaned, muffled, “All my clothes smell like smoke. Can I borrow yours?”

When you peeked up at him, you gave your best puppy-eyed look—the one he never resisted.

He sighed playfully, already walking over to his closet. “Why do you even ask when you know I’m gonna say yes?”

“Because I like the illusion of choice,” you said with a grin.

He tossed you one of his oversized shirts and a pair of soft joggers. “Here. You better give these back.”

You stood up and took the clothes with a proud little smirk. “Are you sure about that?”

He paused mid-step, turning to look at you. “Are you… not going to give them back?”

You shook your head slowly, backing toward the bed with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Why would I?”

And then—with a dramatic flourish—you threw yourself backward onto his bed, hugging his pillows to your face like you’d just found treasure.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched up. “You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

He walked over to the edge of the bed and leaned down, hands resting beside your head on the mattress. “Unfortunately,” he murmured, his voice soft, eyes warm.

You looked up at him with a sleepy smile. “You love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I do.”

You changed into his clothes, the fabric instantly comforting—warm, familiar, like being wrapped in him. His hoodie was far too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands, and the scent of him clung to every thread.

When you walked out of the bathroom, hair tied back and face washed clean, Jongho was already under the covers, the lamp casting a soft, golden glow over the room. He looked up at you with that gentle, sleepy gaze—the one he only gave you when it was just the two of you, in moments like this.

You slipped into bed beside him without a word. The second your head hit the pillow, his arm was already around you, pulling you close like you were exactly where you belonged.

You melted into him, one leg wrapping around his as you rested your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand slid into your hair, fingers brushing softly along your scalp.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

The world had quieted outside those walls. No teasing friends, no firelight crackle, no playful chaos—just warmth, soft breathing, and a sense of peace that couldn’t be faked.

“Comfortable?” he whispered, lips brushing against your forehead.

“Mmm,” you hummed sleepily. “You make the best pillow.”

“I try.”

You smiled against him. “Thanks for tonight.”

He kissed your temple. “Thanks for staying.”

You let out a long, content sigh as your eyelids grew heavier, your body sinking further into his hold.

“Don’t let go,” you murmured, voice trailing off.

“Never,” he whispered.

And with that, the room faded into silence—his arms wrapped around you, your breaths slowly syncing, hearts steady and full. The night wrapped itself around you both like a lullaby, gentle and safe.

And sleep came easy.

Together.

---

The next day rolled in peacefully, slow and golden. You and Jongho got up late, lounged around for a bit, shared a lazy breakfast, and eventually decided to head out for the afternoon—no real plan, just time together.

You ended up at a small local restaurant, the kind with cozy lighting and the smell of good food wafting out the door before you even stepped inside. You were excited, already scanning the menu in your head, and as you walked up to the counter to order, Jongho followed close behind.

But something felt… different.

You were halfway through telling the cashier your order when you felt him standing unusually close behind you—close-close. His chest nearly brushed your back, and you could feel the low hum of tension in the way he stood. His arms were loose at his sides, but his presence was… hovering. Protective. Watchful.

You blinked, confused for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder.

Jongho wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on something across the room, jaw slightly clenched, body stiff. His posture was straight, shoulders squared, like he was trying to make himself look bigger. Tougher.

You leaned back slightly into him, enough to get his attention without drawing the room’s.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, a little amused but mostly curious.

His eyes flicked down to you, then softened just slightly. “Yeah.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting like a bodyguard. What’s going on?”

He glanced toward the corner again before muttering, “Guy over there’s been looking at you since we walked in.”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

Jongho nodded subtly, his tone low. “Didn’t like the way he smiled at you when we walked past. Just being careful.”

You bit back a small laugh, touched and a little flattered by his subtle burst of possessiveness. “Jongho… you’re kind of puffing your chest out right now.”

“Am not.”

“You are,” you whispered, grinning. “You look like you're trying to win a fight you haven't even been challenged to.”

He huffed softly and shrugged, but he didn’t back down. “He was looking at you like he wanted to come over. Not happening.”

You finished placing the order, thanked the cashier, and then turned fully to face him, poking his chest gently. “You’re cute when you get all bodyguard mode.”

He frowned slightly, but the way his hand slipped around your waist said more than his words. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “And I love it. Just don’t forget you already won, okay?”

That finally earned a small smile from him. “Yeah… I know.”

He still kept a hand on you the whole time you waited for the food—just in case.

You both took your food to a quieter table in the corner of the restaurant, tucked near the window. Jongho sat across from you, unusually quiet as he picked at his food. Normally, you’d be sharing bites, making sarcastic comments about the weird decor, or teasing each other over who ordered better.

But today… something was different.

You watched him for a few moments, catching the way his eyes kept flicking to the door, then to you, then down at his plate. His body was here, but his mind? Somewhere else.

You reached across the table, gently touching his hand. “Hey,” you said softly. “What’s going on with you today?”

He looked up slowly, blinking like you’d pulled him out of a deep thought. “Huh?”

“You’ve been acting kinda off since this morning,” you said gently. “And not in a bad way. Just… distant. Like you’re stuck in your head.”

He hesitated, glanced out the window, and then sighed, resting his forearms on the table.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s you, so it’s definitely not stupid,” you said, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “Talk to me.”

Jongho was quiet for a beat, then spoke without looking at you. “I think I just… noticed a lot yesterday. At the party. The way people talk to you. Look at you. And it’s not that I don’t trust you—I do. I really do.”

You stayed quiet, letting him get it out.

“It’s just… I’m not used to feeling this way. I guess I’ve been thinking like… what if one day you realize I’m not enough? That you could have someone easier. Louder. Cooler.”

Your heart sank, but not in a heavy way—in the way that comes from seeing someone you love finally to reveal something they’ve been carrying alone.

You got up without a word and moved to his side of the booth, sliding in next to him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up—but when you reached for his hand again, he held onto it like a lifeline.

“Jongho,” you said softly, “I didn’t fall for you because you’re loud or flashy. I fell for the quiet, thoughtful, stubborn, protective, real parts of you. And you are so enough. More than enough.”

He finally looked at you, and you could see it in his eyes—uncertainty mixing with that deep need to believe you.

You rested your forehead gently against his. “I don’t want easier. I want you. Always have.”

His breath hitched just slightly. “Even when I get weirdly possessive in restaurants?”

You laughed softly. “Especially then.”

He let out a breath of relief, his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be possessive.”

“You’re not possessive,” you whispered. “You’re just in love. And so am I.”

And for the first time that day, Jongho relaxed. Fully. Shoulders softening, tension draining, hand tightening gently around yours as if silently saying, thank you.

After lunch, you gently tugged Jongho’s hand and led him outside, not saying much—just quietly guiding him toward the small walking path near the park nearby. The air was cool but crisp, and the late afternoon sun painted everything in soft golden hues.

He didn’t resist, just walked beside you in silence, his fingers tangled loosely with yours. He hadn’t fully shaken whatever he was feeling—his quiet tension still clung to him, like he was fighting thoughts too loud for the peaceful atmosphere around you.

You let the silence stretch for a while, giving him space. Sometimes the best thing you could offer wasn’t words—it was just being there.

Still, your heart ached. You could feel how deep his fear ran. And you knew it—because you carried the same one.

You slowed your steps and finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know… sometimes I get scared too.”

Jongho glanced over, a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to speak.

“Scared of what?” he asked, his tone softer now.

You kept your eyes on the path ahead. “That someone else will come along. Someone louder. Funnier. Prettier. Someone who doesn’t cry when they get overwhelmed or overthink every little thing. Someone who doesn’t wear your hoodies and ‘forget’ to return them on purpose.”

You tried to smile, but it trembled.

Jongho stopped walking, gently pulling you with him. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek as he made you look at him.

“You’re scared of me leaving?”

You nodded slowly. “I think about it more than I’d like to admit.”

He blinked, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But… you’re you. You’re everything.”

You gave a breathy laugh. “That’s exactly what I think about you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind rustled through the trees around you, and the sun dipped just a little lower in the sky. But something shifted in that silence—something honest and wide open.

“I always feel like I don’t deserve you,” he said finally. “Like you’re gonna wake up one day and realize you settled.”

“And I always feel like I’m not enough,” you admitted. “That you’re gonna meet someone who doesn’t get anxious over dumb things, someone cooler, prettier… someone better.”

Jongho stepped closer, both hands holding your face now, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t see anyone else.”

Your voice cracked a little. “Me neither.”

He kissed you, slow and grounding—like he was pouring all the words he didn’t know how to say into that one moment.

And when he pulled away, he didn’t go far. He just wrapped his arms around you and held you, right there on the path, like he was anchoring both of you in place.

Two imperfect people. Both afraid. Completely in love.

And holding each other like they’d never let go.

“You’ve never kissed me in public like that before…” you murmured, voice small and heart still racing. Your cheeks burned instantly, that warmth spreading all the way to your ears.

Jongho looked at you, a little shy himself, but smiling.

“I know,” he said quietly. “Guess I stopped caring who sees when it’s about you.”

You blinked, stunned speechless for half a second—and then he laughed, trying to play it off before his own face turned pink.

“I wish I could do more to prove how much I love you,” he added, scratching the back of his neck. “But it’s hard being broke.”

You laughed softly, the kind that came straight from your chest, warm and full of everything you felt. “That was enough,” you said, voice sweet as honey. “More than enough.”

He glanced at you, and you swore there was a shine in his eyes he was trying to hide.

You walked back to his place hand-in-hand, the world quieter now, both of your hearts a little more settled.

Once inside, you grabbed your bag from the side of the couch, letting out a small sigh. “I need to get ready for work.”

Jongho sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same soft look he always saved for these moments—when things felt too good and too short.

“If you want to visit me again tonight,” you said as you slipped your shoes on, turning back toward him with a small smile, “I’d love it.”

You leaned in, kissing his cheek gently, slower this time. “I always do better when you’re around.”

Jongho nodded, his voice low. “Then I’ll be there.”

You gave him one last look—affection in your eyes, a silent promise between you—before stepping out the door, already missing him the second it clicked shut behind you.

And behind it, Jongho just sat there, hand resting where you kissed him, heart full and already counting down the hours until he saw you again.

Work wasn’t too hectic yet, which was a blessing. The evening had barely begun, and the restaurant was still in that calm before the storm—dim lights, soft music, quiet chatter from a few early diners.

Your manager waved you off with a warm smile. “It’s slow for now—go ahead and chill until we pick up.”

You nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”

You slipped behind the bar and perched on one of the staff stools tucked to the side, your apron tied loosely, hair tucked behind your ears. Your coworker, Mina, glanced at you with a knowing smirk.

“Long night?” she asked as she shook a drink behind the counter.

You smiled to yourself. “No… actually, it was perfect.”

She raised a brow, passing you a drink she threw together with a wink. “Perfect usually has a name.”

You laughed, taking a sip. “It does. And he might be visiting later.”

Your coworker grinned. “Jongho?”

You nodded, pulling out your phone and shooting him a quick message.

As your coworker Mina moved back to prep for the night rush, you leaned your elbows on the bar and stared out at the slowly filling restaurant, sipping your drink and letting your thoughts wander. You could already picture it—Jongho walking in, hoodie on, soft eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. And then that small smile of his, the one no one else really got to see.

You sat at the bar, slowly nursing your drink, phone face-up next to you in case Jongho replied. A few more customers started trickling in, the soft hum of the restaurant gradually picking up—but it was still manageable, still slow enough to breathe.

Mina passed by again, offering a playful, “Still no Jongho?”

You smiled. “Not yet. He’s probably on his way, though.”

You turned back to the entrance just in time to see a familiar face walk in—not Jongho.

It was him. That guy from the party. The one who hit on you outside the bathroom.

Your stomach dipped a little.

He didn’t seem to notice you at first, heading straight to the hostess stand. But then, as the host led him toward a table near the bar, his eyes scanned the room—and landed on you.

He stopped. Smirked.

You immediately looked away and pretended to scroll on your phone, heart beating faster—not out of fear, just discomfort.

Mina leaned in slightly, whispering, “You good?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… someone I was hoping not to see again.”

The guy casually took his seat, now just a few feet from the bar, and—of course—turned his chair slightly like he was already angling for another conversation.

And as if on cue, your phone buzzed.

"On my way there, don't fall asleep before I arrive." You read the message.

You smiled at the message—but when you glanced up, you noticed the guy was still watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just… like he was waiting to catch your attention again.

You took another sip of your drink, this time slower, more focused. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t threatened. But you were really hoping Jongho walked through that door soon.

Because some people just didn’t know when to quit.

You set your drink down with a quiet clink and slowly exhaled through your nose. The guy was still watching you—subtle, not obvious enough to call attention, but persistent. Like he thought there was still a chance you’d come over and entertain him.

You weren’t about to play that game again.

You stood from your seat behind the bar and walked out to the front casually, as if checking on something, then circled back toward his table—keeping it professional, but not shy.

His eyes lit up slightly as you approached. “Hey,” he said, that same smug smile creeping onto his face. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

You gave him a short, polite smile. “Yeah, funny how small the city is.”

“You work here?” he asked, eyebrows raising.

“I do,” you replied, voice even and calm. “Which means I’m here to take care of paying customers… not to be flirted with during my shift.”

That made him blink. “Whoa—relax, I was just being nice.”

“No,” you said, gently crossing your arms, “you were being persistent. Last night wasn’t the time, and neither is now. I’m not interested. I’m with someone. Respect that.”

He opened his mouth like he was about to argue, voice dropping into something smug.

“I promise I’m more fun,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to your legs. “Your little boy toy isn’t here to protect you.”

Before you could react, his hand slid up your thigh.

But before your body could even register the shock, the sharp slam of glass against wood cracked through the moment like thunder.

Mina.

She stood tall behind the bar, jaw tight, eyes locked on the guy with the coldest glare you’d ever seen her wear. The bottle she slammed down stood upright—but it was clear the threat wasn’t subtle.

“She is not interested,” she said, voice like steel. “Leave her alone. Or I’ll call security. And trust me, I won’t be the one to regret that.”

You didn’t say anything right away—but the small smirk on your lips said everything. You straightened your posture, eyes locking with the guy’s, letting him see exactly how done you were.

And then, before he could even respond—you felt it.

A shift in the room. A ripple of heat.

You glanced toward the door—and there he was.

Jongho.

His eyes locked instantly on the scene—on you, and the guy’s hand still on your thigh.

And that was all it took.

He stormed over in three long, heavy strides. No words. No hesitation. His hand grabbed the guy by the collar, yanking him up from his seat with a strength you didn’t see coming.

The guy stumbled back, shocked. “What the—”

Jongho’s chest puffed out, standing between you like a wall, eyes burning. “Don’t you ever touch her again.”

His voice was low, but full of fire. Calm in a terrifying way.

The guy tried to play it off, holding his hands up. “Hey, hey—I didn’t know she was—”

“You knew,” Jongho snapped. “And you didn’t care.”

The guy froze, realizing he wasn’t winning this one. Not against Jongho’s death stare. Not with half the restaurant watching. Not when Mina still had her hand on the bottle, like she wanted a reason to throw it.

Jongho stepped forward again, his voice a warning. “Leave. Before I make sure you can’t come back.”

The guy didn’t argue this time.

He turned and stormed off, muttering under his breath, disappearing out the front door in seconds.

Silence hung in the air for a beat—tense, charged, heavy.

Then Jongho turned to you.

His breathing was shaky, and his hands—though clenched moments ago—were now soft as he reached out to check on you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded slowly, heart racing. “Yeah. Thanks to you… and Mina.”

Mina gave a low whistle, finally relaxing. “Damn. That was kind of hot.”

You laughed, still breathless. “Kinda?”

Jongho didn’t smile, not yet. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing under your eye.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

You leaned into him. “You were right on time.”

And as the tension began to melt, and Mina muttered something about needing a real drink after that, you clung to the one truth that mattered most:

Jongho didn’t just show up.

He showed up for you.

Every time.

After the guy was gone, your manager came over, told you to take a break, maybe step outside for a bit—and without hesitation, Jongho had his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you out through the side door, away from the noise.

The evening air was cooler now, the city lights flickering just beyond the alley behind the restaurant. It was quiet back here, save for the distant hum of traffic and the thud of your own heartbeat finally beginning to slow.

Jongho leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, gaze downcast. His chest was still rising and falling a little faster than usual.

You stood next to him for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Then, softly, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s supposed to be my question.”

You turned to him, gently nudging your shoulder against his. “Well, I’m asking first.”

He looked at you then—eyes a little glossy with all the emotion he was holding back. “I almost lost it in there.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t. You handled it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated with himself. “I walked in and saw his hand on you and… I didn’t think. I just reacted.”

“You were protecting me,” you said quietly. “It wasn’t too much. Not to me.”

His eyes searched yours, almost like he didn’t believe you at first. “I was scared.”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“That I was too late,” he admitted. “That something would happen, and I wouldn’t be there. That you’d be hurt or scared and I couldn’t stop it.”

You stepped closer, slowly, carefully, and placed your hands on either side of his face, guiding his gaze back to yours.

“I was scared too,” you whispered. “But then you were there. And suddenly I wasn’t anymore.”

His eyes closed at your touch, leaning slightly into your hands.

“You didn’t fail me, Jongho. You never do.”

He opened his eyes again, softer now. “You’re really okay?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his chest. “I am now.”

He held you close, arms wrapping around your shoulders tightly, like if he let go, the whole world might fall apart again.

You stood there like that for a while, just holding each other under the quiet city sky. No pressure. No noise. Just the safety of his arms and the weight of everything unspoken settling between you in the most honest way.

Finally, he whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the wind, “I love you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “I love you too. So much.”

He smiled then—small, real, and full of everything you needed.

“Let’s go home after your shift,” he said softly. “I just wanna be with you.”

“Deal,” you whispered, taking his hand again.

And together, you stepped back inside—stronger, closer, and more in love than ever.

•

A/N: I hope you enjoyed :3 (I actually decided to make an entire series of this that is in my drafts already hehehe (this is just a short version, but I might tweak some of it in the actual series)

#ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #jongho fanfic #jongho x reader #choi jongho x reader #jongho scenarios #ateez fluff #ateez scenario #ateez fic #jongho #ateez jongho #ateez jongho x reader #jongho fluff

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wayvchip · 10 months ago

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cute dates with boyfriend!wayv

kun invites you over to his apartment to cook dinner and have a relaxing wine night. except maybe it wasn't that relaxing since you both turn it into a tipsy masterchef cooking competition. although you are quite intimidated by his cooking skills, you don't let that stop you from trying your best (which wasn't very good). kun, being the nicest guy ever, lets you win. the winner chooses the loser's punishment. you make him wear an embarrassing apron that says "kiss the cook but don't touch the buns" kun complies and prays the pictures you took of him on your phone never end up in yangyang's hands, or else he would never hear the end of it.

ten loves volunteering at the animal shelter, especially a shelter with lots of cats who need extra love and attention. you and ten spend the whole day playing with the cats, feeding them, cleaning out their cages, and brushing their fur. he almost wants to adopt yet another cat or two or three, but you gently remind him this isn't in real life neko atsume so he cannot collect all the cats in the world (unfortunately). ten's eyes soften when he sees you cuddling a senior kitty and he can't help but think to himself he wants to raise many cats with you in the future.

winwin would take you to the beach on a sunny day to enjoy the light breeze and salty air until the sun sets. you notice how he doesn't even try to hide the fact that he is checking you out. winwin compliments you endlessly and gives you one of his jackets to cover up because he hates the thought of other people staring at you. throughout the day, you help each other reapply sunscreen, and you giggle whenever he struggles to squeeze the tube that barely has any sunscreen left, because it sounds exactly like someone after they eat taco bell. during moments he thinks you aren't looking, winwin manages to find a pretty pearly white seashell among the billions of grains of sand and gives it to you.

xiaojun would invite you over to his place and you guys spend the whole time building legos and geeking out over the newest flower and plant lego sets. he starts sweating when your hand accidentally touches his hand while reaching for the same lego piece, even though you guys are literally dating. silly ahh boy. after you both finish building the set in one sitting, xiaojun makes you one of his famous oreo mug cakes, and he makes sure to lightly blow on the spoonful of batter to cool it down before feeding it to you and watching you eat it (he is so whipped for you)

hendery would take you to a hong kong style cafe. it's cozy and cute, and has lots of history behind how the shop came to be what it is today. you have trouble deciding what to order since you are unfamiliar with cantonese food but hendery excitedly explains each dish in detail just for you. once you decide what to get, hendery orders for you in cantonese, which makes you fall in love with him all over again. his eyes light up when you show interest in learning a few canto phrases and he feels his heart melt a little when you repeat after his words and ask if your pronounciation was okay.

yangyang loves going to the arcade section in the amusement park. the bright, colorful lights, silly circus music, and sound effects from the machines makes him feel like he's reliving his childhood again. yangyang tries to show off his claw machine skills because he wants to impress you. he literally tries so hard and finally wins a plushie for you after his like eleventh attempt. while yangyang is rambling on about how the "claw machine was rigged" and how "it wasn't a skill issue" on his part, you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which makes him shut up immediately and start blushing furiously.

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bangchansdirty-slut · 1 year ago

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"Would you like another one?"

Paring: Baker!Felix x Bottom!Male reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Brownie Boy decides to put a little something inside a brownie he made just for you so he can get a special ingredient for his frosting.

More: Masterlist

A/n: I wrote this half-awake today. Also, should I make a fem version of this? Anyways enjoy! And requests are opened.

M/n stepped into the dimly lit bakery, the smell of freshly baked pastries filling the air. It was well past closing time, but Felix, M/n's best friend and the baker extraordinaire, had left a light on for him. The two of them shared a special bond, one that transcended mere friendship; they were practically inseparable. M/n wove through the empty tables, the chairs on top of them, and the counters covered in neatly stacked bowls of freshly whipped cream and sprinkles. He rounded the corner to find Felix in the back, his hands covered in flour, his face beet red from the heat of the oven.

"Hey, Felix," M/n called out, setting his bag down on the counter. "You know you could've just texted me to come back later."

Felix laughed, wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron. "Oh, you know me, M/n. I always like to see you." He glanced at the clock, then back at M/n. "But since you're here, why don't you help me with these cupcakes? I made an extra-large batch today, and I could use an extra pair of hands."

M/n nodded, stepping up to the counter. He loved helping Felix in the kitchen; it always made him feel so… useful. Together, they worked in companionable silence, piping icing onto the cupcakes and decorating them with sprinkles. After a few minutes, Felix paused and leaned in close. "You know," he whispered, "I made a special brownie just for you."

M/n's stomach growled at the mention of brownies. "You did?" Felix grinned, handing him the pan. "Go ahead, take it. I already put it in the oven, so it should be nice and warm."

As M/n carried the pan over to the oven, he felt a surge of warmth in his chest. It wasn't just from the heat of the oven; it was the thoughtfulness behind Felix's gesture. He set the pan on the counter, taking a deep breath in anticipation of the first bite. He glanced over at Felix, who was carefully icing one of the cupcakes, and found himself wondering how long it had been since they'd had a night like this, just the two of them.

Time seemed to slow down as he took a bite of the brownie. The chocolate was rich and fudgy, the walnuts providing a pleasant crunch against his teeth. But it wasn't long before he felt a strange sensation washing over him. His cheeks flushed, his heart raced, and he found himself unable to meet Felix's gaze. "Um," he stammered, putting the half-eaten brownie down on the counter. "Felix, I think you put something in this brownie."

Felix laughed, walking over to stand behind M/n. "You mean the aphrodisiac?" he asked, his breath hot against M/n's ear. "Don't worry about it. It's all natural, and it'll make things more fun."

As the effects of the aphrodisiac continued to take hold, M/n found himself growing more and more uncomfortable. His heart raced, and he could feel a warmth building in his groin. "Felix," he said, his voice strained, "I don't feel so good."

Felix placed a reassuring hand on M/n's shoulder. "It's okay, M/n. Just relax. You're with me, and I won't let anything happen that you don't want." He guided M/n over to the counter and helped him sit down. "Now, just take deep breaths and try to calm down."

As M/n tried to steady his breath, Felix retrieved a bowl from the cupboard and placed it on the counter. "I'm going to help you feel better," Felix whispered, his voice low and soothing. He knelt down in front of M/n and gently urged him onto all fours. "Just like this."

M/n felt a mixture of embarrassment and arousal as he obeyed Felix's instructions. His heart raced, and he couldn't help but wonder what Felix was planning to do next. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Felix had retrieved a bottle of frosting from a drawer. "Felix?" he whimpered.

Felix smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, M/n. I'm just going to make sure you're comfortable. This will help." He dipped his fingers into the cupcake frosting onto his fingers before slowly, carefully parting M/n's cheeks. "Just try to relax and enjoy this."

As Felix's fingers traced circles around M/n's anus, his touch was surprisingly gentle. He started by just teasing the entrance, using his fingertips to spread the icing that was already there. Then, with a soft moan, he began to slowly push one finger inside. M/n let out a soft gasp, his body tensing up, but Felix continued to move in and out of him, careful not to go too deep or too fast.

With each thrust of his fingers, Felix pressed harder against the spot that made M/n squirm the most. It felt so good, but at the same time, it was almost too much. His hips bucked involuntarily against Felix's hand, begging for more contact. "Felix…" he moaned, his voice barely audible over the sound of their breathing.

As Felix's fingers expertly worked their magic, M/n couldn't help but notice the wet, sticky sensation that was starting to build between his legs. The aphrodisiac was doing its job, and his arousal was growing by the second. He could feel himself becoming more and more engorged, the head of his cock beginning to peek out from the folds of his foreskin.

Just when M/n thought he couldn't take any more, Felix withdrew his fingers and knelt down behind him. M/n felt the warmth of his breath against his sensitive skin before he felt the tip of Felix's tongue press against his entrance. With a soft, wet lick, Felix began to circle his tongue around M/n's opening, gradually easing deeper and deeper. M/n arched his back, moaning loudly as the sensation sent waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

As Felix continued to tongue-fuck him, his hand found its way between their bodies, teasing and stroking M/n's engorged cock. He slowly began to jerk him off, matching the rhythm of his hand with the movements of his tongue. M/n felt like he was about to explode, the pleasure building inside him with each thrust of Felix's tongue and each stroke of his hand.

With a final, deep thrust, Felix pushed his tongue as far inside as it would go, and M/n felt the familiar tingle in his balls that signaled his impending orgasm. He let out a long, shuddering moan as his hips bucked wildly against Felix's hand. His cock jerked violently in Felix's grip, spewing hot cum across the palm of his hand and into the bowl with frosting in it beneath M/n. The release was intense, overwhelming, and blissful all at once.

As the last spurt of cum pulsed from his cock, Felix pulled his tongue away and licked his lips, looking pleased with himself. He reached over to the counter and picked up the bowl, holding it up for M/n to see. "There you go, M/n," he said with a grin. "Your special gift for me." He held up one of the cupcakes with the icing that had been mixed with M/n's cum and offered it to him. "Go on, eat it up."

Still catching his breath, M/n reached out and took the cupcake from Felix, his heart racing. He took a bite, savoring the sweet, salty flavor that was uniquely his. As he chewed, he felt a new wave of arousal begin to stir inside him. He looked up at Felix, who was watching him intently, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Felix smirked and grabbed another cupcake from the counter. He knelt down beside M/n once again and placed the cupcake between his legs, directly against his engorged cock. "Here, M/n," he purred, "why don't you finish yourself off with this?" He pressed the cupcake firmly against M/n's throbbing member, the icing already smeared with their combined essence.

M/n groaned, feeling the familiar pressure building inside him. He closed his eyes and reached down, using one hand to guide the cupcake against his cock. With a sharp thrust, he impaled himself on the cupcake, moaning loudly as the sensation sent shockwaves of pleasure through his body. His hips bucked wildly, fucking himself on the cupcake as he came, his cum splattering against the icing and coating both their hands.

Felix leaned in, capturing M/n's lips in a deep, passionate kiss. He could taste himself on M/n's tongue, the tangy flavor mixing with the sweetness of the cupcakes. As their tongues danced together, Felix reached down and stroked M/n's cock, milking the last drops of cum from him. He continued to kiss him, their bodies pressed tightly together, until they both collapsed in a heap on the floor, breathless and spent.

Slowly, Felix pulled away, his eyes trailing up and down M/n's naked form. "Mmm…that was quite the show, M/n," he purred. "You're quite the talented performer." He picked up the tray of cupcakes and held it out to him.

"Would you like another one?"

#bangchansdirty-slut #stray kids smut #stray kids #felix smut #felix x male reader #male reader #lee felix #kpop x male reader #kpop x reader #stray kids x male reader #stray kids x reader #felix x reader #felix lee #felix x you #felix x y/n #felix stray kids

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moirasdolly · 6 months ago

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I don’t want to be a greedy bastard but if at some point you feel inspired to write more mtf!JQ I would 👹❤️😩💀👹🎀🥹😩❤️👹🎀👹👹🩷🎀🩷🫵😚😩👹🎀🩷

Junker Queen with a Housewife Reader ˖ ࣪ 𝇋♡︎𝇌 ׂ

Contains: NSFW (men and minors dni), fem reader, trans jq, fucking on the kitchen counter, reader is wearing a frilly apron, jq is kind of rough

Listening to ♪ ིྀ: Stargirl Interlude - The Weeknd and Lana Del Rey

Notes: It’s been TOOOOO LONG since this request i’m sorry I’m just barely getting to it T^T, I hope these hcs suffice though !! I love my buff wife

• Your wife had been coming home stressed everyday, and as much as she claimed your presence alone helped her, you wanted to do something extra… special for her.

• Ever the sweet, kind hearted, angel you were, you decided to doll yourself up for her. Going all out you were adorned in a little, pink, frilly apron and matching lacy panties that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A velvet choker wrapped around your neck snuggly and thin ribbons decorated your hair. Your long lashes framed your pretty doe eyes that absolutely drove Dez insane when you looked up at her towering form. And your favorite part (hers too) were the thighs highs being held up by snug garters.

• She adored you anyway you looked, but she couldn’t deny that she loved when you got all done up for her.

• You were at home cooking her favorite meal for her when she had finally returned. A slam of the front door, and the sound of her heavy boots echoing down the hallway rang in your ears before you heard her stop in her tracks.

• You hummed softly as you continued your cooking, not bothering to shoot her a glance to rile her up. Dez was too predictable because not even 5 seconds later, she was pressed against your backside, clearly personal space was something she did not get the concept of (not that you cared.)

• “Hi, Dez.” You finally tossed her a look over your shoulder, pressing a sweet little kiss to the apple of her cheek. Instead of an answer back, her hands trailed to your hips, holding you snuggly. A gasp escaped those pretty lips of yours when you felt her bulge pressing against you. “Someone’s needy today…” You teased with a smile.

• She cursed at the sound of your honey-toned voice, “Fuck, darlin’. You’re killin’ me here.”

• You were trying sooooo hard to keep it together while you prepared dinner, but your wife’s hands were just holding you so tightly, almost with bruising strength. And she was grinding her hips into you so temptingly. Those grunts being pulled out of her throat were just too distracting for you to think about anything else.

• The tell-tale sound of her belt unbuckling and fabric hitting the floor made you bite your lip in anticipation. You wanted to buck your hips back, eager to feel her, but you steadied yourself in anticipation. Instead, you felt Dez’s length slide between your thighs. With a heavy hand she smacked your ass, “Squeeze ‘em, doll.” Obedient as ever, you pressed your thighs together, leaning over the counter to expose yourself for her.

• Her cock was already slick with her arousal as she fucked your thighs, using you to her own liking. Her pace was brutal from the start and she didn’t plan on slowing either. The friction on your clit was barely there and you were whining Dez’s ears off about it. So she took matters into her own hands. Literally. She shoved her middle and index finger into your mouth, shutting you up effectively. “That’s more like it.” She muttered, using your thighs together get off.

• “Gonna cum between those thighs of yours…” She rasped out, grunting in your ears as she painted the inside of your thighs and the kitchen cabinet with her release.

• Her hips stilled and her fingers slid from your mouth with a string of saliva connecting them together. You knew she wasn’t done with you though. Her hand trailed up your body before settling in your hair, grabbing a fist full of it and pulling your head back. “Beg for me.”

• Your brain was already mush, you had no problem begging and pleading for your wife to absolutely destroy you, and to your delight, she had no problem complying.

• She gave you no time to prepare before sliding into your inviting cunt, cursing loudly as she did so. Her grip on your hair didn’t falter either, if anything she pulled you closer. Her free hand pressed against your stomach as she fucked you into the counter.

• Dirty, lewd words were growled into your ear as she fucked you dumb. She was absolutely relentless, but you loved it. Wet squelches, deep grunts, and your high pitched whines were the only noises to be heard and Dez was absolutely eating it up.

• She was hell bent on making you cum without touching your clit, and you were quickly approaching your release.

• With a few final thrusts, your body shook with pleasure, your knees almost buckling beneath you. If Dez wasn’t holding you so tightly, you would have fallen. Not too long after Dez came, releasing into you.

• She slumped forward, her body eclipsing your own. “My pretty baby, ya did so well.” She spoke after a moment, untangling her haha from your hair. When she pulled out you pouted at the empty feeling she left.

• She let one of her hands knead your ass softly before giving you one last smack. You whimpered softly as you felt Dez’s cum dripping down your thighs as you struggled to stand up.

• Your wife scooped you into her arms, peppering your face with soft kisses. It was a 180 from how she was handling you just moments before, but you knew your wife adored you and you loved the soft moments between you two.

• “Let’s get ya cleaned up, baby.”

• Let’s just say once the stove was turned off, whatever you were cooking was forgotten. Dez would rather eat something else for dinner.

#dulcet requests ♡#junker queen x fem reader #junker queen x reader #junker queen #junker queen overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch fanfiction #overwatch #dulcet headcanons ♡

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crunchycat6 · 1 year ago

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time to post stuff that is for me and me only: pizza tower dungeon meshi au (ask me about it i will go insane)

pino’s outfit was tough to work out but i like the idea of him wearing his apron everywhere just because he likes it :] he doesn’t wear much armor aside from chainmail so he doesn’t wear himself out carrying all that weight

i wanted to keep the effect of theo’s mask and i think the hood shadowing most of his face + the rat ear silhouette capture that pretty well, i also like drawing baggy pants and long cloaks

some more ramblings under here

Theo is the party leader and started all this with Hazel/Noisette (she’s basically the party’s cleric) he keeps picking up random people he finds in and out of the dungeon to help him get to the bottom

Theo has made a pretty big name for himself on the surface by parading himself around as a beast man (unlike izutsumi, he doesn’t much care about his dignity) he’s also a talented musician, so he’s pretty rich and famous by the time he decides to dungeon crawl

he hired peppino because the party needed extra muscle (agility isn’t enough to win every fight) and theo of course knows that pino is desperate enough for money to go down with him. pino is very aware of this but goes anyway because. well. yeah he needs the money.

when they first go down into the dungeon, the only people in the party are theo, hazel, peppino and gustavo (and brick) but they find some more friends down there :] in true pizza tower fashion they don’t usually rely on swordfighting or clever thinking and get through the dungeon by brute forcing it (peppino is very good at this)

i’ll try to get some more refs out soon, hazel and gus are probably next but who knows

this is very self indulgent so if you read all this thank you <3 if you have any questions feel free to ask i WILL keep talking

#pizza tower #pizza tower au #pizza dungeon #peppino spaghetti #dungeon meshi #peppino pizza tower #the noise #the noise pizza tower

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angrypotato3 · 1 year ago

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Customer Fem Reader x baker Wanderer

-I wrote this thinking about wanderer but then I realized I never said his name so it can be whoever you want I guess.

-this was kinda rushed and not read over. I made this late at night while I was craving crepes. I’m not very proud of this work.

-reader

-wanderer

-Wanderer’s suppressed thoughts

I look up at the door when I hear the little jingle. It’s her. I feel a strange sensation in my lower stomach, I think people refer to this feeling as butterflies (stupid) why would I be feeling that way toward her.

“Hi YN what do you want today?” I ask when she gets to the counter (I try to hid my excitement the best I can.) “ohh you remember my name.” She says beaming. You guys might be wondering who she is. She’s a regular at my cafe, she comes in every morning before work. She’s very bubbly and friendly, it’s kinda annoying (I love it.)

I scoff “of course I would you come in everyday. Don’t you think you waist too much money here?” I say my face heating up out of embarrassment. “Never, your desserts are the best I’ve ever had.” My face gets even redder at her praise. “You trying to get free food?” (I’ll give it to you anyway) I say once again trying to hide the effect she has on me.

“No no I wasn’t, I genuinely think that.” I look away I can’t look her in the face not with how hot my cheeks are. “So then what can I get you?” “I think today I’ll get an iced coffee with… chocolate and strawberry crepes.” She exclaims excitedly. (Her sweet tooth is so cute.) I put her order into the machine. I cash her out, and tell her to wait at a table for her food and I’ll bring it to her .

I Make her coffee and crepes extra tentatively (want it perfect for her) I also add an extra chocolate cookie (she loves them). I head over to her table. “Here’s your coffee and crepes.” I say placing them in front of her. “Ohh I don’t think I got any cookies.” She says confused. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice “ohh you didn’t, well I can’t take it back now guess I’ll just give it to you for free.” I say hoping she doesn’t notice I did it on purpose.

“Is there any thing else I can help you with?” I ask expecting a no. “Actually there is. Do you have a pen?” I nod and hand her a pen from my apron. She grabs a napkin and writes something down. “Here”she hands me the napkin “my number so we can get to now each other out side of the store.” She says winking at me.

I look down at the napkin, it hasn’t fully dawned on me that she might be into me. Until I finally snap out of my trance. my face flushes a bright red and I nod before scurrying quickly back behind the counter. I definitely will not be contacting her anytime soon (I want to text her right now) and Im definitely not in love with her (I love her so much).

#wanderer fluff #genshin fluff #genshin wanderer #genshin scara #scaramouche #kunikuzushi #wanderer x reader #wanderer x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #genshin x you #genshin x reader

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midnight-hotel · 1 year ago

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Alastor's Radio Sounds Part 2.

Find Part 1 here

Here’s the requested part to of experiencing Alastor’s radio sounds. I’m trying to avoid doing too many headcanon posts but if I find one that intrigues me, I may make an exception.

Naturally it had only been a matter of time before Alastor came to accept that you knew about his barely contained radio sounds. He seemed to have just accepted that you were able to read into him just a little better than everyone else.

Of course, he tried to make it harder for you to gain a reaction though.

He strives to make it harder for you to come up with comebacks, flirted that extra bit to coax a reaction out of you or even prompt something from the radio static that hung around him.

While you initially thought he had no control of the sounds made, you did eventually come to find that there was some control. Sound effects to punctuate his own statements and funny sounds to mock those around him.

Then there was music.

He started to play small snippets of old songs when you were around.

When he was standing behind you, a low tone would play to creep you out or when you were just lounging around and he was reading a book, a gentle melody would play, filling the silence.

One day you had found him in the kitchen, cooking something that actually smelt quite good- though you wouldn’t put it past him to have something strange in there- humming away to a melody playing in the background.

You hadn’t realised that you had been staring until you saw him turn directly towards you, as if completely aware that you had been there the whole time.

Dressed in his usual attire, though his blazer was swapped for an apron, he extended a surprisingly ungloved hand towards you.

You’d hesitate for a moment before approaching, placing your hand on top of his extended one before you’d be pulled in close.

Before you’ve realised what’s happening, the music’s changed and you’re being waltzed around the room.

You could have sworn you weren’t in the kitchen anymore and you were wearing the finest clothes that could be tailored.

You could have sworn he was wearing a full suit again- free of rips and tears that it normally adorned.

You could have sworn he was staring at you adoringly.

And yet by the time you put on a smile and grounded yourself again, you found you were still in the kitchen, the radio demon grinning with you as he gave you a spin.

When he had finally released you to attend to his stew again, he left you with a bow, the music fading away to a round of applause.

You were beginning to think there may be more to his powers to enjoy than just his radio sounds.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #reader #headcanons

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kinardnatural · 5 months ago

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BUCKTOMMY FLUFFEBRUARY DAY 2 - COOKING TOGETHER

@bucktommyfluffebruary

Read on ao3

MENACE IN THE KITCHEN

“That is a lot of carrot.”

Considering that Tommy had cut around seven carrots by now, he would definitely agree that it was indeed a whole lot of carrot.

“That is so much carrot”, Evan says again, laying on the implication pretty thick there between the lines. “We don't need that much carrot for the stew, Tommy.”

Tommy puts down his knife, wipes his palms over his apron and turns to face his boyfriend, ready to see that endearing scowl he always gets when he's being serious and focused on getting things right. Something Tommy seems to have already failed at.

“Maybe you shouldn't have dumped so many carrots on the counter then”, he deadpans, knowing fully well that he is dipping his toes in dangerous waters by challenging Evan when he's in this mode. It is all so worth it just to see the subtle fiery glint flashing in Evan's blue eyes after the initial surprise. Tommy can't help but to grin. The thrill of being able to have that effect on him never seems to die and that is one of the many things he is feeling so grateful for in their relationship.

“I obviously didn't mean for you to cut all of them”, Evan huffs. “Now there's too much carrot. We can't throw them away.”

“I should hope not. I put a lot of time and effort into cutting them so perfectly”, Tommy teases and pops one of said cut pieces into his mouth. “I would hate to spend so much effort for nothing.”

The scowl deepens and Tommy knows that he's awakened the beast that everyone else seems to be so intimidated by. Tommy, however, could not be more pleased, and he knows that Evan knows this fact. So Tommy doesn't move when his boyfriend takes a step forward and jabs a finger onto his chest.

“So what do you suggest we do with the overflow of carrots?”

“Overflow is an overstatement, don't you think?”

“Tommy!”

Oh, there it is. The whining of his name Tommy loves to hear so much along with a pout as the scowl disappears from his boyfriend's face. Satisfied with the result of his subtle taunting, Tommy decides to reward Evan by wrapping his hand around Evan's wrist over his chest to bring the tip of his fingers to his lips. He presses his lips there, kissing them and engulfs his hand with his own. Evan practically melt at this, the scowl and pout completely leaving his face to be replaced with a sweet smile and flushed cheeks.

“Don't worry your adorable head about it, Sweetheart. I obviously have a plan.”

Evan sinks into his space, wrapping both of his arms around Tommy's waist as he rests his chin onto Tommy's shoulder. “Hmm? Of course you do. What's your plan?”

“Snacks for the kids. We got some extra dip. Howie told me Jee has been better with eating her vegetables, I figured that could help when they come over.”

Evan makes a noise close to his ear that Tommy Can't quite make out, but the squeeze around his middle suggests that it's a sound of approval.

“If it weren't for the fact that we'll be having guests soon we'd be halfway through happy land by now”, Evan whines and pulls away slightly to smile up at Tommy who laughs softly.

“Now that would be a waste of effort on this stew. Back to cooking, you mence.”

Evan huffs but plants a long, sweet kiss on Tommy's lips before he goes back to work on the stew.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #my work #bucktommy fluffebruary

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heartofkaylah · 3 months ago

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Coffee with All-Natural Sweetener

Spencer x Barista-Reader (no use of Y/N)

Reader is the barista that works the early morning shift when spencer stops by to get his coffee, she leaves flirty messages on his cup.

{Authors Note: HII this is my first fanfiction, so please bear with me. Feedback and constrictive criticism is encouraged I promise my writing will get better as I go.... hopefully.}

1k words

~~~~ Reader, 1st person POV ~~~~

The soft ding of the bell as the coffee shop door opens, announcing another customer brings me from my thoughts as I finish making the coffee I'm working on.

“Be right with you” I call over my shoulder before finishing the coffee and placing it on the counter to be picked up. Wiping my hands on my apron I turn to the counter, a smile breaking out on my lips as I see Spencer standing there, professionally dressed stopping by before work like always.

“Spencer, your usual?” I ask but I'm already ringing it up before he nods his head. “You look like you haven't slept in… well your whole life.” I don't miss the eye roll from my teasing remarks.

“Work is tiring like usual, besides I haven't had coffee yet.” I can't help the scoff that leaves my mouth as I pull up his total “doubt that, you drink coffee more then water. Your total is 5.50.” I don't even bother handing back the change from the 10, like every day he insists I keep it. I get to work grabbing a cup and writing a little message before preparing his coffee, double espresso with creamer and 6 packets of sugar. I walk back to the counter handing it to him with a smile.

“Extra hot coffee for an extra hot agent” I watch the blush raise up his checks even though this is a daily occurrence.

“You flatter me, though the only reason the coffee gets this hot is because an extra hot barista makes it.” I smile as he flirts back, this is just the way it's been since he started coming to my shop. He's so easy to make blush it's just so cute.

“You basically stole my line and reworded it to fit your scenario, for a FBI agent that's low” I lean on the counter looking into his eyes, a small smirk on my lips.

“Me a thief, never i just took inspiration. Can you fault me when you're just so good with words.” I laugh at his declaration, a sparkle in my eyes, Spencer shifts on his feet getting comfortable as if work is no longer an item in his mind.

“That's nice and all but you should be going, before you're late.” I give him a quick once over with my eyes, not that it was necessary because it was the first thing I did when he came in, but for dramatic effect. “At least you'll be fashionably late.” Spencer's eyes drift to the watch on his wrist, a slight panic that washes off his face when he sees he's not late; he's still right on time.

“Well ill see you, same time tomorrow.”

“Same time tomorrow,” I echo his goodbye as he turns to leave his hand wrapped around the coffee cup. The words “Do you only cuff criminals… or do you make exceptions for cute baristas too” written in pink ink on the cardboard, something Spencer hadn't even realized. As Spencer exits a new face walks in, I straighten up smiling professionally getting back to work.

~~~~ Spencer, 3rd person POV ~~~~

The BAU is lively, agents in their respective spots as Spencer exits the elevator coffee cup in hand and a lingering smile on his face. The atmosphere is cut through as JJ walks in with a thick file in her hands. All heads look up as JJ announces a new case before walking into the briefing room. The team files in after her sitting down, Spencer sets his cup down on the table, the bright pink words catching Derek's attention.

“Emily look at Spencer's cup” Derek whispers as he takes his seat next to Emily who bites back a laugh as she reads the words written. Any and all teasing remarks die off on Derek's tongue as Aaron Hotchner walks in, his presence causing Derek to sit up ready to brief the case but the smirk doesn't fall from his lips.

“Alright everyone, home invasions this is the third one in town. The unsub targets single family homes without fathers” Hotch explains the case as files are passed to everyone. Soon the room is full of flipping pages and murmured theories. Spencer looks up, taking a drink of his coffee as he scans the board.

“Why only homes without fathers, is it the power control? Maybe he's too weak to overpower a man but a wife and kids are fine.” Spencer asks, mainly to himself but everyone's eyes shift to him, thinking over his words.

Derek looks through the files, going over how the victims were found: tucked in bed and covered shows remorse, and food on the table.“Maybe he lost his family, and by doing this it brings his family back, until they fight and break his delusion showing they aren't his family.”

Hotch set the file down looking up at the team, “We’ll debrief on the jet, wheels up in 30.”

Hotch leaves as everyone starts packing up their files. As Spencer starts standing up Derek leans onto the table a small smile on his face “So pretty boy, you using FBI material outside of work?” Confusion crosses through Spencer's eyes as he looks up, Derek's smile turning into a smirk. Spencer fidgets with the hem of his sweater vest, not sure where this conversation is going. “What? I don't know what you're implying Derek, I use the equipment like it's meant for.” Emily shifts in her spot, watching him carefully. “So you don't plan on using your handcuffs on anyone,” She pauses, shooting Derek a look with a smirk “Not even a cute barista?” Her eyes shift from Spencer to the words on his cup and it clicks in Spencer's head as he turns the cup the words now facing him. The red on Spencer's face starts slowly, growing up until his ears and cheeks are dark red with embarrassment. “I- um,” he stutters, not sure how to explain this. “The jet is gonna leave us.” Spencer turns burying his coffee into his chest so the words cannot be seen to any wandering eyes. Emily and Derek's laughter echoing out off the room.

#spencer reid #fanfic #x reader #coffee shop #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #first fanfic

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thewriterthatghostedyou · 1 year ago

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The Butterfly Effect

Chapter 1

Ok so it’s been a whileeeeeee since I’ve written anything lol but I’ve been reading more House of the Dragon fanfics and got ✨inspired✨ by @sepherinaspoppies and @evagreen-stories so if this vibes with you check their stuff out! This will be a dark fic though just a warning for y’all.

Guess this was longer than I intended but I wanted all of the introductions and start of the story in one part. Any feedback or comments are appreciated but never expected! I hope you enjoy!

Trigger warnings: none yet but there will be more next chapter

The heat in the kitchens was more unbearable than usual. The air in the room was typically stuffy due to the large stone ovens the Westerosi people used, but you had forced yourself to become accustomed to the heat. It was worth the effort; however, as having a steady job as a woman was near impossible in this day and age.

You craned your neck down to look at the dough you were rolling and silently thanked your mother for forcing you to help in her bakery as a child. You grew to enjoy baking as you grew up, and luckily had many recipes memorized. You needed money and there were worse ways to get it.

Sweat rolled down your temple as you remembered running through the streets of silk in your jogging outfit, eyes darting fearfully around watching the prostitutes lure in new customers as you took in a new and scary world.

“What is it this time?” The head chef, Naerys, walked over to you, eyeing your work curiously.

You gave the older woman a smile as finished rolling out the dough. “It’s called a croissant. If done right it should be flakey on the outside and airy on the inside.”

Naerys nodded thoughtfully and motioned for you to continue.

“Now we need to let it sit for a while before we store it in a cool place.” You tried to pull your hands from the sticky dough and squeezed any remaining part of it off your fingers as you spoke.

“Impressive work as always.” Naerys gave you a motherly smile as she continued. “We should be prepared for tomorrow.”

“Should be?” You arched a brow at that. “I have prepared everything as much as I possibly can unless you want me to throw it all into the oven now.” As much as you enjoyed your job baking tarts and cakes, your bones creaked from carrying in heavy sacks of flour and longed for sleep.

“Now don’t give me that look, love,” Naerys sighed. “You do good work, and meal wise we are well prepared for tomorrow; however, Ursa fell ill today. We need you to attend to the feast.”

You sighed as you knew where she was going with this. Different worlds or not bosses always have the same look when asking you to go above and beyond your job. And of course the maidservant that tended to the royal family fell ill on the day that Princess Rhaenyra returned to the Red Keep.

“It’s not forever,” Naerys rushed to get out. “Just until Ursa is well again. We cannot afford to lose you here.” You and your recipes more likely. You knew that the nobles enjoyed your modern pastries and more than often found yourself making extra batches to fit the demand. “And if you do this we’ll have Alannys bring in the new bags of flour.” Now that was certainly tempting and your hands were already aching from the massive load you brought in today yourself. What harm could bringing a few plates out do?

You fidgeted with the strings of your apron, white flour clinging to the fabric. “Fine.” You begrudgingly gave in. “I’m not sure what exactly to do though. I’ve never tended to the tables, much less a royal one at that.”

Naerys gave a small exhale of relief and smiled at you brightly. “We’ll have someone else carry in the platters, all you need to do is fill their goblets with wine. Most of the time they will hold it out for you to fill.” Naerys grabbed a nearby clean apron and handed it to you while motioning at your dirtied one. “You must change that though and rebraid your hair my dear, you’ll need to look clean and presentable for the royal family.”

“Of course.” You nodded and quickly untied the old apron. “Is there anything else that I need to know? What will happen if the pitcher runs out of wine?” The dirty apron hit the ground with a light thud as you reached for the clean one. It smelled slightly of soap and was sharply pressed. Naerys was not joking about you looking presentable it seemed.

“Ah yes, the eldest prince, Aegon, will no doubt drink heavily.” She hummed, watching as you finished refastening the apron and removed your cap. At first you thought the big white hat that the servants wore was goofy, but now you appreciated how it would hide any loose curls or hairs as you redid your braids. “Once it is empty you can hand it to a nearby footman and he will fetch you another. Now, let me get a look at you.” Naerys eyed you carefully and pulled your cap back over your head. “Good. Now make haste to the dining room love, you must be there before anyone else.”

She smiled at you one more time as she shoved the pitcher into your hands. “Oh!” She exclaimed softly. “I almost forgot. Do not look them in the eyes, you are not to be seen or heard and try not to eavesdrop as hard as that may be. You will do wonderful.” With that the older woman turned and headed towards another cook toiling over a fire, only pausing to pick up your discarded apron.

You nodded your head quickly, perhaps trying to convince yourself of that very thought as you hurried out of the kitchens. You weren’t sure if the events of Fire and Blood will have changed since you were thrown into this tumultuous world, and you prayed to anyone that would listen that it hadn’t. As gruesome as the Dance of the Dragons was, it was better that you knew what was going to happen before it did.

The Red Keep was much larger than the shows and book made it seem and you still found yourself getting lost in the more obscure winding hallways. It was lucky that the royal dining room was near the library. Although you weren’t allowed entry to the room you still enjoyed walking past it and smelling the old books whenever you could. It reminded you of another time, another world. One that you wished you could go back to.

It was odd how one small choice had led to the upheaval of your entire life.

You needed to snap out of those thoughts. You needed to focus on the task at hand. The past was in the past. You watched as the doors that lined the halls grew more and more ornate as you walked the long trek from the kitchens to the part of the castle the royal family inhabited.

The usually quiet halls covered with plush rugs and richly colored tapestries were bustling as other servants ran around, trying to perfect every last detail before the royal family came for dinner.

You picked up on the smells of honey roasted ham and other various dishes that made your mouth water. Although you worked in the kitchens day in and day out, you never had a chance to sample the food you served to others. Usually it didn’t bother you, you would go back to your small hut near the castle entrance where you shared a home with three other servants and made your own meals. But that didn’t stop your stomach from grumbling slightly as you entered the large dining room. When was the last time you had something to eat?

“Ah there you are!” A footman who had a striking resemblance to a weasel came rushing over to you as your eyes darted around the room. There were a few musicians in the back of the room, testing and strumming their instruments softly and chattering about something you could not overhear. In the middle of the room was a large table filled to the brim with food that you had a part in cooking.

“The king is about to arrive. You may stand over there.” The man gently grabbed your arms and led you across the room into a small barely noticeable alcove next to great velvety curtains that framed windows larger than you.

You only nodded dumbly as he rushed away. You didn’t know what to respond with and even if you did you didn’t know how to phrase it. The people in Westeros spoke some type of Old English that you had trouble mimicking and even back home when there were no odd phrases you had trouble conversing with others. Perhaps if you were lucky everyone would think you were dumb and wouldn’t notice you. You knew of Prince Aegon’s habits with other maids and already regretted agreeing to serve the family.

You were snapped back to reality as cheerful chattering grew closer and the Velaryon boys strode into the room with Princess Rhaenyra and her husband Prince Daemon in tow.

“The Red Keep certainly looks different.” You overheard Jace say to Lady Baela.

“It looks more like the Sept of Baelor but greener.” Baela scoffed, earning a small chuckle from her father.

“It is rather garish is it not?” He responded, pulling out a chair near the middle of the table for his wife before seating himself next to her.

The Princess smiled at the sentiment while Jace and Baela sat across from the pair. “It seems like Alicent has had a hand in the decorations.”

It was as if her words had summoned the queen herself, as Alicent entered with her arm intertwined with the King’s keeping him steady as he struggled to shuffle over to his chair.

If this was following the show this would be his last night alive. You felt the hairs on your arms raise as he fell into his seat harshly but smiled at his daughter with a content expression.

“How good it is to see your face my dear.” He huffed out, ignoring his other children seating themselves on his other side. You noticed in particular as the One-eyed Prince started drinking as soon as he sat down.

Perhaps Aegon wouldn’t be the drunkest tonight after all. You walked on the edges of the room trying to remain unseen as the younger Prince raised his cup for more. You slowly obliged his silent request, focusing more on trying not to over fill the cup than the conversation at hand.

With that done, you stepped back silently and noticed that his brother had also finished. If the dinner had just started and the Princes kept up this pace it’d be a long meal.

The minutes passed slowly as you occasionally refilled cups, more on the green side than the blacks.

Everything seemed to have been going well. Both Rhaenyra and Alicent were talking and laughing with the king before he had to be taken to his chambers to rest. And even you smiled as Jace offered to dance with his aunt. Helaena always was your favorite out of the bunch. And she looked happy as the two of them spun around, something she must not have felt often being married to Aegon.

You flinched as you heard someone clearing their throat and remembered why you were there. Your smile fell quickly as your eyes met the younger Prince’s sneer.

“Oh. Sorry.” You whispered out softly, rushing over to his side. Your hands shook slightly as you watched the red wine pour into his cup. Unlike the other times you attended to the Prince, this time you felt his sharp gaze on you as you worked. Perhaps he just thought you were lazy. You didn’t dare look up though. While the older brother was more often than not blackout drunk, the younger prince was known for his short temper that seemed to be set off at anything and everything. You remembered watching as other maids cried from his stern words and begged for reassignment.

“At least someone is enjoying themselves tonight.” He scoffed, talking quietly so only you could hear. “I’m sure for someone of your…” He paused as his eyes roved your body. “…station, that this is quite the spectacle. You small folk are all so easily entertained.”

You felt your face light on fire at his smug smile. Fucking elitist prick. His words made you seethe for some reason. It wasn’t like you haven’t been called worse, working in the food service industry had given you thick skin, but his remark was the reason you preferred to remain in the kitchens unseen. The nobles were all the same, ungrateful and spoiled.

You were about to open your mouth, perhaps for a clap back that would have cost you your head, when someone did you the favor of bringing out a roasted pig and setting it in front of the one-eyed Prince.

You huffed out a laugh as his cheek twitched at the sight which earned you another searing glare.

“Perhaps you are right. Enjoy the pig, my prince, as I know it reminds you of your first dragon. I cooked it myself.” You tried to keep your voice down but apparently Lucerys Velaryon had overheard and released a small laugh.

Perhaps that is what set off Aemond as he stood up quickly and slammed his hand onto the table. You watched as his face morphed from his twisted sneer to something calmer. More collected.

“Final tribute.” He said with a smile as he raised his cup.

You took this moment to step back as he paused. “To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey.”

Alicent nervously began picking at her nails as her son spoke and the two Velaryon boys eyed Aemond cautiously. “Each of them handsome, wise…” He paused again and seemed to be debating something that he decided to ignore. “Strong.”

“Aemond.” Alicent hissed, eyes nervously darting across the room.

“Come let us drain our cups to these three,” He gave a shit eating grin to Jace as Aegon waved his cup in the air laughing. “Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace snapped, stomping towards his uncle.

“Why? ‘‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourselves strong?” As Jace got closer you watched as he punched Aemond across the face which only caused the One-eyed Prince to laugh as he kept hold of his wine. At the same time you heard Aegon slam Lucerys’ head into the table as he tried to get up.

“Jace!” Rhaenyra shouted, standing up quickly. “That’s enough!”

With a scoff, Aemond shoved Jace away from him and swirled his drink with a bored expression. He pretended not to see the two guards holding back the Velaryons. “It seems I’m in need of more wine.” He gave you a cold smile as he sauntered over.

“Perhaps you’ve had enough.” Alicent said, rushing over to her younger son. “You may leave.” She waved you away dismissively and for the first time that night you had not been happier until Aemond grabbed your arm harshly.

“Nonsense we’ve barely started eating mother.” He shoved his cup towards you again and waved it expectantly. “Well?”

You gave a questioning look to the queen who instead of answering turned her son towards her and waved you away. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?”

You didn’t wait to hear anything else, and instead scurried towards the doors as quickly as you could. You knew you shouldn’t look back at the train wreck behind you but part of you couldn’t help it.

As you closed the heavy door behind you, you noticed one violet eye piercing into you, instead of listening to his mother. It was then that you knew that the Prince would not forget your words.

#fanfic #reader insert #dark aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfiction #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #prince aemond #dark aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond smut #aemond x reader #hotd #house of the dragon

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bookwhimses · 1 month ago

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Ah fuck it, I need to put something made with my heart and soul into the world, here’s the current draft of first chapter of my Doctor Who fic I’ve been working on for nine months, The First Question. It’s Bill Potts-centric, with an OC, you can read more about it and see an earlier draft of the prologue here. Canon compliant retelling of season 10 up until a certain point but for the fact that the OC’s presence is obviously not canon compliant.

WHAT?

That weirdo with the tangerine is watching her again. He also seems to be pretending to read a book, but Bill’s noticed by now that he just does that, he hasn’t actually turned the pages in a long time. Similarly, he hasn’t taken a single bite of his food, either the tangerine or the white bread sandwich. He just sits there at his usual canteen table, watching. In normal circumstances Bill might be annoyed or creeped out by the male attention, but there’s something so distinctly not ‘male attention’ about it. Maybe it’s the way the tangerine weirdo doesn’t look at her boobs or her arse, he doesn’t unpack her with his eyes. He just watches her like he’s watching a television show. His favourite, even. Watching and wishing he could step inside it.

Now Bill thinks of it like that, that should feel annoying or creepy too. Especially considering how big his eyes are – all doll-like, dominating his face. But somehow he isn’t creepy. It’s something about how he moves his pianist hands, the way he delicately pushes his tortoise-shell glasses up his nose with the tip of his pointer finger, and the feminine cameo brooch he always wears on the lapel of his neat, grey tweed jacket. Bill’s been where she’s pretty sure he is, kin watching kin and trying to figure out a way to pointedly compliment some flag jacket patches without seeming desperate for a friend. He’ll probably get there eventually. Either that or he’s going to find out the hard way that bookish tweed-wearing boys aren’t her type.

Anyway, Bill’s completely occupied with more important matters. She’s sweating behind the canteen counter and elbow deep in chips, way too distracted by Model Girl to spare more complicated thoughts for Tangerine Weirdo. Every day for weeks Model Girl has come into the canteen with her bright green Disney princess eyes, and every day for weeks Bill has given her extra chips just for being illegally good-looking. Things feel like they’re going somewhere with Model Girl. Model Girl smiled at her last Tuesday. Model Girl looks even cuter with a bit of extra softness to her cheeks, Bill thinks – but then she’s distracted wondering if it’s okay for her to think that when she’s responsible for the extra chips and therefore for the extra softness.

Tangerine Weirdo continues to watch Bill from the same table every day, dutiful tangerine perched untouched on his tray like a pet rock, and Bill continues to ogle Model Girl and tells herself it doesn’t count as feeder kink if she’s not deliberately trying to cause weight gain, it’s just a side effect of the situation she’s gotten herself into. Then a week later she’s closing up and she’s halfway through stuffing her apron into her pigeon-hole when an apparition accosts her so suddenly that she shrieks and drops her keys.

Bill dives to pick them up, embarrassed by the sound that just came out of her mouth and irritated that Tangerine Weirdo might be creepier than she thought and possibly has the ability to teleport.

“Can I, um?” Bill scratches at the back of her head, unsure what to say. “Can I help you?”

Tangerine Weirdo then says, belatedly, “I took you by surprise, didn’t I? I do apologise. That wasn’t my intention.”

His tone and his face are both oddly bland, as if he’s reciting his times tables rather than talking to another human being. He’s standing straight and prim, his faithful book held tight against his chest. Bill’s always thought the bright orange-red of his hair looked a tad unnatural, but up close it’s even more jarring and she can see there’s a curl pattern trapped under an industrial amount of hair gel. It looks as if it would make a sound if Bill knocked on it.

“S’alright,” says Bill with an attempt at an uneasy grin.

She waits for Tangerine Weirdo to say something, but instead the silence lingers uncomfortably.

“Problem with the food?” Bill tries instead.

Tangerine Weirdo doesn’t answer this. Instead he extends one arm out, shaking back the sleeve of his jacket enough to check a wristwatch made up entirely of vintage watch faces strung together; he twists his wrist around to read one which lies back-to-front against his pulse-point. Bill is immediately reminded of a nurse.

“You’ve finished work now, haven’t you?” he asks.

“Uh ...” If this is an attempt at asking her out, it has to go in her book of very odd ones. “Yeah. Yeah, I am?”

“Excellent.” Tangerine Weirdo puts on a strange, stiff smile. “The doctor will see you now.”

Bill just blinks at him, even as Tangerine Weirdo begins to usher her towards the back kitchen door with petite shooing motions. “The doctor? Sorry, but, hold on a second ...” She stops. “No offence, mate, but what the bloody hell are you on about?”

Tangerine Weirdo stops. “Ah.” He surprises Bill by smacking himself hard in the forehead so suddenly that she flinches on his behalf. He then continues, as if he didn’t just smack himself in the face, “I do apologise. I’m regrettably prone to this, starting things in the middle. It’s confusing when you have to keep in mind that although the middle is also the present, the present isn’t where you should start, the past is. It’s a glitch, I’m working on a patch for it.”

Even when he’s talking like an Alice in Wonderland extra, his voice and face stay completely neutral, flat, with not a hint of spirit or inflection. Bill begins to wonder if she should call security and exactly how to do that.

“Yeah, I still don’t get the joke,” she says.

“People rarely ever do, probably because I’m not very good at making them. As I said, I’m working on a patch.” Tangerine Weirdo clears his throat. “Now. He really would like to see you.” He walks away, out the door and into the hallway beyond.

Bill follows, feeling stupid and a bit reckless. He’s leading her out through the front of the canteen.

“Who wants to see me?”

“The doctor,” says Tangerine Weirdo without turning around.

“The doctor?” Bill tries to sound it the same way he does.

“No, the doctor.”

“The doctor?”

“The Doctor.”

“The doc – Oh! You mean the Doctor!” Bill finally seizes upon this as the first logical sign of explanation, smiles, realises it actually just raises further questions, and smiles wider. “Wait, the Doctor wants to see me? He …?”

The smile drops from her face. For a second, horrible imaginings are flitting rapidly through her mind. Being thrown out of the university for Stealing Knowledge. Fired from her job. Stuck at home with her foster mum again. No more smiles from Model Girl, no more mad lectures ...

“Why does he want to see me?” She shouldn’t ask if she’s in trouble. That’s the sort of stupid question people who are looking to get themselves in trouble ask. “Am I in trouble? Or is it just a … uni thing?”

“Yes,” is the only reply Tangerine Weirdo gives as he steps outside.

“What – wait. Wait!”

Bill chases him across the Japanese garden, which fills a little square between four wings including the canteen; Tangerine Weirdo is charting diagonally across it towards the front wing. Bill has to hurry not to lose him as he disappears into the white stone building like a rabbit into a burrow. He’s faster than he looks, and he has an odd way of scuttling forwards that reminds Bill of a floor roomba – short, fast steps one after the other continuously. She doesn’t know why doesn’t take bigger steps, he’s got the legs for it. Maybe he doesn’t need to when he can take short ones that fast.

“Yes to the trouble or yes to the uni thing?” Bill pants when she catches up to him, two flights of stairs up.

“I said yes,” he replies, not even a bit out of breath.

“Yeah, but …? To which?”

“I do like you, Bill Potts,” says Tangerine Weirdo, though he still says it so blandly it’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic or sincere. “You ask rather a lot of questions. Some of them are even the right ones.”

Bill continues to rapidly reevaluate whether or not she should be creeped out or annoyed by this guy. “How d’you know my name?”

Tangerine Weirdo glances sideways at her at that, as if he didn’t expect the wariness in her tone. When he sees it in her face too he blinks, then takes two steps up quickly to get away from her. She can’t believe he has the gall.

“Do you not recognise me?” he says without looking back. “That’s quite rude. We sit in the same space week after week and you don’t recognise me.”

“I recognise you, yeah,” Bill snaps. “Tangerine, ham sarnie.”

“What?” Tangerine Weirdo reaches a landing and swivels on the spot. A real expression has finally broken through the blandness; he looks genuinely confused. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“The canteen. That’s what you order, like, every time.”

“You’ve memorised my canteen order? I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable with that, Miss Potts.”

Bill stops on the stairs, frowning up at him. “Listen, mate, you’re the one coming in there every day, staring at me. Pretending to read your little book.” She motions at the book tucked under his arm. “It’s proper weird.”

His face, still baffled, goes smooth again. “Oh, of course.” He smacks himself in the forehead again, this time hard enough to make a loud …? Clanging noise…? “The staring. Yes, that’s also a problem. I’m working on a patch for that too. I do apologise. To be perfectly honest …” He pulls Advanced Quantum Mechanics out from under his arm and slides the book up out of its book jacket, revealing a completely different front cover emblazoned with zeros and ones. “It’s a rather slow read. No, I wasn’t actually aware you worked in the canteen until today. I was performing normal human canteen activities in there up until now. To answer one of your questions: because I have an excellent memory.”

Tangerine Weirdo nods at her, as if that bizarro speech sorts it all out, and then rounds the corner to the next flight of stairs.

“Wait.” Bill flies up the stairs after him, her trainers squeaking on the floor as she takes the turn sharp. “Which question does that answer? Did your forehead just clang? How did you do that?”

“Oh, you’re never satisfied,” Tangerine Weirdo observes aloud. “Perfect.”

“Come on, mate,” Bill groans, jumping a couple of steps to keep up with him, “gimme a break, please. You working on a patch to make yourself make sense?”

Tangerine Weirdo laughs as if it was startled out of him, then covers his mouth with one hand. He glances back at Bill and slows down slightly to lead only by one step.

“I attend his lectures too,” he says, after a moment.

“His … the Doctor’s?” With that, Bill connects a few of the loose cannonballs that have been this conversation so far. “Riiight, you know me from the lectures. ‘Cause he’s always getting people to do that thing …”

“Name, rank, species. Yes, he never stops thinking that’s hilarious.”

“I dunno,” Bill smiles, amused. “I thought it was sort of … a cool thought exercise. Having to define yourself on the spot like that.” She snickers, batting Tangerine Weirdo in the arm. “Were you there the day he threw someone out for making a transphobic helicopter joke? That guy really thought he was gonna get away with it …”

“Many times has the law student who thought he could get away with the transphobic helicopter joke found himself sorely mistaken,” says Tangerine Weirdo. “Though not the first one, unfortunately. You should have seen the Doctor when I explained it to him afterwards. That was quite a long one. I had to use a slideshow. He hated it.”

“I don’t remember seeing you at them,” Bill says, half to herself. “Though, to be fair, I’m usually kinda wrapped up in the lecture itself – wait, do you know the Doctor? Like actually know him, know him? Are you like his assistant, or something?”

Tangerine Weirdo jumps up two steps ahead again with one long-legged bound. So he does use them when he wants to, Bill notes.

“I’m his PhD student, in a manner of speaking.”

“Okay … In what manner?”

“In that I literally am his PhD student. Just not with this university.”

“Like a transfer student? Is that a thing?”

“Oh, the university has no idea about me,” Tangerine Weirdo says as they reach a long hallway.

Bill looks around. She’s never been in this wing before, not except to pass through on the ground floor in the main throughway. She’s never been up here. Everything’s plush red carpeting and panelled wood walls, the kind of corner of the University that really screams the word ‘university’. She’s not surprised. She can’t imagine the Doctor having his office anywhere else.

She gives Tangerine Weirdo a sidelong glance. “The uni has no idea about you?”

He stops in front of a door abruptly. Bill could swear she hears something, almost like a spring squeaking.

“No.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I may as well be a ghost. You’re not the only one stealing knowledge.”

Bill’s stomach swoops with nerves. “Listen, I …”

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Tangerine Weirdo, still with that totally flat affect. “You’re amongst kindred spirits here.” He puts one hand out to shake. “Freddie Markiv, PhD candidate, mother of two, and general dogsbody.”

Bill takes his hand hesitantly. It’s warm.

“You forgot ‘species’,” she jokes.

Freddie drops her hand and knocks on the door, then swings it open. “We’ll get to that later,” he says. “Middle first. The Doctor will see you now.”

Bill steps through the door, and her life changes forever.

⁂

“I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but what’s he actually doing here?” Bill asks the Doctor a fortnight into her private tutoring. “He’s your student too, yeah? But I never see him studying?”

Freddie has just stepped out of the Doctor’s office after half an hour of … well, from what Bill could tell, nothing but sitting in the alcove over by the stained glass windows and scrolling through what looked suspiciously like Tumblr on a bulky white laptop. Every day, Bill comes to the Doctor’s office at six o’clock sharp, five minutes before, if she can manage it, and every day Freddie is there. Bill would describe it as loitering, but Freddie’s posture is too perfect for that word to feel completely right. He’s never doing anything that seems like actual work. He wanders in and out of the office, sometimes carrying a tangerine that Bill never actually sees him eat, and he sits in chairs off to the side or lingers around the raised level where the Doctor has his mini-library. Bill never catches him looking at her or at the Doctor, but she always feels his eyes on both of them. It feels like being chaperoned.

“He’s not studying the same thing as you,” answers the Doctor, turning a page on her essay ‘Cosmic Far Ultraviolet Background’.

“But I’m not studying a thing,” says Bill, “I’m studying everything. Far as I can make out, anyway.”

“Freddie’s not my student.” The Doctor turns another page. Bill doesn’t know how he reads so fast. “He’s my PhD candidate. They’re basically indentured servants crossed with familiars. They don’t count as students.”

“Okay, but how come he’s never reading anything or writing anything? It’s not like he’s making tea for you or doing errands and stuff either.”

“He does errands, just not in here. When he’s erranding he’s out … doing the errands.” The Doctor rubs his temple and squints down at the essay, trying to refocus and reading aloud, “‘... really, in darkness we see ourselves as we really are. When left alone with ourselves, we exist in a state usually philosophically unreachable. It does come with one paradox: we are our own witness. However, perhaps in this state we’re able to truly strive for’ – you’ve split an infinitive here.”

Bill leans over the desk to peer at the line. “I’m guessing that’s a bad thing to do?”

“There’s no such thing as an absolute good and bad, in grammar or anywhere else in life. Anyone who says otherwise is a blithering moron.”

“But is it bad here?”

“It’s emotive,” he says flatly.

Bill isn’t sure if that’s good or bad either. “Yeah?”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow at her, picks up his marking pen, and writes a spidery ‘97%’ on the front of the essay.

⁂

“If Freddie’s not studying, what’s he hanging about in your office for?” Bill asks a week later. “Is it just while I’m here or is it all the time?”

“I never said he wasn’t studying,” says the Doctor, not pulling his nose out of the bookshelves he’s currently scanning. “Where is it, I know I had a copy somewhere …”

“So what’s he studying?”

“There!” The Doctor grasps at a leatherbound book as if he’s catching a live fish from a pond. He flips it open with a grin which quickly falls off his face. “No. No, wrong edition.”

“Doctor?”

“Don’t worry, it’s here somewhere! I was reading it just a second ago …” He mutters to himself, running his fingers along the spines, “1972 … or maybe ‘73 …”

“Is he a physics student?”

“Who, Tolkien?”

“No,” Bill rolls her eyes, “Freddie!”

The Doctor peers down at her, bemused. “What are you shouting for? What’s the to-do?”

“What’s Freddie studying?” Bill asks again, forcibly reminded of the six-months volunteering stint she did in the old folks’ home.

“Him?” The Doctor’s bemusement deepens. “Why do you want to know what he’s studying?”

“I …” Bill shifts from side to side with a sheepish grin. “Just curious, I guess. I’ve seen him reading that book on quantum mechanics.”

Freddie has been reading it again lately. In fact he’s been doing nothing but ‘read’ that book. Bill’s still yet to see him actually turn a page. She doesn’t know how someone can stare at something for so long without going barmy, because he’s obviously not really reading it. She wonders if he’s reading Advanced Quantum Mechanics or the one covered in what she now knows is binary code.

The Doctor gives up on the hunt through that particular shelf and clambers down from the ladder. Bill expects him to answer her question, but he just passes her right on by and goes on down the steps to the main area, heading for another bookshelf. Bill follows him uncertainly, not sure if she’s stepped on a nerve somehow. It’s impossible to work out what’s going on in his head, and half the times she’s thought he was mad at her it turned out he was figuring out what to have for dinner or something. Once she thought she’d pissed him off with too mouthy a rebuttal about Kant and after she apologised he admitted he’d been thinking about a triple chocolate milkshake. And also that he agreed with her about Kant.

“Is he … a lit grad?” Bill guesses.

“Lit grad is your next guess?”

“Yeah, I dunno. All that tweed, innit?”

“We all had a tweed phase.”

Bill laughs, “You had a tweed phase? What?”

The Doctor looks like he regrets admitting to it. He goes back to digging through the shelves. “I was young, taste-impaired, I had no idea about real fashion.”

Today he’s wearing a pair of green and blue tartan trousers with Doc Marten boots, a slumpy maroon hoodie, what looks like about five t-shirts layered on top of each other, and a frock coat he could have stolen from Harry Houdini. He looks like he walked backwards through an alternative teen clothing store with his arms flung out.

Bill wants to make a smart remark about who the hell has their tweed phase when they’re young and then has … whatever phase this is when they’re old, but she doesn’t dare. Yet. She does say, cheekily, “Are there photos? Can I see them?”

The Doctor blanches and swings away to another shelf. “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on!”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t even recognise me. Check that stack over on the table there.”

Bill stumps over to a table under one of the windows and starts sorting through the books piled there. She doesn’t see the promised signed first edition of The Hobbit anywhere, which is a shame because she’d been looking forward to bragging rights over getting to hold it. Not that she really has a whole lot of people to brag to about it.

“Is he doing philosophy, then?” she asks.

“You’re not still asking about Freddie?” The Doctor doesn’t sound angry, just exasperated. “He’s just doing his PhD. I’m supervising him. That’s it, that’s all. Nothing else to see. Why are you so interested in what exactly he’s studying?”

“‘Cause he’s always around and he’s the only other person I ever actually see you with,” Bill replies honestly. “Like, I never see you with other staff or anything. Or any other students. Or, I don’t know. Friends, family.”

The Doctor goes still. He turns around from the shelf he’s searching and Bill is nervous for a moment that she has actually upset him now.

But he just cocks his head at her in a way she can’t read. “How would you know you were seeing me with family if you saw me with family? Can you psychically tell when people are related? Is it a superpower?”

Bill feels a bit silly. “No, just … you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

He’s wearing the expression she’s starting to recognise as the one he wears whenever he’s waiting for her to elaborate on an argument. It does also bear a worrying resemblance to the one he wore the day she made the mistake of mentioning Derren Brown, but Bill decides to take a gamble.

“When you see people with family you can tell. Not right away, obviously, but you can’t hide it for long. Body language, the way you talk to each other, nicknames, all that stuff. Even if it’s family you don’t get along with, still shows. It’s like trying to pretend you don’t know how to ride a bike. You can’t hide familiarity.”

The Doctor looks bemused again. “Who tries to hide it? I’m not hiding anything.”

“I don’t mean …” Bill shakes her head, “bad wording choice. I just mean I’d know if I saw you with family. When you love someone like that the way you act around them’s instinctual, it just oozes out of everything you do. At least, that’s what I’m told.”

She tries to say it like it’s a joke but the Doctor’s eyebrows still bunch together faintly. Bill feels stupid again. She should have kept that last bit to herself. Maybe she should just go back to sorting through the books.

“Anthropology,” the Doctor says after a moment in his usual abrupt way.

“Sorry?”

“Anthropology. That’s Freddie’s discipline.”

“Oh …” Bill tries not to look disappointed or worse, confused. Somehow that just doesn’t fit.

Freddie’s so remote. Bill’s met anthropology students, they’re some of the most frequent attendees of the Doctor’s lectures. Some of them are remote, yes, but not in the way Freddie is – ‘removed’ would be a better word for it, the way they stand off to the side of every bubble enthusing about how interesting everything that’s going on inside it is. Freddie is … distant. He’s outside the bubble, with his back turned to it, holding a tangerine for some reason.

“What’s his thesis on?” she asks.

The Doctor, who’s gone back to his book search, stops to make a spluttering noise of disbelief, “You’re never satisfied!”

“Yeah, he seemed to think you’d like that in a student,” Bill says, remembering back to the day Freddie showed her up to this office.

The Doctor’s expression turns mulish; he goes back to the books muttering to himself.

“So? What’s his thesis on?”

The Doctor gesticulates wordlessly, seems to consider ignoring her and going back to the books, realises she’ll just keep pestering him, and finally says, “Me! He’s writing his thesis on me, that’s why he’s around all the time.”

If anyone else had claimed an anthropology grad was writing their PhD thesis on them, Bill would have thought it was either a delusion or a lie born of a very puffed up, self-obsessed mind. Bill’s known the Doctor for three weeks. She believes him.

“Are you foreign?” is her next question. “Oooh, are you one of those people who look white but are secretly mixed race?”

The Doctor throws his head back and laughs.

⁂

The next day, Bill asks the Doctor: “If Freddie’s writing a whole thesis on you, why do I never see him write anything down while he’s around?”

“Well, I used to have a typewriter, but the Doctor threw it out a window.”

Bill turns her head so fast she nearly snaps her neck. Freddie is standing in the open doorway of the office as if waiting in the wings, holding his Advanced Quantum Mechanics book like a stage prop.

“He did what?” Bill turns back to the Doctor, who’s scribbling in the margins again. Not on one of her essays, this time, he finished marking hers twenty minutes ago and started annotating a worn paperback titled Addie Pray, transferring notes from it to a larger notebook. He didn’t tell her to leave, though, so Bill had stayed. “You threw his typewriter out the window?”

It takes the Doctor a second to surface from his notes. “What?” He blinks, sitting up. “That’s ridiculous, I’ve never thrown a typewriter out of a window. Where are you getting this?”

Bill thumbs over her shoulder. “Freddie said …”

“Oh, that. Yes, I did throw that typewriter out of the window, yes. It was like having someone teach an elephants-only samba class while I was trying to read.”

Freddie comes further into the room, wandering towards the library. “You were the one complaining about my handwriting. I didn’t exactly have other alternative writing options at the time.”

“What about your laptop?” Bill says, twisting and leaning her arm against the back of her seat to face him.

Freddie pauses. “The typewriter incident rather … predates my laptop.”

“By all logic you should have perfect handwriting,” the Doctor chides him absently, putting down another note, “considering your … parentage.”

Bill laughs; he raises his head to her questioningly.

“Pot, kettle,” she lifts her returned essay, covered in crooked writing that crowds the ends of printed lines and spills over the edge down the outer margins like a waterfall, “biro ink black. Are you the reason they call it ‘Doctor’s handwriting’?”

There’s a noise that sounds like a snort, but when Bill glances over at Freddie his face is completely neutral.

“The Doctor told me you’re writing your thesis on him. Any chance I can see a draft?”

Freddie adjusts his glasses. “You would have to ask my supervisor.”

Bill looks back to the Doctor. “Can I see his draft?”

“What draft? He hasn’t got time to write, he’s working on his PhD.”

“What’s your thesis statement?” Bill asks Freddie.

Freddie gestures vaguely and wordlessly at the Doctor. The Doctor does jazz hands. Bill laughs and the Doctor goes back to his annotations with a small smile.

“So you’re basically bullshitting and just spending all your time on research?”

“Like I said, he’s working on his PhD.”

“I’m not just bullshitting.” Freddie looks over at the Doctor, pausing. When the Doctor says nothing, Freddie clears his throat and adds, “I write fifty alternate versions of the same paragraph, waste three days deciding whether or not to kill a sentence, write a fifty-first version pulling material from a completely different part of the thesis and convince myself it looks much better there, and then realise that that completely ruins the spot I pulled that material from, excuse me, I think I left my favourite tangerine downstairs.”

He swivels away from Bill and exits the office as perfunctorily as he entered it. As he goes, Bill notices something off about his gait; it’s unlike his usual smooth roomba walk, almost but not quite a limp. Bill could swear she hears a faint creaking sound with each swing of his left leg. Freddie is gone too quickly for her to pinpoint what it might be.

“Is he always like that?” Bill asks the Doctor.

“Hmm?”

Bill gives up. “Never mind.” Then a new idea occurs to her. She un-gives-up. “Hey, does Freddie have a prosthetic?”

The Doctor lifts his head from his hands in total bewilderment. “A what?”

“A prosthetic. Like a fake leg or something.”

“That’s a really personal question.” The Doctor is scandalised. It’s hilarious.

“I know,” Bill gives him what she likes to think of as her most winning smile, “that’s why I’m asking you, not him. Does he?”

“What on New Earth makes you think Freddie has a prosthetic?”

“He walks funny.”

The Doctor baulks. “Now you’re just being offensive.”

“Not like that, like … sorry, I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Bill says hurriedly. “Just, he has this �� specific way of walking, and he’s always making weird noises.”

“You could say the same about that puppy in the Grape you kept showing me yesterday,” says the Doctor dismissively, “and you didn’t seem to find that strange.”

“Vine, and that puppy was adorable,” Bill corrects him laughingly, “and also Freddie’s not a puppy.”

“You’re right,” says the Doctor, scanning the current page of his paperback and taking one last note from it before tossing it to the side. “A puppy would be much easier to train.”

“Do you know what I mean though?” Bill tilts her head at him, not sure if he’s really chosen this thing of all things to be polite about or if he’s just slightly hard of hearing and hasn’t noticed the hydraulic hissing noise that Freddie sometimes makes when he moves. “There’s like, a sound. Sometimes. Not all the time, just sometimes, when he walks, or moves his arms. It’s like creaking, or … whirring, or …” Bill struggles to think of the right thing to compare it to. “One of the homes I lived at, there was this keyboard, yeah? Like a piano keyboard. And if you put it to the right settings, all the keys made special effects noises, like drums or whistles or a bloke shouting …”

“Before you continue, just checking, is this like the chip story or is it going to take us somewhere?” the Doctor says.

Bill laughs at him disbelievingly, “You went off on a whole tangent about the aesthetics of turntables when we were supposed to be doing the solar system yesterday!”

“That’s completely different, vinyls and the movements of the solar system rhyme perfectly. Anyway, I’m the teacher, I make the lesson plans.”

A loud, ungainly snorting noise breaks out of Bill’s mouth before she can stop it.

The Doctor frowns, but there’s a smile playing at the edge of his mouth too, poorly hidden. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever made a lesson plan in your life,” Bill snickers.

“Hey, I’m amazing at lesson plans, I’m great, I learned from the best!”

“Then whoever taught you was completely barmy, mate.”

They get truly off topic from there and wind up talking well after the time Bill’s lesson usually ends. Something nags at the back of her mind but she’s having too much fun just getting to – well, sort of hang out with the Doctor to pay it much attention.

It’s been a long time since Bill got to really just hang out with anyone one-on-one. She’s spent the last four years existing on the fringe of about two-and-a-half different friend groups, and everyone in her life always has someone else – even her foster mum, though Moira flits desperately from one partner to another like if she just cycles through them enough she’ll figure out which one holds the key to her perfect life. It’s nice to have someone to just talk to. It’s also nice to have someone who answers her questions, because people are usually only willing to answer about one-fifth of them, so Bill spends her life rationing out other people’s patience and trying not to be too much of a mess about it. It’s been three weeks but Bill already knows this: the Doctor, even when he’s evasive, even when he’s baffled, answers every question she puts to him, and he never truly loses his patience. It’s different. It feels easy like nothing has ever felt easy before.

It’s only when she gets back to her flat that night and sees Moira sitting up by the telly, watching some rerun of some past year of The Royal Variety Performance, where Elton John is banging away at a piano, that Bill remembers something she had meant to say. Something about keyboards and special effect keys and robot noises.

It’s probably not important.

⁂

Something Bill notices, nearly a month into being tutored by the Doctor, is that Freddie no longer sits in the canteen every day with his tangerine, sandwich, and book. She’s not sure when he stopped, but she certainly can’t remember seeing him since she started her lessons. She means to ask him about it, but he’s rarely been around at all lately and when he is, something about him seems off. To be fair, being ‘off’ seems to be a permanent state of existence for Freddie, but something has been building, trickling over until it feels like a change, or at least something Bill never quite noticed before. He seems almost … angry. Bill isn’t sure why she thinks that, because nothing in his face ever suggests it.

Freddie’s face never suggests anything. He’s studiously neutral at all times, even more so than he was the day he led Bill up to the Doctor’s office. Not even empty or cold, just neutral, all the time, no matter what. Bill had assumed he was just one of those awkward people that open up their faces more when you get to know them, but if anything Freddie’s face seems more closed. In fact, it’s quite possible that that ten minute walk was the most expressive Freddie has ever been in his life. The boy spends all his time looking like he’s halfway through making a sandwich he’s not particularly passionate about. Bill knows some people just have permanent flat affect. But it’s like the anthropology thing. It doesn’t … make sense for Freddie. It doesn’t suit him, somehow, the same way his hair colour clashes with his skin even though it matches his eyebrows. And Bill knows it’s insane, but she has this totally irrational feeling that underneath that exterior of bland, inoffensive Neutralness, Freddie is quietly, secretly seething about something.

She wants to ask him about that too. But again, she’s never really given the chance, not until one day, when she’s sitting in the Doctor’s office, trying to resist the urge to pick up one of the weird stick gadget toys from the pen-holder on his desk and investigate it. The Doctor isn’t there, which has never happened before. Bill is torn between being a bit concerned about that (what if he’s had a triple-chocolate-milkshake-induced stroke or something?) and really wanting to play with one of the stick toys. She expects that if he’s AWOL for another fifteen minutes the concern will weigh out, but right now she’s on stick temptation.

Temptation wins. She reaches for one of the toys, the one with the blue tip.

“I really wouldn’t if I were you,” says a disembodied voice off to her right, making Bill give a little shriek.

“What – hello?” she calls out to the room at large, her brain not quite working. It’s not her finest moment.

There’s a shuffle and a buzzing hum over by the big stained glass windows and Freddie steps up out of a chair in the alcove, obscured from Bill’s view. “I suppose that’s a lie,” he says.

Bill had forgotten how irritating he could be. “A lie? How am I lying?”

“No, that would be me.” Freddie nods at the toys in the pen-holder. “I would probably pick them up too.”

“Where’s your tangerine?” Bill blurts out suspiciously.

It isn’t the question she meant to ask him, but he is missing his tangerine today. He looks oddly incomplete without it.

“Maybe I ate it. That’s what people do with tangerines, isn’t it?” He waves a hand at her outfit, picked out to multi-task for tonight’s lesson and a trip to the pub. “You seem to be wearing slightly different clothes today. Presumably with the intention of some sort of pleasing aesthetic effect.”

How is what he’s saying so bitchy when his face is being so boring? It’s not even coolly remote, or aloof, or snobby. It’s just boring. But that’s alright. Bill considered this. Embarrassing blurting-stuff-out moment aside, Bill has a plan.

“Are you alright?” She springs the question on him like she’s trapping a moth under a glass.

Freddie immediately rewards Bill’s underhandedness with a facial expression: true, vivid surprise blossoms across his face. His blue-grey eyes get even bigger. He pulls it all back very quickly, but not quickly enough, and the fact that he pulls it back at all tells Bill a lot. The Neutralness is a choice.

“Why would you ask that?” he says evenly.

“You seem mad.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Alright.” Bill shrugs. She makes a show of looking around the room nonchalantly. “You seen the Doctor?”

“Numerous times over the course of my life, yes.” Again, snarky words, boring face, boring voice.

Bill gives him a look. “Today, I mean. It’s nearly six-fifteen, he’s never been late.”

“For you,” Freddie replies. He comes over, and Bill edges back in her seat as he leans over her, but all he does is drop Advanced Quantum Mechanics on the other side of the desk with a loud bang that makes Bill wince.

“Yeah, see, things like that, that’s what makes you seem kinda mad,” Bill says as he sweeps away towards the fireplace. She watches him pick up one of the statuettes on the mantelpiece and tap a finger against its head. “Are you mad at me?”

Freddie puts the statuette back down. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“I dunno. Does he do this a lot?”

“Yes, very frequently. Actually, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been late before.”

“No.” Bill turns in her seat to face him properly even though all she can see is the hair-gelled back of his head. “Am I the first student he’s taken on besides you?”

Freddie barks out something similar to a laugh which suggests the answer is a resounding ‘no’, but instead he says, “Yes, you are. And no, that’s not why I’m mad.”

“So you are mad!”

Freddie turns around and crosses his arms, and as he does so there’s an odd noise – three, actually, one of the hydraulic hissing noises that Bill is now used to, then a clinking noise, then a dull thud from somewhere near the floor. “You’ve made up your mind that I’m mad, I’m just going along with it. I’m very obliging like that.”

Bill squints at the floor. She could swear she saw … “Did you drop something?”

Freddie swings forwards on one foot like he’s about to start dancing, but then he just stops there, feet oddly splayed. “No. Did you?”

Bill decides to let that one go in favour of moving on to another question. “Does the Doctor live here all the time? What does he do? When he’s not lecturing and stuff?”

“Yes, a lot and not much,” replies Freddie.

“‘Yes’ he lives here and he gets up to a lot and not much?”

Freddie cocks his head. “I thought you were getting high essay marks.”

“How are you so mouthy while looking at me like that?” Bill bursts out.

This time, Freddie surprises her. He looks, just faintly, just a bit, chastised. “Oh. I … er. I actually … I suppose the face is making it come out …” He stands straighter and says, very slow and stilted, “I did not mean to be impolite. I do apologise, I’m working on a patch for it. Would you like to see a magic trick to make up for it?”

“You what?”

“A magic trick,” Freddie repeats. “Would you like to see a magic trick?”

“What?” Bill regards him warily, not sure if she does want to see a magic trick, not when it’s offered in such an ominously polite way. “You gonna pull a tangerine out from somewhere I don’t wanna know about?”

“Not a tangerine, no.” Freddie readjusts his stance and starts to raise his arms.

“Wait, if the ‘somewhere I don’t wanna know about’ is involved then I really … don’t …”

Bill trails off, stunned, as Freddie faces his palms together, presses his right-hand fingertips against his left palm, and – with a look of conscious effort – slowly begins to pull something long and silver out of his palm. First he just has it by the fingertips, then he’s grasped the end of the object itself, then he’s wincing slightly, as if it stings, and then out it comes in one last pull and a blast of blue light. There’s a metallic clink from Freddie’s left palm but he closes it into a fist before Bill can see the source of it. He raises the object he pulled out of his hand. It’s one of the stick toys from the Doctor’s desk.

Bill whips back around to look at the pen-holder. The blue-tipped one, the exact one she reached for, is missing.

“How the hell …?”

She looks back at Freddie. He’s not smiling. And yet, somehow …

“You’re really pleased with yourself for that one, aren’t you?” she says.

“You’re not?” Freddie shrugs. “Alright then …” He lifts the toy up in the air and proclaims loudly, “With this magic wand, I will turn off all the lights in this room.”

Bill grins. “Go on, then.”

Freddie waves his other hand and presses something on the side of the toy; it makes a buzzing sound that immediately reminds Bill of the robot noises always coming from Freddie – that’s it, that’s what she’s been trying to put her finger on, they’re robot noises, and she’s just about to exclaim that when all the lights go out. It’s dusk outside, and some weak evening light is still filtering through the windows, so it’s not nearly as dramatic as it could have been, but Bill still lets out a yelp because she really hadn’t been expecting that.

“Okay,” she nods, getting a hold of herself, “remote control lights. Nice.”

Freddie makes a very small, displeased grunt. “It’s not a remote control. It’s magic.”

Through the shadows, she can see him waving his hand; there’s another flash of blue and a buzz, and the lights all switch back on. He’s standing in front of the fireplace still, but now there’s a strange look on his face. It’s an actual look, for one. It takes Bill a second to place what else is strange about it, but then she realises that he’s actually making direct, sustained eye contact with her. He’s never done that before, not even and perhaps especially when he used to come to the canteen. He opens his mouth.

“Where do you eat lunch?” says Bill curiously.

Freddie blinks, shutting his mouth and jerking his head back. It makes him look like a pigeon that just flew into a concrete pillar. “What?”

“You must eat your lunch somewhere else now,” she says, “‘cause you don’t come to the canteen anymore. Why do you not come to the canteen anymore?”

Freddie stares at her. “You … told me it … You found my presence in the canteen disturbing.”

“Did I?” Bill thinks back. “I don’t remember saying that.”

Freddie looks at her and looks at her, and Bill looks back at him, still curious, trying to wrap her head around the expression on his face. She’s not sure how to describe it, even to herself. It reminds her of how he used to look at her in the canteen, all brimming over with wistfulness and something else. Whatever it is, it pins her to her chair.

“I … I eat … somewhere else on campus.” Freddie takes one hesitant step towards her, then another, as if she’s an animal that might spook at any moment. “I could …”

His big eyes flicker, and Bill recognises something in them. “You wanna hang out?”

Freddie’s gaze drops to the toy in his hand. Deliberately, moving as if in a trance, he turns it around and reaches it out towards her, the handle offered out.

“It’s not a remote control,” he says quietly, “it’s …”

The door swings open with a loud clatter that brings Bill crashing back down to Earth. The Doctor comes sliding into the room, actually skidding to a halt, his arms full of what look like takeout containers.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he cries. “Had an early dinner, I lost track of …” He stops, taking in Freddie, who’s hurriedly stuffing the toy into his jacket pocket. “What are you doing here?”

“Filling in, opening act, making an idiot of myself, take your pick,” Freddie mutters. He gestures stiffly at Bill. “Half an hour. I expect someone was dying? Good evening.”

With that collection of barely coherent half-sentences, he stalks out of the office. The Doctor watches him go, then swings around to shoot a guilty ‘oops, I’ve upset Mother’ look at Bill. She snorts, which seems to encourage him.

“I’ll just …” He lifts the takeout containers, nodding towards the door that leads off into his private rooms. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Bill smiles, “but you know this means I get to be at least forty-five minutes late at least once with zero notice and you can’t give me shit for it.”

“Duly noted,” he says sheepishly, and backs off into his rooms.

As he shuffles and bangs about behind the door, Bill tries to peer through the crack, but as usual she can’t make out much beyond more wood panelling. She casts her eye down at the floor in front of the fireplace instead, where Freddie had been standing. She spots something silver glinting on the maple floorboards. She feels an intrigued smile pull at her face, the dopey open-mouthed one she can never really hold back when something catches her fancy. She gets up and picks the silver thing off the floor.

It’s a metal nut, octagonal, similar to the kind she’s used to seeing in IKEA furniture kits. On one edge there’s a smear of what looks like oil. It has a strong but not unpleasant smell unlike any oil Bill’s ever smelt before. It almost reminds her of … God, what it is? Damp earth? Resin? Smoke?

Bill presses the nut between her palms. It’s still warm.

⁂

“Do you ever leave campus?” Bill asks the Doctor later that night, as she’s pulling her bag onto her shoulder.

They’ve wrapped up on string theory and fairy floss, and Bill has a list of required readings jotted down on a torn piece of the Doctor’s fancy University-issue stationery. The Doctor is getting up from his chair and stretching; he raises an eyebrow at her.

“Why wouldn’t I leave campus? Do you think teachers only exist on school grounds? Do we turn into little puffs of smoke if we ever step off the boundary line?”

“Obviously not,” Bill rolls her eyes. “I just meant more like, do you go out? Where you were just before, did you meet up with someone? Have a hot date?”

The Doctor laughs a slightly odd laugh. “Not exactly.” Seeing Bill’s questioning look, he elaborates, “I try to vary where I eat. I once accidentally spent an entire decade only ever eating in my bedroom in front of the telly, I think it did something to my brain. Now everytime I see Alan Davies I crave Mee Goreng.”

Bill imagines the Doctor picking a random spot on campus to eat dinner at, alone. It’s depressingly easy. She can visualise him with his feet tucked up on a bench in the gathering dark, surrounded by stir-fry.

“You had six boxes of takeout,” she says. “What you doing eating six boxes of takeout alone in public like an insane person?”

“I order for leftovers!” He starts to shoo her towards the door. “Hadn’t you better be going? It’s getting dark out.”

“It’s already dark out.”

“There, you see, you’re already running behind.”

Bill relents, though she does stop to say, “I was gonna ask if you wanna come to pub night?”

The Doctor looks just as stunned as Freddie did when Bill asked if he was alright.

“It’s supposed to be open mic night, so I thought you could bring your guitar,” she says when he doesn’t reply. “I always hear snatches of stuff but I’ve never actually heard you play a song all the way through …”

The Doctor hesitates for a long moment before saying softly, “No. No, not tonight, I think.” He adds with a gentle smile, “But thank you for inviting me.”

Bill, who had kind of expected that answer, smiles back. “Suit yourself.” She heads for the door, and she’s only taken two steps before an idea starts to percolate in her head, a whim forming into an urge she tries to dismiss as stupid. By the time she’s stepped over the threshold the urge turns itself into another question and launches itself out of her mouth: “Hey, do you think Freddie would wanna come?”

“Freddie? You want to invite Freddie to pub night?”

Bill supposes the Doctor’s right to look a bit sceptical. It’s easy to imagine the Doctor scoffing down Mee Goreng on a bench like a weirdo, it’s hard to imagine Freddie socialising in a pub like a normal person. Pubs are colour and noise, music and lights, lager and chips. Freddie is elbow patches and plaid wool ties.

“It’s not really that I want him to come,” Bill admits, just to the Doctor, just because she knows he won’t tell a soul. “It’s just … he seems like maybe he doesn’t have a lot of people?”

The Doctor makes a psshh noise, “People, he’s got all the people he wants. He’s not really a people person.”

“Yeah,” Bill laughs, “he doesn’t really seem like one.”

They bid each other good night and the Doctor shuffles off to his private rooms. As Bill heads down the corridor away from his office she can hear him string out a chord on his guitar, followed by a trio of plucked notes that fade into the nighttime ambiance of the university – the warm enveloping quiet and Bill’s footsteps on the stairs down to the ground floor.

It’s a nice night for it, that kind of fresh-aired autumn night where everything feels like it’s in vivid clarity, so much so that every crisp browning leaf seems to bely its own age, seems more to be coming alive. Bill’s mates meet her at the front drive and together they walk down to the bus stops that run around the edge of campus. They take the 550 six stops to what Trish has been calling “the gay pocket of Glenndale Street”.

From what Bill can see through the window as the bus pulls up, it’s pretty much what she expected: an artsy strip of shops and eateries, by day probably bustling with people with undercuts looking for vegan burritos and good coffee. At night, strings of lamps hang across the narrower openings to residential streets leading off the main drag, and the shop windows and cafes are dark, leaving the clubs and restaurants to glow with activity.

Trish has been trying to drag Tom there since term started, arguing that the music scene is as good as his native Liverpool, and Tom’s very vocal doubts have only made her more determined. And because Tom is going and there’s going to be drinks, Jon is going too, and that means Jon and Trish have to be in the same room for a whole night, and as always that means …

“Thanks for coming,” Tom says to Bill in an undertone as they get off the bus. “I know it was short notice.”

“It’s not like I had any other plans to drop,” she says. “And I figured you might hear the music better if Trish and Jon weren’t trying to kill each other next to you.”

“One day I’m gonna work out how you chill them out and stop bothering you so much,” Tom jokes. Then he hastily adds, “Not that I only invited you for peace keeper duties, obviously, it’s – it’s been ages, been meaning to catch up.”

Bill waves a hand. “It’s cool, I get it, I’ve been pretty busy …”

“Here it is!” Trish calls from up ahead. “Come on, come on!”

Trish has pulled up at a shopfront with darkened windows. Bill, Tom, and Jon squint to look inside.

“Uh, you sure?”

“Trish. This is a bookstore.”

Trish breaks into a lazy grin. “Your faces. Nah, that’s just what it is by day. Pub’s out the back. Come on!” She leads the way past the front door and the big windows as if heading to the restaurant next door.

“There’s a pub out the back of a bookstore?” Bill says. “How the hell’s a whole pub supposed to fit at the back of …”

Trish turns left and disappears into the wall between the bookstore and the restaurant. Tom calls out and they all scramble to follow Trish: first Tom, then Jon, and then Bill, who finds herself standing before a cramped opening to a long corridor of violet stars.

They’re not actual stars, Bill realises after the initial jolting wonder of it. It’s a long and very narrow brick alleyway, about the width of two adults squeezed side by side, and a tarp covering has been put up to shield it from the rain. Under that tarp are lines and lines of purple fairy lights, illuminating the entire alleyway all the way down to where Bill can see people moving about beyond the opening at the end. The sound of live music drifts up the alley, and as Bill gets closer and closer – because she started moving down that corridor of stars without even realising it – she can hear the hum of gathering voices and the clink of drinking glasses.

The backlot is huge. It doesn’t feel huge, it feels cosy and tucked away, but it must be huge all added up. There’s a half-inside, half-outside area where the alleyway meets up with the open double doors of the pub, a sort of courtyard scattered with busy tables. The pub itself seems built directly into the high stone walls that surround the lot, and its peeling, partially exposed brick facade faces back towards the bookstore. A pink neon sign over the door reads St Sebastian’s.

Trish is beckoning Bill through the front doors; she pulls her over to a table half backed by a booth seat, tucked away off to one side towards the front. Jon and Tom are already seated there.

“You sure there’s not a less shit table going?” Jon says, raising his voice partially to be heard over the sound of pub-chatter and music, and probably partially because he’ll take any excuse to raise his voice in conversation with Trish. “We can’t hardly see the stage even. You know Tom likes watching the acts.”

“Everywhere’s packed! You wanna do better?”

“I like it,” Bill puts in. “It’s kinda cosy. Anyway, perfect excuse to come back a second time! If we do a Saturday night we can come earlier, I won’t have tutoring on.”

“Tutoring? At St Luke’s?” Trish looks at her with interest. “I thought you didn’t apply?”

“I didn’t …” Bill grins, “and then I kinda got in anyway.”

Tom and Trish exchange a look and Trish stands. “Okay, Ms Mysterious, I’m getting us a round and you’re telling me all about it.”

She disappears to the bar and Jon leans back with a sigh. He tries to peer around Bill at the obscured stage. “This is opening act stuff,” he complains.

Bill tunes into the music behind her. It’s a low and melancholy voice over electric guitar: “I don’t believe my will’s quite free, I’m half machine, at least half steam; Aquinas, call on me, how many angels on the head of your pin?”

“Hey, no hating on opening acts,” says Tom, “Trish did an opening act last week at the Spinning Wheel down in London.”

“Another one? You know what they say. Always an opening act, never a headliner …”

“Anybody in stilettos can answer that old thing: it’s one for the right foot, one for the left, half an angel per pin at best …”

“I like them,” Bill says in the invisible musician’s defence, swiftly moving onto, “also, Jon, you are keeping your head pulled in tonight, right?”

Jon lets out another long sigh. “Yeah, yeah, alright. But this place had better be as gay as Trish promised.”

Tom subtly indicates a passing woman with a teased up, magnificent blue mohawk. “Pretty sure it’s gay, mate.”

“It’s in the name, innit?” says Bill with enthusiasm. “St Sebastian. He’s that twink with the arrows in him. Martyr and gay icon.”

Jon chuckles at her, amused, “Since when do you know about martyrs?”

“I did this essay, sort of a philosophy one. Light and blindness, martyrs, that kind of thing.”

As soon as Bill gets talking about it, she finds herself unable to stop. Jon at least is interested. Tom isn’t really a philosophy essay kind of guy, and Bill knows she should shut up, but it’s a good ten minutes later when she wraps up, “Yeah, so, basically, all about the subjectivity of morality. Thought I was gonna completely flunk it because it turned out so far off from the brief but my tutor liked it.”

“What was the brief?” asks Jon.

“Three thousand words on a worthwhile death.”

“Keeping the conversation light over here?”

Trish has returned with a tray of their drinks. She sets them down around the table, though somehow Jon’s ends up just slightly out of his reach. Bill passes it to him.

“Bill reckons this place is named after some dead gay guy,” says Tom.

“Yeah, St Sebastian’s in the back and Sappho’s in the front. That’s the bookstore. It’s a nice place, they do coffee and stuff during the day.”

“So it’s basically Dead Gays Central.” Jon raises his eyebrows. “Wow. That shit’s problematic.”

Even Trish laughs at that. “You’re an arse.”

They fall into conversation and rounds of beer from there. Bill tells them about her tutoring with the Doctor and the span of topics they’ve covered thus far, philosophy and physics and high fantasy fiction. She describes the Doctor himself to them as best she can, all strange, charming, tartan-wearing six-foot-something of him, always spouting lyrical about the nature of reality and finding a way to squeeze in some offbeat joke about cabbages. She tells them how he’s somehow gotten her properly enrolled at St Luke’s and that she has a sneaking suspicion he might have changed her whole life.

Bill’s not totally shocked to find out that Trish thinks it’s the most sinister thing she’s heard of since Trump announced he was running for President in the US. It’s not the first time someone’s speculated on the Doctor like that – Moira said something stupid about it just last week when she found out about the whole thing. If Bill forces herself to be objective, she gets it. If one of her friends told her they’d been personally selected by a much older uni professor to have private lessons every weekday afternoon in his office, she’d also be telling them to ring some sort of helpline. But they haven’t met the Doctor. They don’t know him. They haven’t seen his big sad eyes or the old photos on his desk. They have no idea how gentle he is. Bill doubts even the Doctor knows that.

Tom is less weirded out by it, or at least more willing to accept Bill’s judgement. Jon thinks it all sounds much more exciting than waiting tables and claims he wants to sneak onto campus to infiltrate the Doctor’s lectures too, to see if he gets ‘specially chosen to be an X-Man’. He asks if the Doctor has room for another student.

“Yeah, not bragging or anything, but I don’t think he picks people out that easily. Actually I don’t think he’s ever picked anyone out before me, at least that’s what Freddie said.”

“Freddie?”

Bill rolls her eyes almost reflexively. “The Doctor’s PhD student. He’s the only other one around. Pretty sure he hates my guts.”

“What’s his problem?” says Jon.

“No idea,” says Bill, “but apart from obviously having one he’s …” She’s not sure what he is. Strange and not charming? Boring? Fascinating? Creepy? Annoying? “Not really worth talking about.”

The conversation moves onto things that are worth talking about: Trish’s continuing search for a booking agent, Jon’s most recent entertainingly awful customer service stories, Tom’s new flatmate’s predilection for seafood and how the entire flat smells of salmon on a semi-permanent basis now. At some point at the bottom of her second glass of beer Bill reaches that comfortably buzzed out state where sound and light permeate her awareness like refractions on the surface of a rippling pool of water, not quite hazy, but fluid. Her friends continue to talk around her, as they often do, and she listens to the music weaving around her from the stage far at her back. The lyrics murmur about street lights on wet pavement, a city reflected twice over, smoke and street corners.

“They used to know me here, haven’t used that name in years, been a woman too long for that song now …”

Bill is turning over the metal nut she found on the floor of the Doctor’s office, watching it glint in the gold and rainbow hues of the pub lights, turning blue and then red, silver and then gold. She raises it to her nose to smell again, trying to place that scent. Before, she thought it was damp earth, now she catches something else, something like lightning and rain. There’s a word for that. The smell of a storm coming, that sharp, almost smoky tang. Ozone. Ozone and damp earth. There’s a word for that too, Bill remembers. Or she remembers, but can’t remember. Something about an expensive bottle of perfume she saw in a shop years ago. It had a name Bill fell a bit in love with. The beautiful redhead on the packaging didn’t hurt either.

“I’ve been lost and I’ve found out high supply just brings your cost down, they don’t want you involved, just want you around …”

Bill raises the nut up to the light and sees that the inside of it is strangely shaped, different from any metal nut she’s seen before. She wonders silently at the way the negative space inside it looks just like a star. It’s oddly beautiful.

“Walking in, I gotta step over a pretty thing leaning her head on her own shoulder …”

She peers through the hole, as if it might show her the pub in a whole other light, one wilder and stranger and a little bit impossible.

“I don’t ask if she’s alright, ‘cause I think she’d lie tonight that her ride’s coming, her ride’s coming, her ride’s coming, her ride …”

Bill makes eye contact with someone on the other side of the star. It’s a girl all the way on the other side of the pub, a whole ten feet away, which somehow feels like a million miles. She’s … Bill has never been a poet, so Bill can’t possibly describe her. Her hair is blonde. Her lips are red. Her top bares her shoulders and her collarbones are a delicate expanse of pale skin. With the way her head is tilted, one eye catches the light just like the nut that Bill is peeking through, mirroring the star all the way down to the iris in a gleam of gold.

Bill doesn’t want to lower the nut from her eye. She’s scared that somehow the girl will disappear, that the moment Bill drops her hand to the table there’ll be nothing there but an empty space. Still, with a shaking hand she lowers the nut. And the girl is still there. She’s looking back at Bill, straight into her eyes, and Bill can feel every single nerve ending in her body as if each one is a lightbulb bursting.

“... need another round, Jon, come on, cheapskate!” Trish’s voice rings distantly into Bill’s ear.

“I’ll get them in,” Bill mumbles, finding her feet, which suddenly feel very far away from the rest of her.

Across the pub, the other girl is standing too. She’s moving towards Bill like a perfect mirror. Bill is supposed to be heading for the bar, but she finds herself veering left, drawn like a magnet into the girl’s path as she heads straight towards Bill. Is the girl going to talk to her? Is she going to ask her to dance? Is there dancing here? Bill doesn’t know if people are dancing, she can’t remember if she saw them. She can’t sense anything outside this pull; she feels the way she imagines the ocean tides feel about the moon.

They come to a halt, face to face in the middle of the pub. What Bill had thought was an optical illusion seems, impossibly, to be the truth – there is a golden star in the girl’s right eye, glowing as if Bill put it there herself by holding the nut to the light and shining it towards her. Her other eye is hazel, all the colours of the deepest forest. Bill stares at her, unable to move past her, unable to ask her name, unable to move. Even if this place is called St Sebastian’s, she’s not sure it’s gay enough to witness what she’s thinking about right now.

The girl stares back, straight into Bill’s eyes, as if their boring brown is just as hypnotic as her golden star.

There’s an unholy screech to the far left and the girl startles like a rabbit, mumbling an apology and darting away past Bill. Dazed, Bill still stands there like an idiot in the middle of the floor, slowly catching up with time as it starts moving like normal again, realising that the unholy screech was made by the guitarist on the stage, presumably having spectacularly fumbled a chord. Bill weathers the irrational urge to climb up onto the stage and kill them. Then she gets over it and turns away to get the drinks.

She spends the rest of the night alternating between kicking Jon or Trish under the table and glancing over at the booth where the girl with the star in her eye had been sitting. The girl doesn’t return, and the women sitting there eventually leave. Bill swallows her disappointment along with the last of her beer an hour later, as they’re all getting ready to leave.

She asks Trish if other students from St Luke’s ever come here – Trish is in her third year already, she ought to know – but Trish is too sloshed to give a more helpful answer than, ‘oh, yeeeaah’ and bob her head. Bill sighs. They’ve reached that time of the night. All Trish wants to do is sing ‘That’s Amore’ at the top of her lungs and find weird ways to interact with Jon. Because it’s Jon, as always, who helps Trish up when she nearly faceplants off the steps out of the pub.

“You’re such a fuckin’ lightweight,” he says to Trish softly, steadying her at the waist as if she’s made of glass. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“You’re an arse,” Trish tells him for the second time that night, “and your hair is fucking stupid.”

And as always it’s Tom who follows behind them quietly with his hands in his pockets, with Bill the only one standing at the right angle to see the look on his face when he watches them ahead.

Later, in her bedroom at Moira’s house, Bill takes off her jacket and starts emptying the pockets, only to find that the nut is gone. She’s left it at the table at the pub. Or possibly she dropped it when she stood on the floor in the girl’s thrall. She feels a pang for the loss of it so soon, cursing her stupidity. As ever, too busy gawking at a pretty girl.

But, God. What was the nut? Probably some useless piece of IKEA metal that fell out of Freddie’s pocket. And what was that girl? Possibly the love of Bill’s life. Possibly an entire universe.

Either way, definitely a girl worth losing a puzzle piece over.

#Doctor who #Doctor who fanfiction #Doctor who fanfic #bill potts #bill potts fanfiction #my fics #the first question

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nanamineedstherapy · 7 months ago

Text

The Gojo & Geto KFC Break up: A Reenactment

Summary: Read it if you want to laugh at peak JJK Brainrot. No woranings needed :)

A few hours ago, a classroom at Jujutsu Tech had resembled a warped fever dream more than a place of learning. Sunlight shone ominously over a makeshift KFC setup, complete with a curtain backdrop and a sharpie-painted sign reading "KFC—Sorcerer's Special: Fried Curses" dangling precariously.

The audience? Anyone unfortunate enough to be on campus—essentially everyone, since it was a workday—perched on foldable chairs, waiting. The room buzzed with confused chatter as rows of students and alumni filled the seats, their expressions a mix of bewilderment, annoyance, and existential crisis.

Mei Mei, bribed with a year’s supply of KFC biscuits, strutted forward holding a bedazzled megaphone. “Humans, sorcerers, half-cursed spirits, and freeloaders, welcome to the reenactment of a legend! This evening, you’ll witness heartbreak, betrayal, and fried chicken. Starring Yuki Tsukumo as the undeniably silliest sorcerer Gojo Satoru and Shoko Ieiri as everyone’s favorite broody malewife, Suguru Geto!” She winked, earning groans from the crowd—except for Panda, who whispered to Yuta, “Prepare for war crimes.”

In the background, a fake window opened behind a counter littered with what might have once been chicken or rubber ducks. Sukuna, sporting a crumpled paper hat reading ‘SukuFry King’ and a greasy KFC apron, stuck his head out to advertise. “KFC—get your crispy, juicy pieces right here, while the drama unfolds!”

Hakari leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin on his face, and shouted, “Twenty bucks says this joint goes up in flames before the credits roll! Who’s in?”

Panda nodded.

In the center sat Toji Fushiguro, chained to his chair. His usual mysterious aura seemed muted by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“I don’t even like chicken that much,” he muttered, his voice flat. A sign taped to his chest read ‘DO NOT FEED THE MURDERER’, as if that was the real threat here. Most people didn’t recognize him, so they eyed him with suspicion.

Across the room, Sukuna held out a pink Barbie phone to his ear, pretending to call Toji while looking in another direction. “Shut it, Fushiguro Daddy. No one invited you to the feast; you’re just here for the vibes.” He spoke only loud enough for Toji to hear and scowl.

Suddenly, the Barbie phone blared “tunk tunk tun ta ra ra!” at full volume in his ear, echoing through the room. Sukuna jumped, nearly dropping the phone in the very real fryer, shooting a glare at it.

Just then, Yuki, playing Gojo, stormed onto the stage wearing a baby blue crop top that read "Being an atheist got boring, so I shall now be God" and a dollar-store ‘eyelash game savage’ blindfold beneath dark fake glasses. Her fluffy flip-flops slammed against the floor like she was declaring war and fighting on bad fashion’s side. “Everyone loves me,” she announced, arms outstretched like a runway model, pausing for effect. “But no one loves me like KFC chicken does—crispy, juicy, and always there for me!”

She then turned sharply, accidentally addressing the wrong side of the room, i.e., Sukuna, who turned her the right way with one hand over her head. “Suguru,” she intoned, dragging the name out like an eighties villain. “You promised to share in my eternal quest for... fried enlightenment! And if you don’t, I’ll unleash my secret weapon: the extra crispy dance!”

Todo, who had showed up uninvited (again), let out an enthusiastic whistle as Yuki flipped her hair—only for her white hair wig to fly off, revealing the shiniest bald cap anyone had ever seen. He leaped to his feet, clapping. “YES, QUEEN! SLAY!”

Meanwhile, Sukuna pulled out a megaphone he’d stolen from Inumaki. “KFC: Where chicken meets tragedy. Get your two-piece meals at the concession stand!”

Kusakabe raised a hand. “Uh, I thought this was a strategy meeting?”

Todo turned to him. “Kusakabe, my brother! Witness their youth!”

Kusakabe glared. “I will fail you.” Making Todo slump back into his chair.

Yuji leaned over to Megumi, whispering, “Did Todo hit his head again?”

Yuki, now firmly reattached to her wig, struck another pose. “KFC is my soulmate,” she declared, voice dripping with faux heartbreak. “But Suguru—Suguru thinks it’s Mid-FC! The betrayal!”

Sukuna, leaning forward like the Colonel’s most unhinged employee of the month, sneered. “Are you ordering chicken, or am I committing mass murder in five seconds?”

“No one asked you, Sukuna!” Yuki snapped, flinging a napkin at him. Sukuna caught it mid-air, incinerating it with a clawed hand.

From the side, Shoko shuffled forward, cosplaying Suguru Geto with a fake tattoo sleeve, red sparkly buttons on her earlobs, and a tangled, dusty wig being held together with thoughts and prayers in a hoodie titled ‘Cuntest sorcerer of the modern era’. She was carrying a KFC bucket. “Gojo, we need to talk,” she said, forcing her voice deepen into a raspy purr that sounded more I-smoked-all-week than brooding.

Yuki (Gojo) whirled around, her flair so exaggerated she smacked the bucket out of Shoko’s hands. “But why, Suguru?! Is it because I always steal the best pieces of chicken?”

As Shoko (Geto) began her breakup monologue about emotional neglect and chicken, Higuruma (playing Toji) crawled across the stage, like a centipede, toward the fallen chicken bucket. Toru hung around his neck playing wormie. "So... no one’s gonna eat that? Can I—?”

Shoko (Geto) slapped his hand away with disdain. “No, Toji.” She kicked the bucket out of his reach.

Panda’s laugh sounded suspiciously like a car backfiring.

Shoko (Geto) rubbed her temple, "Gojo, why do you always have to be like this? Why can’t you just order a normal meal like everyone else?" She was trying to keep a straight face but kept glancing at the beer can she’d snuck in.

Yuki (Gojo) looked at her, adjusting her blindfold and fake sunglasses, with betrayal. "Because I’m not like other boys, Suguru."

Junpei staired wide-eyed, muttering, “Is this normal?” Mimiko and Nanako patted his shoulders comfortingly.

“Yes,” Mimiko said, deadpan. “Everyone knows about this except for Gojo and Geto-sensei.”

Shoko (Geto) grabbed the bucket from Higuruma’s hands—he’d managed to pluck it from the floor—and tossed it into the audience, where it hit Ijichi square in the face.

Shoko (Geto) yelled, "Gojo, it was NEVER about the chicken. It was about YOU. Always YOU."

Sukuna (KFC employee) sounded suspiciously like a Keren out on hunt, saying, "Are you two gonna order something, or do I have to call homeless control? We have a literal two-piece deal even your broke sorcerer asses can afford—trust me, it’s more fulfilling than your entire life’s purpose!” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “And it comes with a side of regret!”

Yuki (Gojo) scowled at him, "Oh, this isn’t about chicken, King of Ass-Pull techniques. This is about principle!”

She turned to face Shoko, nearly knocking over the cardboard counter in the process.

Megumi groaned into his hands. “Why?”

Nobara slapped his back. “Shut up. This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

Ino (as Shoko), fully committed to his role, burst through the side door, a fake cigarette dangling from his lips, looking incredibly done in Shoko’s high-school uniform that revealed his gorilla-level hairy legs. "I can’t have more of you both not communicating with each other and then coming to me crying about your feelings!" he bellowed, waving the fake cigarette around like a deranged conductor's baton. "I’m moving to med school to fake my studies.”

He propped one foot up on a chair, chest puffed out. "Next time you have a meltdown, try punching a wall or something! Seriously, I didn’t sign up for ‘Days of Our Lives: Extreme Oblivious Edition!"

Miguel (playing Ijichi), lugging an absurdly oversized notebook even for his frame, stumbled in after him. “Sensei! I’m taking attendance—oh no. Not again.”

Then from the other door, Choso (playing Nanami), in an absolutely horrendous business suit from the clearance bin, stormed in. "I’m DONE, Gojo. I quit Jujutsu Tech. I’m joining corporate and selling my soul. I don’t have time for fried chicken skits; I want to wake up eight years later and look at my balding head, then wonder where my youth went."

Yuki (Gojo) pointed at him. "You wouldn’t dare ruin my sunflower garden on your head!"

Maki, unimpressed, sighed, “This is why no one respects them.”

Sukuna (KFC employee) adjusted his crumpled paper hat, radiating despair. "Can someone please exorcise me already? No one appreciates the Colonel."

Yuki (Gojo), now focused again after her moment of ADHD, said, "You betrayed me when you ordered boneless chicken wings, Suguru."

Shoko (Geto) shot back, "They’re practical, Satoru!"

Higuruma (Toji), now sitting on the ground, held a cup out toward the audience. "Spare change? Anyone? Please. I’ll take KFC gift cards at this point." He paused, leaning toward Shoko. "Geto, buddy, a nugget? Anything? I’m starving."

Shoko (Geto) shot him a withering side-eye. "Not now, Toji. I’m having a quarter-life crisis."

Higuruma (Toji) nodded solemnly, then held the cup higher toward the crowd. "No worries. Continue. But seriously, just a bite?"

The real Toji groaned in the background, making Sukuna chuckle.

Panda tried to sneak some popcorn from Kirara’s stash, only to be slapped on the paw. Inumaki and Yuta sighed, sharing some shrimp chips with him.

Shoko (Geto), stormed to the counter and slapped down a crumpled 500-yen bill. "Satoru, for the last time, we are NOT ordering bones-only."

Across from her, Yuki (Gojo) leaned on the counter, radiating the kind of energy that came from seven whiskey shots too many. "It’s about the morals, Suguru,” she declared, wagging her finger. "Bones are the soul of fried chicken! How can you betray me by ordering—” She spat the words like a curse, “boneless chicken wings?”

Sukuna sighed from behind the counter, poking at a rubber chicken on a spatula. "This is KFC, not marriage counseling."

“Why am I here again?” Toji growled, tugging at the chains around his ankles, hoping they’d break and he’d make a run for it.

“Because you lost at Uno! Haha Loser!,” Sukuna mocked, a little too unhinged and happy, tossing a handful of napkins into the deep fryer for fun.

Yuki (Gojo) dropped to her knees, hands clutching at thin air like she was performing in a Shakespearean tragedy. "Suguru, don’t leave me! We’ve been through everything together—Mochi! Nanami’s bangs! Chicken!” Her voice cracked, as if each word was ripping her apart.

Within moments, she was sprawled on the floor, flailing her limbs like a soap opera actor who’d just discovered their long-lost twin was actually a disguised alien. "Think of the Nuggets, Suguru!" she wailed, her melodrama reaching new, uncharted heights.

Shoko (Geto) rolls her eyes, stepping back. “That’s exactly the problem, Gojo! You only think about yourself... and chicken!” She picks up the fallen bones-only KFC bucket, shaking it. “This... this symbolizes everything wrong with us.”

Sukuna (still KFC ambassador), now fully leaning out the KFC window, clicks his tongue. “Should’ve gone with the spicy tenders, Suguru. More flavor. Less heartbreak.”

Yuki (Gojo) stands, dusting herself off, looking stoic now. “Fine, Suguru. If you wanna leave... then go. But don’t come crawling back when you realize that no one, NO ONE, makes better chicken-related decisions than I do!”

Shoko (Geto) flips her dusty fake hair, then coughs as it spins around only to land in her mouth. “It’s over, Gojo. You’ve... changed. And it’s not just about the chicken anymore.”

Somewhere in the back, Todo yelled, “Even Takada-chan loves bone-in chicken.” Earning side-eyes from everyone.

Then Dhoko (Geto) turned her back and continued, “Are you Gojo Satoru because you like bone-in fried chicken, or are you chicken because you hate boneless?" Weirdly enough, making Mimiko and Nanako shed a tear as the rest of the students eyed them awkwardly while Maki and Junpai rubbed their backs.

Higuruma (Toji), crawled back to his spot and sighed. “Breakups are hard, huh? To gain heavenly restriction against ‘em, spare a wing for a guy in need?” He sounded suspiciously like a sleazy pyramid scheme salesman peddling floor cleaner.

“Honestly,” he continued, with a mock-serious tone, “for just five easy payments of emotional trauma, you too can avoid heartbreak forever! Act now, and I’ll throw in a free set of emotional baggage, making you top tear Red-Flag!”

Kashimo (Haibara) floated aimlessly as a poorly conceived ghost prop, holding up a sign that read "Nanami’s fault."

Beside him, Choso (Nanami) buried his head in his hands. “Haibara, you lucky little shit, must be glad you died before witnessing this.”

The door slammed open again, hinges screeching like they were about to quit, as Yourozu (channeling Sukuna with the energy of a feral cryptid) covered in sharpie tattoos burst in, dual-wielding two buckets of KFC. “Yo, these trash humans should ditch the chicken and sell fried human toes!” She howled, spinning one bucket like a fidget spinner.

Before anyone could process the culinary war crime, Kashimo (Haibara), still in a white bedsheet covered with mysterious stains, phased into existence next to her like a glitch in the Matrix. “Honestly? This is the most alive I’ve felt in decades,” he muttered, chewing one enthusiastically.

Yourozu’s (Sukuna) eyes gleamed. “Picture it! Toes—crispy nails on the outside, chewy fleshy core on the inside—portable protein and calcium for cursed spirits on the go!”

Kashimo (Haibara) nodded, as if possessed by the spirit of a business bro (or just Nanami?). “You’re onto something. Pair it with sauces—spicy teriyaki, miso glaze, a dab of mayo. Go full Michelin.”

“‘Sukuna’s Special Toes’!” Yourozu (Sukuna) roared, arms raised like she’d just invented sliced bread. “Limited edition. Toes freshly cursed, aged for maximum crunch. Hurry up for Sukuna’s Toes Cumming near you.”

Kashimo (Haibara), still glowing and looking like a horror movie side character who’s about to narrate the end of the world, declared, “I’d throw my life savings at that. Beats playing ‘haunted tag’ for eternity.”

The room was silent—in horror—as they stared at Yourozu mimicking Sukuna’s trademark smirk, now directed at a chicken nugget she was calling “toe prototype.”

In the middle of it all, Toji was the only one snickering, making real Sukuna chuck his Barbie phone at him from the KFC booth. The phone broke into a million pieces on impact with Toji’s skull before scattering on the floor.

Higuruma (Toji) slides over to real Toji, holding up his empty cup. “Spare change?”

Real Toji handed him a KFC coupon from his back pocket. “Here, go nuts.”

Higuruma’s eyes light up, holding the coupon like it’s a winning lottery ticket. “Now this is the kind of happy ending I deserve.”

Miguel (Ijichi) muttered to himself like a malfunctioning NPC. “One day... one day I’ll grow up to be big and strong... like my amazing senpais…” His voice wobbled, trembling like he was on the verge of tears—or self-combustion—but the sheer tension radiating off him made him look less like a sad little intern and more like an excavator about to explode in the middle of rush hour. His hands shook as he clutched a clipboard for dear life, but his expression screamed, ‘Please don’t ask me how I’m doing,’ while his aura screamed, ‘Ask and you’ll die.’

Real Ijichi looked at him like he was regretting life decisions. “Was I really this pathetic as a junior?” he whispered to himself, trembling. Akari nodded next to him.

Kusakabe folded his arms. “I was told this was a cursed spirit seminar. Where’s the educational value?”

Todo shouted from the back, "The only education you need is learning what kind of woman orders boneless chicken!”

“That’s it! You will be failed AND SUSPENDED from the Sister School Exchange Event. I’ll also ban your entry here so you can’t see Itadori!” Kusakabe yelled while Ijichi tried to calm him down.

Without another word, Todo sat back down. Yuji breathed a sigh of relief.

Back at the counter, Yuki (Gojo) had fully climbed onto the counter, pointing at Shoko (Geto).

“You call yourself my best friend—my soulmate, Suguru—and you order BON—" she choked on the word, “—LESS?!”

Shoko (Geto), completely unfazed, popped a cigarette into her mouth and lit it with the fire emanating from Sukuna’s deep fryer. “They’re practical, Satoru. You don’t have to deal with bones when you’re hungover or just returned from swallowing balls.”

Yuki (Gojo) bellowed.

Panda leaned over to Hakari and whispered, “This is why mammals don’t need wings.”

Hakari nodded.

Yuta stared blankly at the scene unfolding before him, slumped between Panda and Inumaki. “I thought turning my ex-girlfriend into a curse was the lowest point of my life,” he said.

“Same,” Maki replied from the front, rubbing her temples.

Megumi groaned. “This is an insult to women and fried chicken.”

Yuki (Gojo) turned her attention to Sukuna. “You’re the employee here! Tell him he’s wrong!”

Sukuna, now wearing his KFC hat at a jaunty angle, barked out a laugh. “Listen, ‘Delulu iz D Solulu’ ambassador, I just work here.” He sneered, pointing a rubber chicken drumstick like a scepter. “But let me tell you this—no one who orders boneless chicken respects themselves. Or anyone else. They’re the spiritual equivalent of someone who microwaves ice cream.”

The room gasped in collective horror, except for Yuji, who looked genuinely curious about microwaved ice cream. “Does it melt faster?” he whispered to Hakari, who groaned and rubbed his temples.

Real Toji, visibly done with everyone’s nonsense, muttered, “I’ve killed men for less.”

“Shut up, Toji,” Yuki snapped, chucking a ketchup packet at him. “You’re only here because Sukuna thought it’d be funny.”

“Damn right, it’s funny,” Sukuna quipped, flipping rubber ducks in the fryer.

The crowd noise reached a crescendo when Shoko (Geto) grabbed a tray of fries and shoved them at Yuki. “Fine! If you’re so obsessed with bones, why don’t you eat these? They're BONES of the potato world!”

The insult hit harder than expected. Yuki (Gojo) gasped, clutched her chest like she’d been stabbed, and fell onto the counter.

“I—CAN’T—BELIEVE THIS—” she wailed.

Choso (Nanami) yelled from the audience, “Haibara, take me now!”

Kusakabe muttered, "You idiots called me from Kyoto for this?"

Akari sighed. “It’s a recurring nightmare; just go with it. It’ll be over soon.”

Soon Shoko (Geto) threw her cigarette into the fryer. The grease exploded.

Ino (Shoko) yelled from the door, “The principal’s on the way! Save yourselves, peasants!” He bellowed then, without missing a beat, hitched up his (Shoko’s high school) skirt like a Disney princess mid-escape and yeeted himself out the nearest window, purple boxers on full display like a chaotic pride flag. He landed in a somersault that was either pure James Bond or budget Brokeback Mountain, depending on how you squinted, before taking off with all the grace of a pigeon dodging traffic.

Sukuna burst through his cardboard KFC window in a single fluid motion, like an Olympian who moonlighted as a feral mothman. With zero hesitation, he grabbed Real Toji by the collar and yeeted him like a human projectile. The chair and Toji soared through the air in cursed synchronization before crashing into the nearest bush with a sound so loud it startled three crows into orbit.

Quickly turning around, Sukuna then yelled out. “Alright, that’s it. Everyone get out before I curse this entire campus for being budgetarily impaired. I swear, even the vending machines are in a dollar drought.”

Todo stood up. “You can’t curse me; I’m too strong.”

“Shut up, best friendo,” Nobara snapped, kicking the back of his chair.

Yaga stormed in, looking like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds, forced to babysit an entire fraternity. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL DOING?!” he roared, veins on his forehead threatening mutiny.

Higuruma (Toji but with none of the chill) bolted upright like a startled meerkat, clutching his KFC coupon like it was the last horcrux. “I’m out!” He ran offstage, tripping over Yuki, who was sprawled out on the floor. Making Toru abandon him for Megumi.

Meanwhile, Shoko—now in a baldcap (she had flung her Suguru wig without looking, making it land atop Todo)—was casually guiding Yuki offstage by dragging her flip-flop-clad feet, as Yuki grabbed random stage props since she still couldn’t see through her Hellen Killer blindfold and fake sunglasses combo. “Just... pretend you had cataract surgery,” Shoko whispered. “But don’t quote me; I’m not an ophthalmologist.”

Todo, now crowned by the discarded rag-like wig, was deep in character as Takada-chan’s split personality, striking a pose. “Shake ‘em buns,” he intoned with grave sincerity, the words heavy with meaning only he could comprehend.

Mei Mei, still holding the megaphone, announced smugly, “And that concludes tonight’s performance! Tips are accepted in cash or chicken.”

Sukuna tips his paper KFC hat. “Always a pleasure, Yaga. If you ever need us for another reenactment—”

Yaga cuts him off, pointing to the door. “I’d rather face Mahito.”

As the “actors” leave the stage, Higuruma (Toji) waves his KFC coupon in the air, victorious.

“Take that! Student Debt!” then turns face and runs away when Yaga gives him a death glare.

Yaga sighed as the students scrambled to leave, laughter echoing down the halls.

“Next time,” Yaga growled in the hallway, “I’m calling the Zen’in clan to babysit you all.”

Sukuna shrugged. “Good luck with that; strong ones are already here.”

But before Yaga could question him, the curtains fell—they really fell because Yuji decided to lean on them like they were a support group for his Paranormal Finger Munchies. “...My bad,” he muttered, slowly backing away.

Megumi sighed and turned away in embarrassment, with Toru, who was apparently the real protagonist of this story (in her mind), and began walking off in silent protest. Toru, nestled in his arms, purred loudly while striking poses that screamed, Servant, paint me like your French girls, her little primordial pouch hangin out like it’s own cursed womb.

“HEY! My turn to hold Toru!” Nobara yelled, storming after them with the energy of a rabid raccoon. She grabbed at Toru’s tail, but Megumi expertly pivoted, keeping the cat out of her reach like they were playing keep-away with a sacred relic. Panda tried to go after Nobara to stop her but was tackled by Maki and Kirara for lunch money he promised he’d pay them back.

Toru winked at Nobara. If cats could flip people off, she absolutely would have.

Meanwhile, Inumaki had somehow managed to snatch Toru’s tiny sunglasses and was attempting to wear them over one eye. The result? He looked like a certain one-eyed cryptid who’d stumbled out of the depths of urban legend forums.

“Shake!” Inumaki declared, striking a pose.

“Give those back before you snap them,” Yuta ran after him, diving to wrestle the sunglasses out of Inumaki’s hands. But Inumaki was faster, shimmying his shoulders like a little gremlin, the glasses barely hanging on as he cackled in triumph.

The scene devolved further when Nobara tackled Megumi, sending both of them—and Toru—tumbling to the ground along with Maki, Kirara, and Junpei. Hakari took pictures for blackmail later. Toru leapt out unscathed, jumping into Ijichi’s arms, who held her like a bomb waiting to explode before passing her off to Kusakabe, where she purred like she’d planned it all along.

“Finally, someone in this room with taste,” Sukuna muttered, placing the KFC paper hat on Toru’s head. Akari leaped into action like a caffeinated kangaroo, ready to snap pictures of Toru: the Kaisen to our Jujutsu’s official Instagram page; yes, Toru had an Instagram page now in only 12 hours of arrival.

Yuji whispered to Nanako and Mimiko, “Do you guys think Toru likes boneless chicken?”

Sukuna turned sharply, his glare a thousand curses being unleashed at once. “Don’t you dare, brat.”

Choso and Kashimo sprinted into the practice grounds. “Take me now, best friend!" Choso (Nanami) yelled at Kashimo, who tried to float away only to bump into a pole with a reverberating clang, due to him still being in the white bedsheet.

The chaos reached a fever pitch, props flying and nonsensical shouting echoing across the school grounds. Then, the intercom crackled to life with Gojo’s unmistakably irritated voice.

“Whoever’s using my name for this nonsense,” he drawled, his tone sharp enough to cut glass, “meet me on the roof in five minutes. I’m bringing purple.”

Dead silence fell over the scene, everyone frozen mid-chaos like cursed mannequins.

Then, another voice rang out, smooth and resonant, with a cadence that could only belong to one person. “I’ll bring Ratio.”

Before anyone could process, another voice—Geto’s—purred smoothly through the speakers. “And you know what I’ll bring.”

From the far end of the grounds, Yuki, still being dragged unceremoniously by Shoko, cheered loudly, “Spicy Cunt!” Then proceeded to clap like she had won Family Feud, her whiskey count showing.

Shoko groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as she dragged Yuki faster. “Why are you making this harder, woman?!”

Panic erupted. Every actor scrambled like rats off a sinking ship, tossing clothes, props, and fragments of dignity to the wind as they bolted in random directions. Each was determined to pretend they had absolutely nothing to do with whatever Gojo was about to obliterate from existence.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

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