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ohtobeleah · 1 month ago

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Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Twelve: [Bring Me The Horizon]

Summary: After Jensen and Jake finish their face-off, you tell Jake how it is. He practices the art of holding himself accountable for his actions, and you get a call that would send you into a downward spiral. Putting you in jeopardy right before your surgery.

Warnings: MAIN CHARACTER DEATH Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Mentions of religion. JEALOUS JAKE!

Word Count: 5.1k

Author Note: WOW and we’re back baby. Another year has passed us by and we are finishing this series. Strap in for the final three episodes of this roller coaster of a series. You never know where we might just end up.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The triangular theory of love is a theory developed by Robert Sternberg. In the context of interpersonal relationships, the three components of love according to the triangular theory are, intimacy, passion, and a decision/commitment component. For Jake, he felt like love was more than just a triangular theory. Love is all-encompassing in every aspect of life. And if you look closely, love can be seen all around us in all different forms.

“Bradshaw, now’s not the time man,” Jake sighed as he made his way back down the hospital hallway to your room, walking with his shoulders down and his ego battered and bruised. “I gotta fix an issue and my head’s not–” Before Jake could finish his sentence, Rooster interrupted with a crucial question he needed answered now.

“How is your mother gonna react when I show up to take your kids?” The genuine concern in Bradley’s voice was clear enough for Jake to stay on the line as he walked. “Do I need to be concerned about her calling the cops?”

“Dude,” Jake groaned to himself in frustration as he walked with purpose down the hall. He could feel his rage and frustration bubbling to the surface with every step he took. Who did this Jensen guy think he was? Who did Jake think he was? You didn’t ask for any of this and you definitely didn’t deserve his tantrum before. “She’s not gonna call the cops on you, just tell her to call me if you have any issues and get Jas to help you.”

“Your mother is a terrifying woman–” Rooster added, just to rub salt into Jake’s already existing childhood wounds.

“Well, at least she’s alive.” Jake had never regretted a sentence more in his life. The second he realised what he’d said and who he was speaking to, his heart fell straight out of his arse. “Bradshaw I didn’t mean–” Before Jake had a chance to speak, before he had a chance to explain that he wasn’t talking about Carole—he was talking about you—the line went dead.

“Fuck!” Jake looked at his phone screen to see the call had indeed been ended. He felt the panic inside his chest. The guilt.

Jake had developed a pretty uncanny ability to fuck things up. He couldn’t help himself at the moment. He was having a hard time regulating his emotions. It never had been his strong suit, but now it was worse than ever. Perhaps the idea of losing you forever was the cause. Jake couldn’t accept the possibility that there was a good to fair chance you might not walk away from this fight.

But he could see the bottom of your bed again and where your feet were underneath the breathable hospital blanket that did nothing to keep you warm. With every step Jake took in the hall, he got closer and closer to where he’d left you. And with every step he took he tried to formulate an apology that would reflect his utter sorrow. His pain. His guilt. You were the first person that deserved an apology for Jake’s actions. Bradley would just have to wait.

In hospitals, people see addiction every day. It’s shocking how many kinds of addiction exist. It would be far too easy if it were just drugs, alcohol and cigarettes people were addicted to. The hardest part about kicking an addiction is wanting to kick it. I mean we get addicted for a reason, right?

Often, too often, things start as a normal part of your life and at some point, cross the line into obsessive needs, compulsive out of out-of-control desires. It’s the high people chase. The high that makes everything else…fade away. But nothing could make Jake Seresin fade away. Nothing so far had helped you kick the addiction. Not even when you left.

The harsh reality about addiction is it never ends well. Because eventually, whatever it is that was getting you that high…stops feeling good and starts to hurt. So when the very person you were addicted to walked back into your hospital room, the hurt started all over again well and truly after the high had died down.

“Okay,” Jake stopped in his tracks when he saw that look in your eyes. Although a sense of calm washed over him the second he saw you again, he knew he was probably the last person you wanted to see after the way he behaved before. “I recognised I’m in the wrong here.” It was the look he wished he’d never been on the receiving end of again. A look of disappointment mixed with anger, hatred, and, above all, sadness. “I owe you an apology.”

“No thanks,” The tone you conveyed was sinister. There was no warmth. No love. No room for compassion or empathy. “I’m not interested in another empty apology.” You didn't even look Jake’s way. You just continued on with the little word finder you had picked up in Jensen and Jake’s absence. “If you’re done swinging your dick around in the hall like a psychopath, I need to rest.”

Jake was stunned. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew he deserved that. He knew he’d taken things too far. He knew he’d flown over the handlebars the second Jensen stepped into your room. But it was all out of fear of losing you. Why couldn’t you see that? Jake felt as if he could stand right in front of you and you’d look straight through him.

“Honey, don’t be like that,” Jake sighed as he took a few steps towards your bedside. The bouquet Jensen had brought you was lying haphazardly on the little bedside cupboard. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did alright, I know, and I promise you I’m trying here.” Jake sighed as he looked at the flowers another man had gone out of his way to buy you. A dying man.

A dead man walking.

“I’m glad you’re self-aware,” You replied yet again without paying any mind to Jake’s whereabouts in your room. “Never really was your strong suit.” You murmured just loud enough for Jake to hear your mild insult. You could have said it louder, hell, you should have. But regardless of Jake’s actions…he was an addictive drug. One that made it incredibly hard to kick the habit. One you knew you’d go back to. One you wished loved you the same way you loved him.

“Jensen knocked some sense into me,” Jake tried his best to explain all the while he tried to hold back the lump in his throat. The kind of lump that brought tears and panic attacks with it. “He was kind enough to set the record straight.”

“You understand how big of a piece of shit you have to be to say what you said, right?” It was the first time your tone had changed. There was something beyond painful in the way you spoke. Something Jake had tried time and time again not to be the cause of. Heartbreak. Betrayal even. “You jealous, insecure man.”

For a second, Jake absorbed the blow. He took it on the chin like a champion because nothing you were saying was wrong. He was scared of losing the love of his life in a way that wasn’t just through marriage.

“I know,” Jake replied as he picked up the bouquet and looked around. He was looking for somewhere to put them. Somewhere to display the beauty that they emulated. Beauty that reflected you. Where could he get a jug or something to put these in? “I don’t have an excuse to give you, honey,” Jake was trying his best to stick to the honesty is the best policy crap he’d been taught as a child. “I’m just, I got so worked up when he came in here knowing more about you than I did and–”

“Jensen is a friend from group therapy,” You explained yet again. “And this is the last time I’m gonna say it before I let you run off with whatever version of a warped reality you wanna believe but I swear, there isn’t anyone else.” You sat up a little straighter in your bed as you closed your find-a-word book. “I have cancer, Jake. In what world would anyone want me?”

“You love her, don’t you? You’re in love with my wife, say it.” Jake could hear himself asking the all-important question. He could see himself standing in the hall with the man who had selflessly intertwined his life with yours in order to make you feel less alone in the world.

“Maybe–” Jake vividly heard Jensens reply as he stood staring at the tears that fell down your cheeks. Tears he was the very cause of. “Maybe I love her, but I don’t get a chance to explore that, you do though.”

“Me?” It was the sincerity in Jake’s voice that broke you as he put the bouquet down where he’d originally found it and made his way to sit beside you on your bed. “I want you forever and the very idea that some guy—some guy I know is a better man than I will ever be—brought you, my wife, flowers when I didn’t? Kills me.”

“I don’t care about the flowers,” You sighed as Jake wrapped you up in his arms.

“I know, but I let my own insecurities out in a way I never should have and I’m so sorry for the things I said. You don’t deserve that, ever.” It was genuine. The apology for his actions. Jake knew he was in the wrong with how he acted out. You could very clearly see that he was truly sorry. But letting him know that now would have been too easy.

The pair of you sat in your hospital bed for the better half of five minutes silently enjoying each other’s presence and gentle touch. Until you broke.

“I hope you aren’t expecting me to say apology accepted?” You smiled softly as you nuzzled into Jake’s chest a little more. Finding a comfortable position to rest in as you sunk lower in the hospital bed that wasn’t built for two fully grown human beings.

“Nope,” Jake chuckled as he kissed the top of your head, freshly shaved and matching his own. “And I don’t think Rooster is gonna be accepting any apology I give him anytime soon, so the list is growing.”

“What happened with Rooster?” You asked cautiously. You felt the tension take over your husband’s body as he processed what you‘d just asked. Jake held you a little tighter as he once again kissed the top of your freshly shaved head. The notes of your shampoo must have seeped into your scalp. He could still vividly smell the residual fragrance of bergamot.

“Nothing that can’t be explained,” Jake sighed softly. He hated himself with a deep-rooted passion right now. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything else was take you home and pretend everything was alright for just one night. But he couldn’t do that. “Please, don’t worry about my mistakes when you have so much on your plate already. I’ll figure it out. Rooster and I always do.”

“Hmm,” You replied with hesitation as you let your eyes close. The lup-dup of Jake’s heartrate soothed your soul, a heart that begged to be loved in all the ways he deserved to be loved. “I hope so. Martha Stewart’s best and closest friend said the words that sent her to prison,” You explained all the while Jake’s fingers drew unidentifiable objects into the supple skin of your forearm, careful not to mess with any of the tubes attached to you. It was grounding. “So whatever happened between you and Bradshaw I hope you fix it before he spills all your dirty little military secrets.”

“Good thing you’re a true crime author, huh?” Jake smiled with a reluctance to give in to his biggest desire. What would be the repercussions of sneaking you out of this hospital right now?

“No way you’re ending up in one of my books anytime soon,” You giggled softly. Jake felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of your happiness. You felt it too. The moment his heart decided it needed a second to process the laughter you let out. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” Although the circumstances said otherwise, for a second Jake felt like the luckiest guy on the planet. To be loved by you. To be the one you called home. To be the man you chose would forever be Jake’s greatest accomplishment in life. “I could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve you in any of them.”

************************

“No signs of life.”

There’s a reason surgeons learn to wield scalpels. They like to pretend they’re hard, cold scientists. They like to pretend they’re fearless. But the truth is they become surgeons because somewhere, deep down, they think they can cut away that which haunts us.

Weakness, frailty, death.

It isn’t just surgeons. It’s paramedics too. First responders like to think they have a hand in what fate holds for you. They believe that if they can move a little quicker, stop the bleeding a little faster, and save you from life-threatening injuries, they can give you extra time. Even for just a day.

But the truth is, we don’t know a single person who isn’t haunted by something…or someone. And whether people try to slice the pain away with a scalpel, pull someone from a car wreck, or shove it in the back of a closet…our efforts usually fail.

So the only way we can clear out the cobwebs is to turn a new page or put an old story to rest…finally, finally…to rest.

“Do we have any information on the victim?” Ilona shook her head as her unit chief looked around the scene. A single-car accident. The mangled wreck of twisted aluminium and shattered glass really painted a telling tale of destruction. No one could have survived the magnitude of injuries that they would have sustained on impact.

“I’ll see if one of the guys picked up a phone or something, perhaps it’s still viable,” Ilona replied in a monotone voice. She was new to the horrors that her job sometimes brought with it. The hurricane forced winds that would sometimes knock her right off her feet. But she was learning how to work through the plethora of different emotions in a professional manner. “Poor guy, what do you think happened?”

The black body bag laid out on the stretcher was a not-so-gentle reminder that life was a precious gift. Paramedics carried the deceased man until they were loading him into the back of the van. No sirens would be needed for this particular patient.

“Crash investigation should have a report for us in about a week,” Taylor, the unit chief, replied as he watched the doors to the ambulance close with a thud. “We’ll need to get an ID as soon as possible to inform the family.”

“I have a phone!!” Ilona heard the explanation from one of her co-workers. She turned with a grin on her face back to her boss.

“We have a phone,” She repeated. “I’ll get right on it chef.”

************************

Lydia still felt awful. She hadn’t quite shaken the existential dread that came with her almost career-ending mistake. She sat behind the desk at the nurses station just replaying the events back in her mind. How could she just assume someone to be someone’s emergency contact?

In retrospect, Lydia now understood clear as daylight that relationships were interpersonal and held deeper value than what was on paper. Jake Seresin may not have been your emergency contact, but he sure was the love of your life.

“You want me to do her observations?” Lydia heard one of her colleagues ask with a snicker. They all knew by this point in time what she had done. But now wasn’t the time to retreat and fall back. If she wanted to get past this, she needed to put on a brave face.

“Nope,” Lydia shook her head as he rose to her feet. “I’ve got it,” She explained with a faux smile. “Is he not intimidating?”

“Mr. Seresin?” Her colleague, Rebecca, replied with a mouthful of two-minute noodles she’d been scoffing down in the small window of reprieve. “Guy’s like a labrador. I mean, that is if you didn’t fuck up his wife’s chart badly enough to call the wrong person labelled clearly as an emergency contact.”

“Ha. Ha.” Lydia barely had the time or the energy to humour her coworkers as they giggled and snickered as she made her way into your room. Jake was wide awake. He hadn’t noticed Lydia standing in the threshold of the door. But Lydia noticed how he held you with such care as you slept soundly.

“Oh,” She cooed softly as she knocked her knuckles against the door. “Sorry to interrupt Mr. Seresin but I need to take some observations for Dr. Ignati.”

“Would it be alright if she slept for even just five more minutes?” Jake was quick to advocate on your behalf. He could tell just how tired and overwhelmed with everything you’d become. Now that he was here and by your side, he was going to make sure you got the best possible treatment there was to offer.

Lydia looked around at the Christmas lights that hung around your room. They twinkled and changed colour on a whim, never staying the same colour for long. The way they hung like they’d been thrown all over the place added a joyful smile across her face.

“I’m sure I can take my time,” Lydia agreed as she approached your bedside. “How’s she been feeling?”

“As good as you’d expect to feel given the circumstances, kid,” Jake replied with a yawn. He was able to stretch his limbs a little as he did so. Although, with every move he cautiously made, Jake was careful not to disturb you. “I assume her surgery is still going ahead as planned?”

“As far as I’m aware,” Lydia confirmed as she checked over your chart and wrote down what she saw on your monitors. “Dr. Ignati should be around earlier in the morning to discuss everything once more.”

“How long have you been working here?” Jake asked. He thought some small talk would be beneficial for not only him but for Lydia too. He could tell the question struck a nerve but pressed on nevertheless. “Because if I’m being perfectly honest, it doesn’t seem like very long.”

“Eight months now,” Lydia replied with a short tone. Jake chuckled to himself as he watched her cross out what she had previously written and wrote down what she had originally intended. “Can you tell I’m also not very good at my job?”

“It doesn’t seem out of ignorance,” Jake offered up his version of advice. “I just think you’re rushing things.” The advice didn’t fall on deaf ears like Jake thought it might. Instead, Lydia stopped what she was doing and took a nice deep long breath in. “In my line of work, things can go wrong in the blink of an eye,” Jake explained as he gently rubbed small circles into the palm of your hand with his thumb. If he was careful, he could feel the throbbing of your pulse point. “Gotta learn how to trust your instincts.”

“My last instinct was that you were your wife’s emergency contact,” Lydia didn’t feel as if she needed to remind Jake of her biggest mistake of all time, but she did anyway. Jake understood what it was like to stay hung up on mistakes he couldn’t change. But he knew what he was about to say next would ease the burden Lydia was feeling.

“Honestly, that’s more on me than it is on you,” Jake sighed as you stirred in his arms. He hoped you‘d stay asleep for just a little longer. You needed it. You deserved to rest soundly.

“How so?” Lydia asked softly as went back to her duties. What Jake said to her next, however, had Lydia looking at the situation she found herself in from a different perspective. And sometimes a little perspective is all you need.

“Well, I shouldn’t have let it get to a point where I wasn’t.”

************************

Life gets easier when you realise that there’s no such thing as a wrong decision. Decisions are simply pivots. Each one you make will take you down a new road that will likely be both magic and miserable. Beautiful and ugly. That’s because life is a polarity. Easy doesn’t exist without hard. Good doesn’t exist without bad.

There is no right or wrong answer. Trust that whatever decision you make can always be followed by another decision.

“I hate this,” You mumbled as you walked to the bathroom with your IV support poll. “I already hate all of this so much.” You knew you were feeding into the depression, but you couldn’t help but feel down in the dumps about your current situation.

“I think everything you’re feeling is valid, honey,” Jake answered as he trailed behind, giving you the independence he knew you wanted to keep but also staying close by in case you needed him. “After surgery–” Jake couldn’t even finish the sentence he’d planned to speak into existence.

“Don’t mention surgery,” You interrupted as you made your way over to the shower. “I don’t even wanna think about the surgery tomorrow.”

“You do know that even if you ignore it, you still have to have surgery?” Jake asked as he frowned his brows and looked at you through the mirror. “We’re on the same page about that, right?”

“What if I told you I’m just scared and don’t want anything to happen while I’m cut open like a fish?” You sassed as you looked back at Jake through the mirror. “If something happens–”

“Hey, nothing's gonna happen,” Jake was quick to close the small gap between the two of you. He stood so close that your back pressed up against his chest. His eyes never left yours through the mirror you stood before. “I won’t let anything happen to you, or the kids for that matter.”

“You left the kids with your mother,” You reminded your husband as he pressed his lips into a tight line of regret. “That alone is gonna cause them enough trauma Mr. ‘I won’t let anything happen to the kids’”

“You wound me, sweetheart,” Jake sighed as he tilted his head back and let out a sigh. “Besides, it’s actually you she hates, not the kids,”

“Do you wanna help me shower or not?” You finally turned around to stand face-to-face with Jake. He was already smirking ear to ear. And it didn’t take long at all before his hands were dropping to your waist, slowly but surely making their slightly calloused way to the exposed skin of your ass. The hospital gown left little to the imagination. Jake wasn’t complaining.

“When have I ever passed up the opportunity to see you naked?” Jake replied with a smirk you recognised was laced with lust. You felt him squeeze softly at your arse cheek playfully. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on,”

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” You giggled as Jake made sure to count the staples on your head. He knew whatever came next would have to be soft. It would have to be gentle and full of love. Not that it ever wasn’t full of love.

“You drive me crazy, honey,” Jake explained as he caught your lips with his. You couldn’t help but to melt into his body as you kissed him back. Jake’s hands kneaded at the handfuls of arse he never wanted to let go of as he moaned into your mouth.

The feeling was electric. The moan your husband let out sent shivers down your spine. It was an animalistic attraction that you’d tried so hard to suppress in your separation. But no toy on earth could satisfy you like Jake could. Not even when they were bought with his money.

“I love you so much,” Jake cooed as he pulled back just enough to let his forehead rest against yours. “You’re gonna get through this, I promise,” He left it at that as you wrapped your arms around his waist for a much-needed hug.

When you let go, you took a moment to drink in the sight of your husband. You stared at all the perfect little imperfections that littered his skin. The bags under his eyes were more prominent than normal. That was to be expected though.

“Jake?” You cooed as you reached up to swipe the pad of your thumb across his lower lip.

“I’m right here,” Jake replied as he kept his eyes closed. If he opened them he knew the tears he was trying so desperately to keep in would fall. If he cried in front of you he'd never be able to stop himself.

“I need you to wake up for me, alright?”

“What did you say?” Jake frowned as he opened his eyes and looked at you all confused. He knew what you said. He heard it crystal clear. But he needed you to repeat it. He needed to hear you say it again, just once. The fluorescent bathroom light flickered as he stared at you. For a second…Jake stood alone in a hospital room he didn’t recognise. Only for him to find himself standing right before you again in the blink of an eye. “Honey?”

“I said I need you to get my phone for me?” You repeated calmly. “My phone is ringing and if I try to race to it I won't get there in time.” The explanation fit the response you gave him. Jake thought for a moment there he was going crazy. He needed more sleep, that was without a doubt the answer to his second of madness.

Jake silently nodded in agreement before he kissed your forehead. He was only gone for a few seconds before he returned with your phone. Still ringing.

“Who is it?” You asked as you reached out to take your phone from Jake. By the look smeared across his face, it wasn't someone he necessarily liked.

“It’s your boyfriend,” Jake teased as he handed you your phone. Based on that comment alone you knew it was Jensen.

“Careful Seresin,” You teased lovingly, hoping Jake believed what you had told him earlier. “He might be my next husband if you don't play your cards right.”

Jake knew you were kidding and if anything he deserved that comeback. He didn't like the guy, that much was true. But he could see how having someone who knew what it was like to not know your own body could be beneficial to the mind.

“You caught me at a bad time,” Jake watched as you answered the phone and held it up to your ear. “I–oh,” You paused. The immediate worry that took over the expanse of your face was enough to have the little hairs on the back of Jake's neck standing on edge.

“Jensen Huges–” The name hung heavy in the air around you as you listened to the woman on the other end of the line. According to her, there had been a small piece of paper tucked into the phone case of this particular phone at the scene of an accident. Your name. Your number. “Oh, no, no don't tell me that,” You begged.

Jake was unable to hear what was being said in the silence, but as he watched your eyes well with tears, he knew.

“Y/n, give me the phone, honey,” He whispered as he gestured to your phone. You shook your head in response as you continued to listen to the woman who had introduced herself as Ilona. A police officer with the Rhode Island police. “Sweetheart?” Jake cooed as he reached out for you. The second his fingertips grazed your shoulder…You fell. “Shit–”

“NOOOOOOO!” The guttural scream you let out scared Jake to his very core. He’d never in his life heard you sound the way you did as you crumbled on the floor in the bathroom. “NOOOOOO!”

“Baby, baby I'm here, what happened?” Jake asked softly as he cupped your face in his hands. Your phone was long forgotten. It had crashed down when you did. “Tell me what happened so I can help you, honey?”

“He–he left me,” You managed to gasp out between sobs. “And I can’t–I can’t breathe, Jake, I ca–”

“Hey, I’ve got you,” Jake promised you as he held you tightly in his arms. “It’s gonna be alright,” Jake seemed to have been in the business of making promises he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep. He had no fucking idea if things would be alright. But he needed them to be.

“I can't do this without him,” You cried out in utter anguish. “He, he was the st-strongest,” Jake could tell where this was going as you struggled to speak through your grief-stricken sobs. “If he—then I,”

“I’ve lost count of all the rooms you've been tall in Y/n,” It broke his heart to see you like this. So full of heartbreak. So full of hopelessness. “You gotta keep fighting, I don’t know what I’ll do without you,”

“I don't know how to!” You admitted to not only yourself but to your husband as well. “I don't know how!”

“I’m right here, honey,” Jake held you as tight as he could on the bathroom floor. “You don't have a choice,” He explained as you cried your heart out in a way Jake had never seen you cry before. He could hear your voice echoing in his head.

“You need to wake up,”

“Don't give up on me now Y/n, I can't lose you to this alright?” Jake felt his own tears streaming down his cheeks. The tears he no longer had the strength to fight. The way you willed yourself to wake up from this nightmare you were living broke his heart into pieces. The tears he no longer had the strength to fight. “Please, you gotta keep fighting this.”

“He was the stronger one,” You replied as you cried yourself into a ball in Jake's arms. Clutching at his arms as your nails dug into his forearms. Grief was a funny thing. “I can't–”

“You have to,” Jake cried with you. He was losing the love of his life and there was nothing he could do to stop this nightmare from happening. “I’m gonna be right here every step.”

“I just want you to wake up,” It was all you said. Jake knew he heard you that time. He heard you loud and clear… “Please, don't leave me,”

But he had no idea what you were saying.

**********************************

Tags: @blindedbythelightt @starset21 @tayl0rhuynh @marvelogic

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@accioprocrastination @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @athenabarnes @eternallyvenus @emma8895eb @kmc1989

#jake seresin x reader #was it over? // jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x you #jake hangman fic #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin angst

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hotvintagepoll · 1 month ago

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Una O'Connor (The Adventures of Robin Hood, The Invisible Man, The Bride of Frankenstein)—One of my favorite character actresses! While many people know her as the shrieking innkeeper's wife in The Invisible Man, I've always loved when she played a character who was a little more grounded (though that scream of hers is pretty iconic.) Her character of Bess is warm and loving towards Marian, but also tough and takes no prisoners. When they are captured in the forest, she comes forward to protect Marian with so much ferocity that Sir Guy (the villain) moves out of the way so quickly because even he doesn't want to feel Bess' wrath. She could switch from hilariously over-the-top to gently and sweet in the blink of an eye and she deserves a little more recognition! Also her hats in Robin Hood are ridiculous and I love them.

Zero Mostel (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, The Producers)—Archetypal. Comedian of all time. The worst combover in cinematic history, probably. Could make more laughter with one muscle in a singular eyebrow than 98% of all men across the face of the earth. Hardcore Committer to the Bit. Man of all time, and also told HUAC directly where they could shove it, which is a primally appealing and scrungly quality.

This is round 2 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Una O'Connor:

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she eats this:

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The things this woman does with her face when she sees Frankenstein's creature. Your fave could never.

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Zero Mostel:

"The chase scene in FORUM is just. it's fucking iconic. It's one of the funniest pieces of cinema I've ever seen in any context, everything about it is genius, and the heart and soul of it is Zero Mostel as Pseudolus. Casting him alongside a young Michael Crawford (of later Phantom of the Opera fame) really highlights the differences between the young romantic lead and the older, sensible, and yet entirely scrungly middle aged man (Mostel was 55 at the time) somehow manages to come off as even more desirable. He has no shit together, not very good plans, is panicked for most of the story, and the charisma of a champ. His flailing, helpless attempts at fighting the gladiator is so... he's so scrungly. "

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"He's not fancy, he's not pretty, he's not good at much of anything, but he is Genius despite that."

"There is a magic to Zero Mostel that he manages to bring to roles where he is simultaneously the worst person ever, and also, compelling in every possible way. He had his biggest period of fame in middle age after he got taken off the Hollywood blacklist, and being a fat middle aged man with thinning hair is what gives every single bit of his characters power. As the original Max Bialystock he would eat the entirety of The Producers except that Gene Wilder as Leo Bloom is a genius casting decision, as Mostel's intensity against Wilder's deep discomfort ends up being the right chemistry. In many ways he reminds me of Buster Keaton, the pinnacle of hot scrungly little guy—a unique and expressive face, an instinctive understanding of comedy, active at the same time, and also they were both in FORUM together. Mostel came from an Orthodox Jewish family, was a trained painter with a degree in art, spoke four languages, and when he was blacklisted during the Red Scare and brought before the HUAC, he didn't just refuse to name names, he made fun of the senators. He was disabled after an accident, and still did dancing in movies and things like stunts in FORUM. He did a ton of work on Broadway too, including originating Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, making the musical more Jewish as he did so. Frankly, I don't think any of those roles (or the eventual later film versions of Fiddler/musical version of the Producers) would work with anyone else. It had to be a fat balding middle aged leftist Jew from Brooklyn. The scrungly is essential.

"the scrungle factor of max in every version of the producers is through the roof but nathan lane does it as suave scrungle. zero mostel does not do suave scrungle. he does old jewish man getting into an argument with the rabbi at the full synagogue passover seder about how much wine has to be in the glass for it to count as "one cup" scrungle; he does old jewish man whose entire fridge is full of pickled herring scrungle. it's offputting in all the ways that make it genius."

youtube

#zero mostel #una o'connor #hotvintagepoll #scrungly 2 #Youtube

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littlemoondarlingarts · 10 months ago

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Did an artstyle study of the gorgeous art of @iliothermia and I genuinely learned alot so I'm very thankful that he gave me permission to do this 🙏🏻🙏🏻

As usual, rambles and process pics under the cut, be warned that I talk alot because this drawing was a true labor of love both for his art and Rouge

I wanted to use elements from his art but at the same time i know how deeply personal his art is to his own life and struggles and culture so i tried to be as respectful as possible (and if I failed at that please tell me I have no problem in deleting this) and tried to minimize my use of direct elements from his art to keep it to the skull which was heavily inspired by a drawing he has done, the waves which are such a beautiful staple of his art that I just couldn't not put it and the use of candles and small floral patterns and the style of the mold, but I tried to keep the rest to things that are symbolic to the character.

While he may have restraint to not explain everything, I'm not famous for that lol, so I will be explaining the symbolism behind my choices.

Part 1: the symbolism:

The red rose is Rouge's flower and it is heavily associated with him. The meaning of it being romantic desire and passion mixed with the thorns of it perfectly sum up his position as a beautiful black widow.

Voyeurism is a big part of this drawing and it is first noticed with the eyes motif on the roses' leaves, this symbolises his response to his trauma which left him feeling like an unwanted pervert on his own self. I can talk about this aspect of his story for hours but I'll spare you lol.

The X-ray cutouts are his complicated relationship with his own body and death, it is a thing that is constantly on his mind as he suffers from suicidal thoughts but at the same time he is always running away from it in fear, but he knows that eventually, he will have to stop running.

The candles melting represent him being only wanted when he is useful, when he is giving parts of himself up for others to use and abuse, when he is lighting their lives by slowly draining his own.

The piano is one of the rare things that bring him happiness and peace, but he needs to be heavily dissociated to be able to enjoy it which is represented by the hands being disconnected from the rest of the drawing and just floating in their own reality.

The snake represents two things, one is him being venomous to those around him, the mistakes he's made, the promises he's broken, the pain he's caused etc. But it also represents those who slowly wrap themselves around him in a warm embrace, presenting themselves as a saviour in his most dire times only to end up being the ones who will hurt him the most.

The book is about his obsession with keeping track of everything and of studying people, accidentally turning himself into an unwanted voyeur on their lives to the point where he has written the life stories of many people who would never want to be remembered through his eyes in his little books.

The butterflies are him, both in the way they are seen as "the good insects" and the beautiful delicate ones despite the fact that they eat flesh sometimes, it is also related to the way his simple presence for a few minutes in someone's life can create a whirlwind of change that will leave it unrecognizable, or he can simply be another body in their bed.

The hair turning into waves is meant to reflect the way he is always drowning in his own thoughts, a hand crafted constant state of misery.

The beta fish are some of the most beautiful and colourful fish out there, yet they are seen as cheap and easy first pets, leading to them being neglected and given environments that are too small and crammed, making their beautifully slow death the only thing they can offer to their owner. I don't think I need to explain more..

The skull is probably someone he's loved, or someone he's killed, or both.

The heart is his, it is rotten and covered in mold, any love he offers is tainted by his inability to heal and it is spreading to infect every aspect of his life.

Part 2: the inspirations:

The roses are a homage to the way Rachamim always places flowers in his art, either in the background or as a focal point of the illustration, most of the flowers he uses are cultural in nature, so I opted to not reuse any of them and changed it to a flower related to my oc.

Eyes are a repeated theme in his art, whether it be angel eyes, the evil eye or anything else, and as you can tell both of these are cultural and religious and while the evil eye exists in my culture, it does not in my oc's so I didn't use it. Instead I opted to pay homage to one of his beautiful merman drawings in which he used the plants to make an eye-like shape that stares at the viewer.

I thought I was being real smart in turning the hair into waves but yesterday I saw an illustration where he did the same so rip to me thinking i was being original lol.

The snake and butterflies are my way of replicating his use of animals while trying to not directly copy any animals that have a connection to himself or his culture/religion.

The beta fish is just to reference the ever present fishies in his art. I know he uses them because they represent friendship for him and they are the only animals safe from the evil eye (thanks for the fun fact) so I uh... I don't really know if this was disrespectful or not to be honest but I tried to use a different type of fish, idk this might still be slightly problematic and again I'm always ready to delete this if it makes anyone uncomfortable.

The waves are a direct copy of how he draws the gorgeous waves in his art, another case of something I fear may be crossing the line because the waves are drawn in the style of cultural jewelry 😭

The tiny flowers are an obvious reference to his own tiny flowers that decorate his art and characters.

The skull with the candles is heavily inspired by a specific drawing of his.

The cutouts are my way of paying my respects to my absolute favourite piece of art he's done without directly copying its concept because as far as I can tell, it is a very personal and emotional piece.

The mold style is a reference to his mold man (I forgot his name I'm sorry).

And the candles are another repeated motif in his art as well as the pillars and the pant style.

And ouf I sure do talk alot don't I? I just really love the amount of things I was able to cram into this piece and I haven't even mentioned everything😭😭 I will NOT be doing this again because I'm simply not as patient as he is and as proud as I am of the result, this was torture. I hope I didn't disrespect him, his art or his culture and I genuinely tried my best to be as respectful as possible but I might have some blind spots due to our experiences being so vastly different so again, please don't hesitate to inform me if you want this deleted!

#my art #art #artists on tumblr #oc #my oc #rouge #original characters #oc artist #oc artwork #oc art #lineart illustration #artsyle study #art style study #art study #idk how to tag this #anyway #hii #ty for reading #i hope you like it

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psicheanima · 4 months ago

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i admire how much you love and understand Makima, even as someone completely outside of the csm fanbase i can tell you know her character very well! i really look up to you in the sense of being so deeply connected with a character you can draw and talk about them endlessly.

have you always loved her that much? or was it a more gradual thing? and in your opinion do you feel like it’s easier to instantly attach yourself to a character in such a way, or slowly learn to love them as you consume more of the media they’re in?

i hope that isn’t a weird question, i’d just love to hear your thoughts on the process! seeing people so enamored by a single character is really awesome :-)

Oh wow! I’m really honored you can think that way—- especially as someone who hasn’t even read Chainsaw Man? I find that very incredible. Since I most draw her, it’s interesting not only my work could still connect to you, but you can feel my love, as well.. ahh… it’s a good thing to be known for your love, and it makes my heart really warm. That’s how I want to be seen, so thank you.

I always liked Makima. However, I had other Chainsaw Man characters I was more entertained by (since I read as it released, being amused was the most important thing) But I started to love her when the control Devil arc released and we learned her true motivations. She became my favorite Chainsaw Man character. During that year gap after part 1 ended, my love for her grew, and she became one of my favorite characters of all time.

Because, it’s not just about the antagonist Fujimoto wrote. Her fan content frequently had Catholic imagery, and she was a mother. These are two “themes” that are INTENSLEY attractive to me, even back then (it’s increased since 2020!) and are tropes I push onto characters who don’t even fit it, so having it just there for me was incredibly fun. It felt like she was just for me! I didn’t really think too deeply about her past until the last chapter dropped. And then there was nothing. So I was alone with that.

I found myself really loving her in a way that I had only loved one character before (Kaworu Nagisa, and I’m sure the similarities don’t need to be explained in depth) They’re both characters who love humanity. I love humanity. I love people, and it’s tender. So being able to explore this in a character added to it. Then, as I grew up a bit more, I started exploring womanhood through her character. It was cathartic and also interesting for me, because it did not only aid me, but also helped re-contextualize everything about her, and I saw her in a new lens once again, where there were so many parts of her that I hadn’t even peaked in on.

There was a specific art I saw in about 2021 of Makima with her hair down, on her bed. She looks very lonely. It’s a set, and the other drawing is her greeting her dogs at the front of her apartment— night time. It’s really that artwork that dictated who Makima was to me. She was the type of woman who went home to an empty apartment that she paid for. As Part 2 grew separated from what I liked about the series, and as the anime brought in fans who saw her as a sexual object, and her status as a popular “dommy mommy” character cemented, I found myself attaching to her even more, because in a sea of people who didn’t seem to get her at all, I was always wanting to defend her concept. Not her personally. But what made her a “character” in the story and why she had to do the thugs she did, and why she wouldn’t act certain ways and such!

It’s easy for m to attach myself to characters, but not in such a way I do with Makima. I don’t buy merch much ever, but I have 2 Makima figures and 3 pieces of clothing with her on it. That’s a lot for me! I wouldn’t do that with any other character in existence. She has a comforting presence, because I feel I truly understand her heart down to the smallest compartment. She feels like a friend! Just seeing her makes me happy. I understand her, so the “love” I have for her is like an old married couple that are best friends in older age. For other characters, it might be something a little more— violent? I get cuteness aggression a lot. When I say I love a character, I may say insane things like “I want to push them down a flight of stairs”— actually, that’s only when they’re male. I tend to like pathetic male characters I want to be a parent for, and I tend to like female characters I’d want to be the friend of, so for those, I’d say something like “my lovely sweetie pie❤️❤️”

but for Makima, it’s obviously not that way. I don’t make too many sarcastic rude comments about Makima the way I would for other characters I like. O don’t want to, because it’s not true, and it almost hurts me to even think about— like, the type of hurt that’s vulgar and disrespectful. I really do just love her. But I don’t see her as a sweetie pie either, haha. I don’t want violence on her but I also don’t want overwhelming love. Because she is a character that is grounded in reality.

I don’t want to be her friend. I think that’s kind of a foolish concept! I can only understand her like I do because we’re separated, and I can view her objectively like a bug. But because she’s been by my side so long, her concept is familiar, and I find comfort in just the idea of her. I’ve written a lot, but it was an interesting question, so I wanted to explain it as best that I could. Thank you very much for asking it!

#answered ask

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tarareindeer · 13 days ago

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hello, first of all i hope you have a nice day!

second, i wanted to ask if i may request a short fic about Halsin, where the character is from our world and somehow landed in their one and tells Halsin how it is to live in our world? (you know what I mean? sorry i tend to write in riddles😅) if not it's also okay

✌️✌️

"The Wilds of Your World"

{reader x halsin}

Halsin tilted his head, his amber eyes warm with curiosity as he handed you a mug of herbal tea. The two of you sat near a crackling campfire deep in the forest, the air alive with the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.

"You come from a strange land," he said, his voice low and steady. "A world without druids, gods, or magic. How do your people survive?"

You sipped the tea, grateful for its earthy warmth. "Uh, poorly," you admitted, shrugging. "We have... technology, I guess? Machines and devices that do a lot of the heavy lifting. But it’s nothing like magic. It’s more like-” you gestured vaguely, “overcomplicated puzzles made of metal and electricity. And everyone’s obsessed with them. It’s kind of sad, actually.”

Halsin frowned thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the fire. "Your people must be clever to create such things, but I sense a lack of balance. Do you live harmoniously with nature?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, no. Not at all. Nature’s more of an afterthought. We’ve built cities that cover miles of land, cut down forests, polluted rivers... You’d probably hate it."

His brow furrowed, and a faint sadness crept into his expression. "Why would your kind forsake the earth that nurtures them?"

"Capitalism," you deadpanned.

Halsin raised an eyebrow, clearly unfamiliar with the word.

"It’s like... greed. But institutionalized," you explained, setting the mug down. "People care more about making money than taking care of the planet. And the ones in power? They don’t listen to the rest of us, even when we’re screaming at them to stop ruining everything."

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "That sounds... disheartening. In this world, we strive to live as part of the natural order, not above it. The cycle of life demands respect."

"Yeah, well, in my world, the only cycle most people care about is the one on their washing machine."

A low chuckle escaped Halsin’s lips, and his serious demeanor softened. "Your wit is sharp, but I sense a heaviness in your words. Does this trouble you deeply?"

"Yeah," you admitted, your tone quieter now. "I mean, we’ve got some good stuff like science, art, medicine but it feels like we’re just... sprinting towards a cliff, y’know? And the worst part is, a lot of people don’t even notice."

Halsin regarded you with a steady, compassionate gaze. "It seems your world has lost its way. But perhaps you are here because you were meant to see another path. To find what your heart longs for."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "What, like a chosen one kind of thing?"

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Perhaps not chosen. But sometimes the wilds call to those who need them most."

For a moment, the weight of your world felt distant, replaced by the gentle rhythm of the forest and the warmth of Halsin’s presence.

"Maybe," you said, leaning back against a log. "But if I’m staying here, you’d better teach me some of that druid magic. I want to turn into a bear or something."

Halsin’s laugh echoed through the trees, deep and hearty.

The days that followed felt like something out of a dream. Halsin, ever the patient teacher, guided you through the heart of the forest and the ways of his druid kin. The Emerald Grove bustled with life not just the druids themselves but animals, plants, and even the air seemed alive in a way you’d never experienced before.

One crisp morning, Halsin found you sitting near the camp’s central bonfire, gnawing on a piece of bread and staring out at the bustling grove. Druids were tending to injured animals, singing gentle chants to coax wilting flowers back to bloom, and weaving vines to reinforce treehouses.

“You look lost in thought,” he said, settling beside you with a faint smile.

"I’m just trying to wrap my head around this whole setup," you said, gesturing around you. "Back home, people don’t work together like this. I’ve never seen anyone, like, heal a raccoon or braid vines into freaking architecture."

Halsin chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “It is not merely skill but respect. We understand that the wilds give as much as they take. Living harmoniously is a choice, one your kind could yet embrace.”

You tilted your head. “Optimistic of you.”

"Perhaps," he said, smiling at you, "but life itself thrives on hope."

Later that afternoon, Halsin took you to a nearby lake, a serene spot surrounded by weeping willows and wildflowers. He stripped off his boots and rolled up his trousers, wading into the water with effortless grace.

“Come,” he called over his shoulder, “the water is cleansing, even for a weary spirit like yours.”

You hesitated, glancing at the fish darting beneath the glassy surface. "Uh, you sure nothing’s gonna, like, bite me? No magical carnivorous fish or something?"

Halsin laughed heartily. “I promise, the fish here are as gentle as lambs.”

With a sigh, you stepped in, yelping as the cool water hit your skin. Halsin offered you his hand, steadying you as you waded deeper.

“See?” he said softly, his voice almost lost beneath the rustle of trees. “The wilds embrace you, even when you are uncertain. Trust in them, and they will guide you.”

You glanced up at him, his amber eyes reflecting the light dancing on the water. For a moment, you felt an unshakable calm a peace you hadn’t known in years.

By evening, you found yourself wandering the forest trails with Halsin and a few of the younger druids. Halsin stopped often to point out plants and explain their uses: golden flowers for healing salves, mosses for binding wounds, roots for easing fevers.

At one point, he crouched beside a small rabbit with a thorn lodged in its paw. You watched as he murmured soothing words, his hands glowing faintly with green energy. The thorn slid free, and the rabbit hopped away, its injury already mended.

“You’re like a Disney princess,” you muttered, earning a curious look from Halsin.

"A... princess?" he repeated, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

"Never mind," you said quickly, suppressing a laugh.

That night, the druids gathered around the campfire, sharing stories and songs. One of them passed you a bowl of stew, rich with herbs and wild vegetables. Halsin sat beside you, his broad shoulders brushing against yours as he joined the others in a low, melodic chant.

As the firelight danced on his face, you leaned back and let the moment sink in. This world its people, its creatures, its magic was so far removed from everything you knew. And yet, sitting there with Halsin and his kin, you felt a flicker of belonging.

"Thank you," you said quietly, catching his gaze.

Halsin tilted his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. "For what?"

"For showing me this," you said, gesturing around the camp. "For reminding me that the world any world can be beautiful."

He regarded you for a moment, his expression gentle yet unreadable. "The wilds saw something in you, and so did I. Perhaps you were always meant to be here."

You snorted. "Okay, don’t get all mystical on me again."

Halsin chuckled, the sound low and comforting. "Very well. But if I may, I believe you are finding your place here. That is all that matters."

As the fire crackled and the stars winked down from the canopy above, you realized you didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

#x reader #bg3 #halsin x reader #halsin #baldurs gate 3 #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #emerald grove

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cece693 · 10 months ago

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Monster in the Making (Will Graham x Male! Lecter)

Hey :) I know I haven't uploaded much, but life has gotten in the way. So, to jump back into writing, I've decided to write something about my favorite murder husband, Will. What was meant to be something short turned into (possibly) my longest post yet.

Summary: The Lecter siblings were obsessed with Will Graham but for entirely different reasons. While Hannibal wanted to deconstruct the puzzle that was the detective, M/N wanted Will to be his.

tags: jealousy, possessiveness, m/n being a little shit, Will indulges him, why can't they just talk it out like normal adults, oh yeah 'cause one's a murderer in the making and the other is related to Hannibal :)

M/N Lecter was a mirror image of his elder brother, Hannibal: with sophisticated tastes and an appetite for human meat, it was their façades that set them apart. While both inherited a charisma unlike any other, it was M/N Lecter whose mask never slipped off. Unlike Hannibal who instilled an unconscious fear in people with his dominating and blunt persona, M/N preferred to play the role of the unsuspecting innocent.

He derived pleasure from allowing others to spin their own webs of deceit, all the while believing they had any significance in his life. Whether they be lovers, friends, or colleagues, no one was immune to his subtle influence. His manipulations were veiled behind gentle words and tender gestures, a feigned desire to enrich their lives until they found themselves isolated and reliant solely on M/N. This artful deception ensnared all whom M/N cast his gaze upon, until the arrival of Will Graham.

A detective with a peculiar gift that Hannibal simply dubbed ‘pure empathy’, Will immediately knew something was wrong with the Lecter siblings. His dark, almost onyx eyes perceived the monsters both Hannibal and M/N were, yet (he hated himself for saying this) there was a complexity to their darkness that intrigued him. So, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, Will couldn’t help but be drawn to the siblings. Hannibal wanted to bring out Will’s own dark side, seeing a capable partner in the man who cloaked himself with a ruse of normality. But for M/N, he simply desired the man.

He couldn’t explain what about Will attracted him, but for the first time, M/N felt drawn to another being. He wanted to own the detective—his mind, heart, body. It was a puzzling revelation that M/N could even feel these things for another being.

"I assume you're pleased with my surprise," Hannibal whispered to M/N as the familiar sight of the detective's car pulled into their driveway. The siblings had decided to host another dinner party, though with M/N's hectic schedule, the majority of the preparations fell upon Hannibal. This entailed cooking, setting the table, and sending out invitations—invitations M/N was not permitted to see.

M/N should have anticipated that Hannibal was scheming something, but he never imagined this. Developing feelings for the detective was one thing, but inviting Will into their home—a place that would undoubtedly unsettle the detective—angered him.

M/N couldn't pinpoint when his desire to possess Will shifted into protectiveness, but it was too late now. Hannibal had retreated to the kitchen, likely to evade M/N's impending wrath, leaving him alone to greet their newest guest. Slipping into character, M/N forced a smile as the detective's figure hesitated at the open door. "Mr. Graham." M/N greeted, his voice warm and friendly. "It's good to see you. Please, come in."

Will's gaze flickered from M/N to the grand interior of the Lecter residence, taking in the opulent furnishings and the faint aroma of culinary mastery wafting from the kitchen. Despite his reservations, there was a reluctant curiosity in his expression. "Thank you." Will replied, his tone guarded yet polite as he crossed the threshold. "I must admit, I didn't expect an invitation." And why would the Lecters invite him? Will was hardly good company, always managing to unsettle people with his personality.

Catching the subtle self-deprecation in Will’s words, M/N frowned. “Why wouldn’t we invite you, Mr. Graham? I find your company quite pleasant.”

Internally, M/N couldn't help but smirk at the reaction of his detective—the rosy hue that enveloped the tips of Will's ears, and the subtle shift in his demeanor as he lowered his head, avoiding M/N's gaze. M/N couldn't quite discern if Will was simply oblivious to his flirting or intentionally ignoring it, but either way, it stirred something inside him to see the effect he had on the guarded detective.

Not wanting to further embarrass the man, M/N turned on his heel and began guiding Will further into the house, towards the dining room where the rest of their guests were gathered. Some were engaged in lively conversations, their voices mingling in the air, while others took in the opulent surroundings, their eyes roaming over the intricate decorations and paintings adorning the walls.

M/N felt a surge of pride at the sight of the meticulously arranged table, adorned with fine china and gleaming silverware. The aroma of Hannibal's culinary creations wafted through the air, tantalizing the senses and adding to the air of anticipation that hung over the room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." M/N told Will with a reassuring smile. “Dinner will be served shortly." Leaving the detective was the last thing M/N wanted to do, but he knew he had to fulfill his duties as a co-host and mingle with their other guests. With a lingering glance at Will, M/N reluctantly excused himself, promising to return shortly.

Watching M/N walk away, Will was taken aback by the unexpected pang of disappointment that washed over him. He knew M/N couldn’t stay by his side all night long, but a part of Will hoped he would. He and M/N had been playing a game as of late; one Will had been initially taken aback by but had quickly returned. Flirting—subtle, yet charged with an unspoken tension that seemed to crackle between them whenever they were together.

M/N had a way of getting under his skin, of teasing out the darker, more dangerous parts of himself that Will hadn’t known he even possessed. In M/N's presence, Will felt alive in a way he hadn't in years, his senses heightened and his inhibitions loosened. M/N Lecter had become his downfall—hell, M/N was all Will thought about these days.

As he watched M/N mingle effortlessly with the other guests, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. Will knew he should stay away, that getting too close to M/N Lecter would only lead to trouble. And yet, the allure of the forbidden was too strong to ignore, drawing him inexorably closer to the flame.

As the evening wore on, Will found himself retreating into the shadows, avoiding interactions with the other guests. The lively chatter and laughter only served to amplify his own sense of isolation. He didn’t belong here; all he wanted was to return home and snuggle against the warm fur of his dogs. But just as Will debated the possibility of slipping away unnoticed, a sudden burst of laughter echoed from behind him, pulling him from his thoughts.

As if summoned, Will’s gaze landed on M/N, who stood across the room, his charming smile directed towards a striking woman. She was elegant and poised, with cascading waves of chestnut hair that framed her delicate features. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter and interest as she leaned closer to M/N, her hand resting upon his arm as they continued conversing.

The attraction between them was evident—the way the woman pressed herself against M/N, with the man doing nothing to stop such indecent action. Will couldn't tear his eyes away, a knot of jealousy tightening in his chest at the sight of M/N's easy rapport with the woman.

It was irrational, Will knew. He had no claim over M/N; no right to feel possessive or jealous. And yet, as he watched them, Will couldn't shake the resentment and betrayal that coiled within him, a bitter reminder of his insecurities and desires. For a brief moment, Will entertained the dangerous thought of intervening, of inserting himself into their conversation and reclaiming M/N's attention for himself. But he quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would only make him appear foolish and desperate.

But that’s exactly what M/N wanted. He craved to unravel the layers of Will Graham's complex psyche, delve into the darker corners of his mind, and explore the depths of his desires. M/N wanted to see this other, darker side of Will, to witness the raw passion and intensity that lay beneath his stoic exterior. So when their eyes met across the room, M/N couldn’t help but smirk as he turned back to the woman on his side.

Helen was beautiful, in a conventional sort of way, but something was lacking in her presence that failed to capture his interest. Her conversation was dull and predictable, devoid of the spark and intrigue that he craved. So even as his whole body wrenched when her hands settled on his forearm, M/N forced himself to maintain the facade of polite interest.

He couldn't help but contrast her with Will Graham, whose mere presence ignited a fire within him that he struggled to contain. Will was enigmatic and complex, a puzzle waiting to be solved, while Helen was little more than a passing distraction—a shallow attempt at filling the void that only Will could satisfy. And as he stole another glance across the room, M/N couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Jealousy and anger were swimming in the detective’s eyes; he only needed one final push so they could both indulge in what they desired.

The tension between them crackled like electricity, a palpable force that hung heavy in the air. Will's gaze bore into M/N's, filled with a mix of longing and frustration that mirrored his own. It was as if they were locked in a silent battle of wills, each daring the other to make the first move. But M/N was done playing games. He wanted Will, and he wanted him now. With a sly grin, he leaned in closer to Helen, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he murmured something in her ear. The effect was immediate. As Will stormed towards them, his eyes ablaze with fury, M/N felt a surge of satisfaction.

"Can we talk privately?” The detective hissed, not even sparing a glance at the woman.

“Of course.” M/N's response was measured and composed, his outward demeanor belying the inner excitement that churned beneath the surface. Sensing an opportunity to push the boundaries further, he delicately extricated himself from Helen's grasp and softly pressed his lips to her cheek.

“Please excuse us, darling.” He murmured, his voice like velvet, eliciting a blush from the woman and a frustrated huff from Will. Gesturing for the detective to follow, this exchange wasn’t missed by Hannibal, who smoothly redirected the attention of the other guests, allowing M/N and Will to slip away unnoticed.

The journey to M/N’s office was painful; in the sense that Will’s dark emotions only fueled M/N’s desire for the detective. With every step he took, M/N could feel Will’s presence like a blazing fire at his back, the heat of his breath sending shivers down his spine. Personal space seemed non-existent between them; with Will’s front nearly pressing against M/N’s back as they moved in lockstep. It took all of M/N's self-control to resist the urge to turn around and claim what he had long desired.

As they finally entered M/N's office, the weight of the locked door didn't escape Will's notice, but his focus was consumed by the fury pulsating through his veins. M/N's calm demeanor only served to stoke the flames of his anger further.

"What is it that you wished to speak of, Mr. Graham?" M/N's voice remained cool and collected, a stark contrast to the seething rage burning in Will's gaze. Allowing himself to be cornered against his desk, M/N maintained unwavering eye contact with the detective. Yet, despite the intensity of the situation, the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

Will's jaw clenched as he struggled to find the words, his chest heaving with pent-up emotion. "I want to know what you were doing with that woman," he finally managed to spit out, his voice low and charged with accusation.

M/N arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "And why does that matter to you?" he countered, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of challenge. His eyes held a gleam of amusement as he awaited Will's response; he might be pinned to his desk, but M/N still held the power. He was the one dictating what their encounter would result. Will’s expression softened, his features momentarily reflecting his more reserved nature. But then, to M/N’s surprise, a smirk ghosted across his face. "You're mine."

"Is that so?" M/N mused, "And what exactly does that entail, Detective Graham?"

Spurred by an unspoken desire, the detective's patience wore thin. Surging forward, Will captured M/N in a searing kiss, his hands finding a place on the other's hips to draw him closer. The kiss was electric, a fusion of pent-up longing and unspoken passion. At that moment, words became unnecessary as they surrendered to the heat of their mutual desire, lost in the intoxicating embrace of each other's lips.

M/N gripped Will’s curls, finding pleasure in hearing the sweet, husky moans the detective emitted. However, the need for air soon became undeniable, and with a deep, reluctant sigh, M/N drew away from the kiss. His chest heaved with the effort to regain his breath as he gazed into the detective's eyes once more. But instead of finding regret, as he had anticipated, M/N was surprised to see a glimmer of giddiness dancing in the depths of Will's gaze. Perhaps now it would be easier for the Lecter siblings to sway Will Graham into joining their murder family

#x male reader #male reader #hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #slasher community #slasher fandom #jealousy

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semuji · 6 months ago

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₩arning: Yan? HSR × You?, grammar mistakes, out of character.

Let's say you are a Kaslana in the HSR verse, being the "knight" of Humanity is no joke, even more so that you can't even protect your home.

Your homeland got attacked by the Swarms Disaster hundreds of years ago, and you are the only survivor, eventhough not exactly. The price of that is being trapped inside a doll body, you can feel, can touch and can speak, ... like a normal human. But you have no heart inside your body, just an artificial gem that deemed as your source of living. And with that body, you also often got shrink into a size of a grown man palm. Maybe something can change it, but you don't know how.

Oh, and did I mention that you also have amnesia, you have forgotten completely everything before you got transferred into a doll body. That's why you are on a journey to find it back, but on the way, you accidentally lost into a small box. However, you got saved by a tall and muscular man in the name of Veritas Ratio. He is curious about your origin and how your body shrink, therefore allowing you to follow him around as you vow to repay him for helping you out.

In the process, you met Aventurine, a man with a sinister smile and peculiar eyes, who your savior was talking to when they met at the front of the Dewlight Pavilion, The Oak's base of operation. Aventurine sure does notice you, and did ask about you to Ratio, and he replied with just a saying: "research partner", which made the blonde snickers.

However, later when Aventurine got sent out by the Head of the Oak's family, Sunday, Ratio secretly sent you with him, that the professor said it's for you to keep an eye on him, which you do. Aventurine quickly warmed up to you, eventhough he is in an illusion, he still recognizes you as a real person and allows you to follow him on his shoulder.

Maybe in his way, he encountered some drunken men who purposely causing a problem with him, which makes you angered. And with that, you and him discovered that lips to lips touches can make you grow back in some times. After that, you sure did beat up those people and give them to the Bloodhound.

When the time comes, you turned back to Ratio, but got lost along the way 'cause of your size, which makes you meet the Nameless. Surely they are friendly, and helped you out finding Ratio. When you got back on the professors shoulder, you show him the new discovery you founded without a word (or maybe you just can't talk in that form), which makes Ratio mad. But looking at your dumb smile of happiness of finally being helpful to him, Ratio stopped his lectures that was about to spill out and forgive you.

Maybe in the future, you will learned how to protect humanity again, and learned how to love again with the artificial heart inside you. But to vowed to be the shield of humanity is not a good thing at all. Because the people around you will surely never let you go get a single scratch on your face, let alone that you will sacrifice yourself for a person that you don't even know.

But do they know that you are the strongest Emanator in the whole universe, that can rivals even Aeons?

Or....

It's just my new oc lore that I want to share. I might expand it in the future if I got a chance.

Part 2

(unfinished art, credit belongs to me, please don't take it anywhere)

#aventurine x reader #dr ratio x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail oc #Honkai star rail x oc #Honkai star rail #Yandere honkai star rail #Yandere her #hsr x reader

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heartofbusan · 5 months ago

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My advice to JJK

Trying to describe Jeon Jungkook is like trying to grab sunlight. It's intagible, unattainable yet ever present. Slipping through your fingers while warming you up. He might actually be so EXTREMELY simple to figure out that people get lost, expecting a greater mystery. How do you solve a problem like Jungkook?

It requires patience.

His true character will reveal itself if you take the time to listen and observe instead of wanting him to fulfill your expectations of him.

He's very much of his time. He's willing to be vulnerable when most people would prefer to hide behind a facade of calm, cool, and collected. He's someone who has put his heart out there for us to see. Not just for us, but for himself, because he prioritises honesty and authenticity. He's not into bapid or superficial. He's actually not that deep. He's sensitive and a deep thinker, but hes not someone who needs words to express his feelings because his feelings are just there for tue taking. He's been showing and telling us who he is, yet people are unwilling to listen. Isn't that kind of tragic?

It's no surprise that he likes to work with non-verbal art mediums. Using words in a superficial way, mostly constructing a puzzle through layering rather than through concepts. He's got a great eye for color and timing, rhythm, and he loves humor that can handle a dark turn! That might be the most mysterious thing about him, his love for drama and his playful side. Pretending to be a different character, shed his mask by donning a far more 'interesting' one. Because he's that simple. He either likes something or he doesn't. His belly is connected to his heart. His gut is his guide. Never falter. It will always lead me home. If it feels good, if I trust it, then It can't be wrong.

Yet words like Simple. Easy. Clear. Those sound too plain for a man like Jungkook, who is kindhearted, grounded, and precise. He lives in the now.

I hope age brings him closer to expressing himself through words. I'd really love to see him try to articulate his brain. It is a worthy challenge, but one he need only take for his own satisfaction. I'm glad that, at times, he seems less harsh or self-critical than he used to be. That is also a working of time and age.

On his birthday, I hope he feels a sense of satisfaction on a day well lived. It's that simple joy that might bring him a sense of peace. And of course, knowing that he has a person in this life who can handle him just fine. That, too. Mostly that. Because that person SEES HIM. And isn't that what life is all about? A person who accepts you for who you are, not who they need you to be for them. That is a person worth fighting for.

#jeon jungkook #jikook #jungkook #i have no excuse to be this wordy #i am not drunk

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komoboko · 11 months ago

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There's a new official art and this tweet changed the trajectory of my life so I NEED AN ARTIST MUI X READER

Maybe the reader would be admiring his way of drawign and nad nadua ndaud *explodes*

𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

Artist!Muichiro x gn!reader

this character art changed my life cloudy i forever thank you for showing me this

Artist!Muichiro who first started having a crush on you after you complimented his art. It wasn’t something really big or important like slaying demons for example, just a passion he would do every now and then to pass the time.

While Muichiro was always aware that he's always had some skill when it came to art. He won't even realize how much people appreciated the craft until you complimented him one day.

"Muichiro you drew this yourself?" Your question snaps him out of the trans he was in previously. He stares at you a moment before nodding his head, noting the surprised but delighted expression that appears on your face. He never thought people actually admired his art, sure he's seen some lower ranks peer over to look at what he was drawing, but walking up to him? Complimenting him?? New territory for him.

He pulls his sketchbook in-between the two of you as he saw you take a seat next to him. He flips through the pages as he hears your comments and reactions to things he's drawn over the past couple months. "Who taught you how to draw?" You ask more eager to know where he learned his skills.

"I taught myself." He replies in a more relaxed manor with easily makes your jaw drop to the floor. Your reaction surprises him partially but he keeps his composure for good measures. "I could teach you if you wanted me to." He adds as your mouth continues to fall agape but your eyes shine with happiness. "Seriously? You wouldn't mind??" Muichiro nods his head as a goofy smile appears on your face. In response Muichiro can't help but let a small smile appears on his face.

He doesn't want to forget how beautiful you look when you smile, in-fact he doesn't really want to forget anything about this short conversation at all.

When the sun begins to set and you wave Muichiro goodbye, Muichiro immediately goes back to drawing. Instead of drawing the dragon like he showed you before or other animals he saw, he starts to sketch your face. He wants to make sure he remembers what you look like and who you are, and the next time he can see you for your first art lesson.

One sketch then turns into two, then two sketches turn into three. Then a sketch turns into a page, then two, then it turns into more pages then he can count. Different sketches of things you like or the food you told him you really hated. His favorite is the drawing of you two sitting next to each other while your sharing furofuki daikon, he was quite happy you remembered his favorite food for him.

"Love does crazy things to somebody, yes?" He hears Mr. Ubuyashiki states as Muichiro stares up at him, his face more confused than impressed. Kayaga only smiles before sitting next to the boy. "I'm surprised you haven't realized you've fallen in love yet." He. adds on as Muichiro can only look at him in surprise.

"Who have I fallen in love with..?" Muichiro asks the corps leader as he can only let out a laugh. He watches his finger glide until it lands on your face drawn delicately in his sketchbook. It only hits him then of what his master was saying.

So that's what he's been feeling when he's spending time with you. The warm feeling that bubbles in his chest. Love. You've struck him in the heart with your affection and now he can only wonder. Has he done the same to you?

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mermaidslabyrinth · 10 days ago

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Thank you HotD Fandom

I have been writing since I was around 11. All my works would stay in notebooks, on my word document, or printed out on paper and stashed away. I did post my first fic when I was around 13. Then sporadically through the years. The last time I posted any writing of mine was 10 years ago. But I’m trying to open up more with my writing, creative thoughts, by exposing my work little by little. And out of all the fandoms I’ve been in, it was the HotD fandom, the people I found, that made me feel comfortable enough to do so. Also, I’ve never been more proud or had more love for an OC I’ve created before Rhagerys. I’ve commissioned pieces of art of him, something I have never done with an OC before, and I am quite excited for that.

So my thanks to all the HotD fans that I have had the pleasure of interacting with (following, being mutuals, reblogging their posts through someone I follow). I have had such a wonderful time and do hope to continue to do so. I decided to write this because who knows what the future will bring. And I wanted people to know just how much they can make an impact.

Many thanks to:

@emilykaldwen her ask started it all and I will always be grateful for that. for she was the one who helped me step away from the corner and join in with the other creators. It’s a slow process but I am getting there.

@selfproclaimedunicorn seeing your OC tags on regular posts emboldened me to start doing the same. It’s another, subtle, way for my work to be put out in the universe. Doing so has even helped me flesh my OMC more in the tags of certain posts.

@happilyhertale for her wonder writing (I will reblog them. They are on my list). And her continued supply of Daemon/Matt posts. They keep me going with writing Daemon scenes.

@ewanmitchellcrumbs for that ask she answered very recently about just going for it with your writing. It inspired me.

@thought--bubble for being such a lovely person. Your writing skills are top notch (your stories are on my list).

@vhagar-balerion-meraxes you helped me from being a wallflower to slowly coming in and joining along with the rest. You were the first person in the HotD fandom to extend a hand and pull me into the fun. You make beautiful gif sets. You are very sweet. I appreciate that I was able to find your blog.

@sylasthegrim I know I don’t show it but I am so happy I follow you. You are slowly converting me to a Cregan appreciator. Like I get it. Your stories are so creative (I will read them they are on the list) and you are so open and kind in your inbox.

@multiverse-of-multifandoms your fantastic gif making. You help me feel comfortable when I’m joining in on the fun.

@livmondcole you are one of the sweetest ppl I’ve been lucky enough to follow. You show patience and kindness through your words.

@dr-aegon you are one of the reasons I was able to get a commission of my OMC. I checked your blog one night and you had a reblog of someone who opened up commissions. They are working on it now, I’ve seen the line work and I’m excited, and I have you to thank for it. Besides that you are one of the reasons that I started to really like Aegon. I see how much you care for him and it warmed my heart and the little disaster did as well.

And even though she is no longer part of the fandom: peachysunrize was such a wonderful person to follow and read her stories and read the asks ppl would send her.

Honestly all my HotD mutuals.

Also shout out to the artists, your works are amazing to see. And shout out to the other fic writers, your writing is enjoyed by many people who like reading about their favorite characters. And the gif makers, the creativity and patience you have. The sets I have seen have blown me away. I know all of these are talents that need to be praised more. The work you all bring to the fandom is always such a gift.

#Sorry if I rambled #But I was feeling this for a good while now #And I had to get it out before continuing on with my day #I am not one that is overtly out there in anything I do (never have been)#But I am passionate with what I am a part of #And if I sound too cheesy or too flowerly...idk...it's just how I've always been #I want others to feel seen and appreciated #To know that they matter #Fandoms #HotD #Happy Moments #Sweet Moments

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theonlyqualitytrash · 2 months ago

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Memento Mori - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: Do not forget that you will surely die someday, and as such, that is the more reason to live now. Fyodor returns to St. Petersburg, where a compassionate ballet teacher’s acceptance of life and mortality quietly transforms his jaded soul.

Warnings: fem!reader used, heavy themes of existential dread, mortality and religion, some russian words used, spoiler to Fyodor's ability (even though everyone and their mom is probably up to date with the manga)

A/N: I always found it weird for an immortal being to be religious, so I wanted to imagine a reason for Fyodor's faith. Anyway, this was a good outlet for all my existential thoughts, and I hope I did the character justice

Words: 3,900

Our existence is quite fascinating: we are born from death and return to death once we are finished stealing breaths from the world. Our existence has two parts—the physical and the bodiless. The first represents your autonomy, your biology, while the latter represents the mind, the consciousness.

19th century, Russian Empire

It was not uncommon for Fyodor to return home every five to ten years. Not out of homesickness, but there was something about the cold climate that always brought him back to St. Petersburg. He often found himself revisiting the same cathedrals and dark alleyways.

Over the decades, places had changed, yet he remained the same. And circling around him were the same filthy, grotesque people—sinners with empty human souls, their hearts filled with religion and vodka. Religion to keep them fearful, and vodka to keep them compliant.

Religion was a coping mechanism to manage the fear of death. And it was necessary because it thrived on fear. And what, he would ask, is the most primitive emotion in our brain? Fear. Fear is indeed primordial, clinging to us since the moment we are born.

As humans, when we take our first breath, our first instinct is to cry and cling to our birth-giver. Why? Because we feel fear.

The pavement was wet with snow that had fallen a few days prior and still plagued the stones. The sound of distant bells tolled in the background, marking the passage of time, but to Fyodor, time seemed irrelevant, like a vague murmur beneath the weight of his thoughts. The cold seeped into his bones, but it barely registered—his ushanka perched comfortably on his head, his coat keeping him mostly warm. Besides, he had a specific place he wanted to visit this time around. He had always enjoyed the fine arts, and ballet was no different.

So there he stood, in front of the Mariinsky Theatre—a grand green-washed building. The architecture, coupled with the color of the opera house, reminded Fyodor of mildew. He entered and had someone take his dark coat, doffing his beloved hat politely before walking to his seat in the mezzanine. The seat loomed over the ground floor, giving him a perfect view of the performance as well as the people attending.

He took a moment to observe and take in everything. The paintings on the ceiling were slightly more discolored than the last time he’d visited, and the people were the same cookie-cutter elites he saw every time. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they, too, didn’t age and that the same people came to the opera house each time. Everything was quite boring and dull, and he was tired of it all, but he still wanted to see the show. Giselle was one piece he had seen before but kept returning to. Why?

It was probably the tragic story that began with Giselle’s all-consuming love that lead her to madness and death. Her transformation—from grief and heartbreak to forgiveness and redemption as she forgives Albrecht—it all leads Giselle to spiritual liberation, demonstrating the healing power of selfless love and the importance of moving beyond bitterness.

He didn’t understand that.

Giselle, in his eyes, was a naïve fool. The man didn’t deserve her forgiveness or pity. If a woman’s heart is moved to pity, it becomes more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to save him, to bring him to his senses, to lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness. And yet, such dreams were futile. Fyodor knew all too well how far that kind of idealism could lead.

As the orchestra swelled, the soft, lively melody of the second act began, pulling him from his thoughts. The dancers took their positions, and he settled back into his seat, his gaze fixed on the stage. The performance resumed, the air thick with the delicate balance of art and emotion.

He remembered everything that was supposed to happen, from the slight movements of each ballerina to the clicking of the wooden pointe shoes on stage. So it struck him when the lead—a fairly average-looking woman—came out in the second act with a violin. His usual disinterested gaze followed the ballerina.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her; she moved with the same elegance as any other ballerina, wore the same costume he’d memorized. But the fact that she decided to depart from tradition and bring an instrument on stage while also dancing made him almost reevaluate his opinion of her. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise to see something different, opposed to the harsh rules of Russian ballet; on the other, why would she feel the need to defy tradition?

With a few simple inquiries, he soon found out that the woman was a teacher at the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet. It was expected—being the only relevant ballet school in St. Petersburg, many ballerinas who graduated from this academy went on to perform at the opera house.

The academy had the same sickly yellow walls he had grown accustomed to; almost everything in this city was like this. From the faces of the people walking the streets to the wood holding up and supporting the buildings, the color of decay that seemed to seep into every corner of St. Petersburg.

The woman’s name was (Y/N) Agafonovna. As stated, she was a teacher at this academy.

The porter let him in without fuss, seeing the polite, respectable man as someone who belonged there, and he oh-so-politely nudged him toward the room where you held your dance lessons. The door was open, almost inviting him to glance inside.

You stood in the middle of the grand dance room, your eyes soft yet stern, focusing on the girls before you, helping and correcting them. You didn’t notice the eyes that were on you the whole time. He quietly observed everything—the way you stood and walked, the way you spoke to the young women so gently, as if afraid to break their hearts and confidence.

As Fyodor observed the class, a peculiar thought flitted through his mind. How can such a gentle creature, such as herself, be stuck in such an unclean, unrighteous world? His gaze lingered on your soft yet commanding presence as you guided the young dancers. There was a part of him that expected you to break—to succumb to the world’s nature or fall in line like everyone else. But there was something in the way you held yourself, something almost fragile but resolute. He couldn’t look away. And so he stayed—silent, watching, unable to understand why someone like you seemed immune to the harshness of your surroundings.

Not long after, the class ended, and you let the girls stretch and leave. What caught your eye was the stranger standing outside the doorway. He could have been mistaken for a statue, as he stood so still and stoic. You took a step forward and gestured for him to come in. Without hesitation, he approached, his steps quiet, like a cat’s. When he stood at arm’s length, you offered him your hand. He stared at it for a few moments, contemplating, before slowly, and surprisingly gently, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a kiss on your knuckles before releasing it.

What he saw surprised him further—the subtle or not-so-subtle marks around your nail beds. Probably signs of stress and overthinking. He pondered the question: How can I relate to this woman? He believed he was nothing like you; you held a strange humanity about you, while he hadn’t felt human in a long time. He couldn’t relate to your gentle nature or soft gaze. Of course, he wouldn’t voice any of this.

“Privyetstvuyu, Miss Agafonovna, my name is Fyodor Dostoevsky. Apologies for intruding during your lesson,” he spoke, his voice low and almost quiet, as if sharing a secret.

“Dobroye den, Mister Dostoevsky. It is quite all right; my lesson wasn’t disturbed, so there’s no need to worry. May I ask what business you have?” you said, your voice quiet and warm, as if still speaking to the girls. It filled the room in a soft echo. A quiet part of Fyodor admired your bluntness and need to get to the point, but this forwardness clashed with your way of speech. Your honeyed voice was calming, while your words were stern. It was obvious that you had a sharp mind, but your quiet, almost lamb-like demeanor contrasted with it.

Fyodor cleared his throat softly before speaking again. “I had the pleasure of being at your last performance, so if you have time, I’d appreciate it if you would answer some questions about it.”

You observed him for a moment, unsure of his intentions. Checking the ticking clock on the wall, you saw that it was late—past noon, with no more classes to teach. Perhaps you would indulge his curiosity.

“I happen to have the time. Yes, we may speak in my office.”

Fyodor hummed in acknowledgment before quietly following you. You entered the room and gestured for him to sit. After he took a seat, you soon followed, facing him. “May I offer you some tea?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, his tone polite but detached.

There was a moment of pause between you two. The man you came to know as Fyodor struck you as rather odd. His thin frame made him look as if he were swimming in his long black coat. His eyes, often described as windows to the soul, betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling at that moment. He looked pale and almost sick, faint bruises under his eyes likely from lack of sleep. He had an overwhelming air of fatigue, and yet he still looked elegant and put together.

“You came to speak to me about my last performance, da?” you asked.

“Da,” he replied slowly, his voice calm and measured, taking one more moment to choose his words carefully. His dark eyes held an intensity that could make any stone wall crumble. “I haven’t seen anyone perform Giselle’s part in the second act as you did.”

For a moment, the thought flashed through your mind: Was he a critic here to berate me for choosing to go against the traditional interpretation? No—perhaps you were jumping to conclusions. He would speak, and you would discover his intentions. “Ah, you mean where Giselle enters the world of Wilis, where I played the violin?”

“Da.” That was all he said, though something about his tone invited you to continue.

“I took some creative liberty with that part, as it was my last performance,” you explained, pausing to consider whether you should delve deeper. “It may sound silly, but I often think about death—not because I wish to die, but because I know we are temporary. My small act of rebellion was a way for me to exercise the free will given to me by our Lord.”

This intrigued Fyodor. The woman before him hadn’t made her choice for attention or acclaim. It was more humble and personal, a way to come to terms with her mortality. This was a new perspective to him. As a man who had lived many lifetimes, he had grown desensitized to death and the fleeting nature of those around him.

“That is an interesting perspective,” he finally said, though his tone didn’t convey approval. “You think about your own fragility and thus want to escape it by exercising your free will?”

“You are partially correct, sir. I don’t wish to escape it; I want to come to terms with it. I know my death will come at one point, and I am not afraid of it. But perhaps...” There was a short pause, your eyebrows furrowing as you searched for the right words. “...perhaps, I don’t wish for my consciousness to be erased, to lose who I once was.”

Sometimes, Fyodor wished his consciousness could be erased. The weight of his own memories—the unrelenting flood of time—pressed down on him, crushing his bones. He envied those who lived in blissful ignorance, their minds free of the burden of awareness. But perhaps that was the nature of existence, he mused. We all find our peace with it in different ways.

Quiet eyes flickered as you watched him, your gaze momentarily distant. You, too, had once wished for a simpler life, one where you could close your eyes and not feel the weight of the years pressing in on you. Your body had once moved with the grace of a child, unburdened. But now, as time wore on, you saw your own fragility—your inevitable decline.

He offered a small, contemplative nod. It was not in his nature to find kinship with another person, yet you stirred a faint echo of familiarity—a kindred desire for understanding amidst the ephemerality of existence.

"So, you wish to accept death, but not to be forgotten?" Fyodor asked, his voice carrying a tone both curious and heavy—perhaps judgment, perhaps something else, something deeper, impossible to name. “You believe we can make peace with it, despite knowing it will come?”

You paused, your eyes narrowing slightly as you considered his question. A quiet hum of approval escaped your lips before you replied, your tone calm yet resolute. "Da, death is something unchanging, constant. Something that will come either way. And a part of me finds comfort in the fact that something is predestined to happen in this chaotic world."

As you spoke, there was a moment when your eyes met his, and in that fleeting instant, neither spoke, yet something passed between you, an unspoken recognition—neither pity nor empathy, but an understanding that was both intimate and alien. Two souls, caught in the same current, yet separated by different shores. Before either could name it, the moment was gone, leaving only the quiet air between you.

After a few more quiet inquiries about religion and philosophy, you parted ways—but not for long. Fyodor was left perplexed; he sensed that you were something rare, something he hadn’t encountered before.

“You cannot age,” you murmured quietly, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled between you.

Fyodor had anticipated this moment. He’d chosen to stay by your side through the years, knowing that eventually, you would notice—the ageless stranger who never changed while you did. He placed his teacup gently on the table, meeting your gaze as he prepared to respond.

“That is correct. I wondered when you would bring it up.”

The silence returned, heavier now, pressing down on you both. You stared down, your hands fidgeting under the table, unconsciously picking at the skin around your nails, almost trembling. Your mind seemed to whirl with questions—how many years, how many lifetimes had he endured? Decades, centuries, millennia? You could only imagine the pain he must have felt, watching the world around him age and fade while he remained unchanged. After a moment, you looked up, your gaze softer, almost pained.

“Fyodor,” you whispered, “aren’t you tired?”

Another pause, this one stretching unbearably. Fyodor could feel your empathy radiating across the table—a kindness he had never allowed himself to indulge. He’d always regarded empathy as a weakness, an opening that could be easily exploited. And yet, something about your simple, compassionate question stirred something long-buried within him, something vulnerable he instinctively wanted to bury again.

“Da, ya ustal,” he admitted softly, letting the words slip out like an exhale, as though he were surrendering a truth to the night.

At this, a single tear slipped down your cheek, glistening in the low light. Your sorrow made him shift uncomfortably; he’d always hated tears, a visible testament to human frailty. But this time, he hated it for a different reason. This tear was for him. It unsettled him because you were weeping for him. It made him feel bare, more vulnerable. He almost wanted to pull away, to get up and leave, and never speak another word to you again, but he didn’t.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice suddenly low and tense, “there’s no need for that.” His hand almost rose, hovering just above the small round table, as if he might wipe the tear away. But he stopped, uncertain. You raised your head, meeting his gaze again, your kind eyes searching his.

“Pozhaluysta,” you said, your voice almost pleading. “I want to know. I need to understand.”

And that you did. He spoke more words about himself at that table than he had in all his years of living. His silver tongue felt rusted, each word pulled up with effort, forcing him to pause often as he searched for the right ones. It was uncharacteristic of him, and yet it made you somehow happy that he was willing to share the burden.

Speaking of burdens: his gift, he explained, had been a cruel joke. He remembered the first time he’d been killed—how young he was, how his lips coughed out their last breath, how cold his body felt when his soul was leaving. And yet, moments later, he was drawn back again, but into a different form, his chest still throbbing from the wound that should have ended him. He had gasped for air like a newborn, his body wracked with pain and confusion, holding his own lifeless body in his hands as he shivered and wept. He’d only been a child.

Your face remained soft, solemn, though quiet tears slipped down your cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. Your cold tea sat forgotten on the table as you listened, your heart aching. Only a child, you thought. He was only a child. Children, the purest part of humanity—the ones who needed to be protected and cherished. How could anyone harm a child?

When he finished, another silence fell over you, but this one felt different—lighter, calmer, as if a weight had lifted from his heart. You felt an urge to comfort him but knew he wouldn’t accept words or gestures. Instead, you rose quietly from the table and crossed to a narrow yellow wood cabinet. You opened it and drew out a silver cross necklace, holding it close to your heart before you returned to sit across from him, holding it out for him to take.

“I know you don’t accept faith, but perhaps... wear this as a reminder. If you can, bring fortune to the world, Fyodor, maybe even a blessing for the children who will follow.”

But he did not accept. He politely declined the cross from you. “Perhaps there is a divine being out there, something out of this world that we cannot see. But faith left me long ago, so I cannot accept this,” he had said. What soon followed was a quiet apology for his heresy, a glance away as he spoke. You did not blame him and hadn’t pressed him further, only nodded as though you’d expected it, though a glimmer of sadness flickered in your eyes.

What he thought would be a short visit to his homeland stretched from a few days to a few weeks, then to a few months, until it bloomed into decades. At first, he assumed this was a fleeting curiosity, one that would fade in a matter of days. But as years passed and he still couldn’t get his fill of your company, he began to wonder: Perhaps I misjudged the situation. Perhaps I was crass and too quick to dismiss her.

He had found someone who brought him a rare peace and understanding, despite your clashing mentalities—a connection he never grew tired of. Every time you met, you found some new topic to discuss, and each time he left feeling more alive.

As we have come to realize, life is fleeting, and time is a cruel mistress who waits for no one. Each second slips away, unnoticed and irretrievable, like sand through open fingers. We may comfort ourselves with the thought that existence after death is peaceful—just as existence before life was peaceful—as though one could simply slip away into sleep. And as all things, good and beautiful, must come to an end, so too did your life.

You had held the cross out to him once before, fingers delicate, your gaze full of quiet insistence. Now, in the emptiness you had left behind, he found himself holding the small cross in his palm, its edges warm from your touch alone. He slipped the chain over his head, feeling its slight weight rest against his chest. He didn’t know if he could fully embrace your faith, but he wanted to feel a part of your presence linger. And maybe, in this quiet act, he was allowing your wish to come true, as your memory lived on in him.

Fyodor stood in the dimly lit church, his eyes resting on the flickering candles. He had never understood this before—the way the simple act of remembering someone could tether them to the world long after they were gone. But now, as his thoughts drifted to you, he realized that you—your soft gaze, your gentle words—had become the anchor to his humanity. The strange pull he had felt toward religion, the gradual acceptance of mortality, it was all for you. Your belief, your grace in the face of death, had become his guide. He wasn’t just remembering you now; you had become a part of him. And in some way, by carrying your memory, he was keeping you alive.

Rising slowly from his seat, Fyodor moved toward the coffin, his steps heavy. His cold, detached gaze softened at the sight of you, lying there in stillness, your expression almost peaceful. Was that the shadow of a smile on your lips? Reaching out, he clasped your hand—soft, motionless, yet warmer, somehow, than his own.

He lingered in silence, his breath catching. How strange, he thought, that even here, in death, you still have the power to warm me. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest. For years he had watched you, a steady presence that grew unexpectedly precious, but had he ever told you? Had you known? The question hung there, unanswered, filling the quiet with the weight of all he’d never said.

The cold silver lay heavy on his heart, like a whisper. ‘Remember me,’ it seemed to say, and in his silent acceptance, in the quiet solitude he vowed that he would. Fyodor closed his eyes.

You wanted to be remembered, he thought.

And I will remember you, dearest. But more than that, I will live by the lessons you taught me.

Credit for dividers: saradika-graphics

#bsd #bsd fyodor #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bungou stray dogs #fyodor bsd #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor x reader #qt.canon.fyo

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lividstar · 5 months ago

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ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Nine: May I Have This Dance?

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 10.3k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ The initial plan was to stay the night in Hongjoong’s art studio to finish one of his designs, but as one thread tangled itself into another and kept the chain going, a series of unexpectedly charming experiences began to unfold, one of which contains running an errand to buy flowers for Madame Dupont’s vases—the very event that led to you and Hongjoong enjoying a little sophisticated dancing session while moving to the soft melody of La Vie En Rose.

a/n: this took so long i’m so sorry 😭 these past few weeks have been so hectic and i had little time to write but i finally pulled through! lmk what you guys think about this one hehe

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

The room was filled with the warm, ambient light of late-night lamps, casting soft shadows on the walls. The hum of the city outside was faint, muffled by the closed windows of Hongjoong’s studio. You both had decided to work late, wanting to finish the third design for his autumn collection before dawn. The atmosphere was relaxed as the hours passed.

“And then, when he pulled the green ribbon off her neck... her head fell to the ground!” you concluded the tale with a dramatic flair.

Hongjoong let out a startled gasp, his eyes wide with shock. “No way!” he exclaimed, causing you to burst into a fit of laughter. The sight of his genuine reaction, so vulnerable and out of character, had you clutching your stomach, tears forming in your eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me like that!” Hongjoong protested, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m sure you reacted just the same when you first heard that story.”

Still giggling, you wiped away your tears. “Actually, I did not. And come on, how can I not laugh? Seeing you so scared is just, I don’t know, uncharacteristically priceless?”

Hongjoong crossed his arms, a mock pout on his lips. “I don’t usually react like that, you know. It’s just that… that story... caught me off guard.”

You grinned, teasing him further. “Guess I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, then. So, are you always this easily frightened? Or was there a particular incident that made you this way?”

He hesitated, a shadow passing over his features. “Well, there was one major event,” he admitted, his tone softening.

Intrigued, you leaned forward, eager to hear more. “What happened?”

Hongjoong looked thoughtful, as if weighing his words carefully. “When I was younger, I had this experience... It was late at night, and I was at home alone. The power went out, and there was this eerie silence, you know? The kind that makes you hear things that aren’t really there. Suddenly, there was this loud crash from the kitchen. I thought someone had broken in. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a baseball bat—and slowly made my way there, heart pounding. But when I got to the kitchen, there was nothing. No sign of anyone. Just an open window that I knew I had closed earlier.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “Ever since then, I’ve been quite jumpy, especially when I’m alone at night. It’s silly, really, but it left a mark on me.”

You listened intently, feeling a pang of sympathy. “That sounds terrifying. I can’t imagine going through something like that alone—at a young age, too.”

Hongjoong smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it honestly still creeps me out a little when I remember it. But enough about me, what about you? Any fears?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “It’s not exactly spooky, but my biggest fear is being left alone. Not just physically alone, but emotionally. The idea of someone I care about just disappearing without a word... It terrifies me.”

Hongjoong’s expression softened, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “That’s understandable. It’s a fear many people have, I think. The fear of abandonment.”

You nodded, feeling a bit vulnerable yet also comforted by his empathetic response. So far, Hongjoong has proven himself to be very empathetic, and it’s a trait of his that you hold deep appreciation for. “Have you ever felt that way? Worried that someone might just leave without any explanation?”

A contemplative look crossed Hongjoong’s face, and he sighed softly. “It’s not exactly my biggest fear, but... yes, it’s happened to me before.”

Surprised, you looked at him, sensing there was more to the story. However, you also sensed his reluctance to delve deeper, so you decided to shift the topic. “Then... what is your biggest fear?”

Hongjoong glanced away, his gaze distant as he seemed to search for the right words. The studio fell silent, save for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “My biggest fear... is losing myself. Losing who I am, what I believe in, what I love. It’s easy to get lost in this industry, to become someone you’re not just to please others. Sometimes, I worry that in trying to be everything for everyone, I might end up being nothing at all.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his confession. You felt a deep empathy for him, understanding the struggle of maintaining one’s identity in a world that often demands conformity. “That’s really deep,” you said softly. “But from what I’ve seen, you’ve always stayed true to yourself. That’s something to admire.”

Hongjoong gave you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s not always easy, but I try. And it helps having people around who remind me of who I am.”

The conversation left both of you in a pensive mood, the laughter from earlier replaced by a contemplative silence. “You’re one of those people, you know,” Hongjoong says after a few seconds, his voice soft and sincere, a hint of a smile showing up on his lips.

His words caught you off guard, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. You smiled back at him, a mixture of gratitude and affection in your eyes. “I’m glad I am.”

The quiet moment between you was filled with an unspoken understanding, a deeper connection that had blossomed unexpectedly. The soft hum of the city outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this shared space. However, the peaceful silence was soon interrupted by a soft hiss from Hongjoong, followed by a muttered curse.

Concern immediately washed over you as you noticed him cradling his hand, a thin line of blood trickling down from his finger to the floor. “Are you alright? What happened?” you asked, quickly moving closer to him.

“It’s fine, just a small scratch,” he dismissed, waving his injured hand nonchalantly. “I’m used to it.”

You shook your head, not convinced. “Where do you keep your first aid supplies?”

He hesitated for a moment, then relented under your determined gaze. “Top drawer of my desk.”

“Stay put,” you instructed, getting up and heading to the desk. You rummaged through the drawer, pulling out a small first aid kit. Kneeling beside him, you opened the kit and carefully took out the necessary supplies. “Let’s get this cleaned up,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

Hongjoong watched as you worked in silent awe. You cleaned the wound with a delicate touch, your brows furrowed in concentration. As all your attention was poured on his small wound, a stray strand of your hair fell into your line of sight. Before you could brush it away, Hongjoong reached out and gently tucked the hair behind your ear. The brief contact made your breath hitch, a small, almost imperceptible gasp escaping your lips. You felt a flutter in your chest, but you quickly pushed it aside, reminding yourself there was something you needed to get done.

Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on your face, taking in the soft curve of your features, the gentle way your lips pressed together as you concentrated. Up close, he noticed things he hadn’t before—the delicate lines around your eyes when you smiled, the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheeks. There was a quiet beauty to you, one that he found himself increasingly drawn to. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts, but the feeling remained—a growing awareness of the attraction he felt toward you.

“There,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned back, inspecting your handiwork. The wound was now clean and bandaged, and you held his hand gently, your fingers still wrapped around his.

Hongjoong’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he looked down at your hands. “You know, you’re still holding my hand,” he teased, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Startled, you quickly released his hand, a flush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh, right. Sorry,” you mumbled, standing up and hastily putting the first aid supplies back in their place. You could hear Hongjoong’s soft laughter behind you, a sound that sent a pleasant warmth through you, despite your embarrassment.

As you turned back to face him, you found him still smiling, a look of fondness in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. He seemed different tonight—more open, more... vulnerable? It was as if the late hour and the intimacy of the shared space had stripped away some of his usual guardedness, revealing a side of him you hadn’t seen before.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the smile in your own voice.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “Just... I’m not used to being shown any concern. It felt nice having you clean my wound, since I usually do that myself.”

You felt a pang of sympathy for him, wondering what his life must be like, always busy, always under pressure—and on top of that, always being his own savior. “Well, someone’s got to look out for you,” you said lightly, trying to ease the sudden heaviness in the air.

He nodded, his expression turning more serious. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between you. There was so much you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask, but the words seemed to stick in your throat. Instead, you just smiled, hoping that your expression conveyed the warmth and support you felt for him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “For everything.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The moment felt fragile, like a bubble that could burst at any second, and you were afraid that saying too much might shatter the delicate balance between you.

As the room settled into a comfortable silence, you both resumed your tasks. The design for the autumn collection was nearing completion, but there were still some intricate details that needed attention. Hongjoong broke the silence, his voice cutting through the quiet like a soft melody. “Hey, could you help me with something?” he asked, his tone gentle.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “Of course,” you replied, setting aside the fabric you had been working on. “What do you need help with?”

He gestured towards the piece he was working on, a delicate embroidery that required precision. “I’m struggling with this part,” he admitted, a hint of frustration in his voice. “The stitches need to be tighter, but my hands aren’t steady enough right now.”

You nodded, understanding the predicament. “Let me see,” you said, scooting closer to him on the floor. As you took the fabric from him, your fingers brushed against his, sending a small jolt through you. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest coming back as you focused on the task.

Hongjoong leaned in to guide you, his breath warm against your cheek. “Here, you need to pull the thread like this,” he instructed, his voice low and soft. His proximity made your heart race, and you could feel the heat of his body close to yours. The scent of his cologne, subtle and earthy, filled the air between you.

You nodded, trying to keep your focus. The embroidery required delicate handling, and the small, detailed work was challenging. As you worked, your hands occasionally brushed against his, sending small electric shocks through your skin. Hongjoong seemed oblivious to the effect his closeness was having on you, or perhaps he was just as affected but hid it well.

“Your studio’s so awfully quiet,” you murmured, breaking the silence. The quiet had become almost oppressive, making you hyper-aware of every small sound and movement.

Hongjoong chuckled softly. “I usually play music when I’m working,” he admitted. “I don’t like the silence. It can feel... lonely.”

“Then why haven’t you played any songs so far?” you asked, genuinely curious. The thought of him working alone in silence, surrounded by the tools of his craft, seemed sad.

He paused for a moment, considering his response. A small smile played on his lips as he looked at you. “Your presence alone is enough to drown it all out,” he said simply, his eyes meeting yours. There was a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air charged with something unspoken as you felt warmth spread through you. Hongjoong’s words were unexpected, and they left you feeling both flattered and slightly overwhelmed. You returned his smile, unable to think of a response that could adequately express what you were feeling. It’s mildly frustrating how you could never seem to be able to trust the words wanting to come out of your mouth whenever he was around.

Once you were finally done with the task Hongjoong assigned you, you leaned back, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. It was a small victory, perhaps, but it felt like a significant one. Hongjoong noticed your expression and tilted his head in curiosity. “What’s the matter?” he asked, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

You shrugged, still smiling. “Nothing, really. It’s just... you asked me for help. I mean, you don’t usually do that, so it’s kind of a surprise.”

He mirrored your smile, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I don’t usually ask for help. But... I don’t know. I felt comfortable enough to ask you.”

There was a brief silence as he contemplated his own words, realizing at that moment just how much he had let his guard down around you. It was a strange feeling, one that left him feeling both vulnerable and relieved. It was dangerous, he knew, to let someone in so easily, especially in a world where trust was a rare commodity. But somehow, despite the potential risks, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was something about you that made him feel at ease, something that made the usual walls he kept up around himself feel unnecessary.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his phone, which had been lying on the floor atop a piece of fabric, lit up with a notification. You glanced over and immediately recognized the wallpaper: a candid photo of Hongjoong with Pompidou, the one you had taken and sent him right before bed that night. You smiled, a soft, heartfelt expression. “You set that as your lockscreen?”

Hongjoong picked up the phone, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he looked at the image. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing at you before reading the notification—a message from Wooyoung. It was one that demanded a response, but in that moment, he decided to just set his phone aside for now, his attention fully on you. “It’s only fair enough if I do the same thing you did, right?”

You chuckled, the sound light and airy. “I guess so,” you replied, the atmosphere between you warm and comfortable.

As the hours passed, you both became so engrossed in your work that time seemed to slip away unnoticed. It wasn’t until you both finally finished the design that you realized just how late—or rather, how early—it was. You stood up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a long night’s work. The outfit you had both labored over was stunning—a perfect blend of deep, earthy tones and detailed embroidery, capturing the essence of autumn with its rich textures and warm hues. The fabric was soft yet structured, the design elegant yet grounded, reflecting the beauty of the season in every stitch.

You turned to Hongjoong, a wide grin on your face, and held both your hands up. He looked at you, confused for a moment, before realizing what you wanted. With a laugh, he raised his hands and high-fived you, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“Great job,” you both said almost simultaneously, laughter bubbling up between you. You glanced around the studio, the mess of fabrics and tools evidence of the hard work you had put in.

As the adrenaline of the work began to fade, you pulled your phone from your pocket, intending to check the time. When you saw the display, your eyes widened in shock. “It’s 4 in the morning already?” you gasped, incredulous.

Hongjoong glanced at the clock, a look of surprise crossing his face. “Wow, I didn’t even notice,” he said, running a hand through his hair. The fatigue was beginning to set in, but there was also a contentness in the air, a satisfaction over a job well done.

As the realization of the late hour settled in, both you and Hongjoong decided it was time to clean up the studio before heading home. The room was a testament to your hard work: sketches strewn about, fabrics piled in corners, and various tools scattered across the desks. Hongjoong paused, glancing at you with a gentle smile. “I’m just going to use the restroom real quick,” he said, his voice soft yet a little slurred.

“Go ahead,” you replied, waving him off with a tired smile of your own. As he left, you turned your attention to one of the desks, starting to gather the scattered mess. Your movements were slow, each task requiring more effort as exhaustion began to weigh heavily on you. Feeling your body grow weary, you dragged a chair over to the desk and sat down, intending to sort through the papers and materials.

But as soon as you rested your head on your folded arms, the world around you started to blur. The soft hum of the city outside, the quiet ticking of a clock somewhere in the studio—all these sounds faded into the background as your eyes fluttered shut. You hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but the comfort of the moment and the sheer exhaustion from the long night overcame you.

Just as you drifted off, Hongjoong returned to the studio, ready to continue cleaning. “Let’s—” he began, only to stop mid-sentence as his gaze fell upon you. You were peacefully asleep, your head resting on the desk, breathing softly. A tender smile crept onto his lips as he observed you, taking in the serene expression on your face. An unexpected gentle warmth in his chest then came by, yet it felt so on-brand with his nature that he didn’t even notice it.

Without a second thought, Hongjoong quietly crossed the room and scooped you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style out of the studio. You were light and fragile in his embrace, and he was careful not to jostle you. The hallway was quiet, the early morning light just beginning to seep through the windows, casting a soft glow on the scene.

Hongjoong carried you into his office, where he gently laid you down on the couch. He adjusted a pillow beneath your head, ensuring you were comfortable. Glancing around, he looked for something to cover you with, wanting to keep you warm. When he couldn’t find any spare fabric or blanket, he hesitated for a moment before pulling off his sweater, revealing the plain black shirt he wore underneath. He draped the sweater over you, its warmth and the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you.

He took a step back, his eyes lingering on your peaceful form. There was something intimate about the scene, a quiet moment of care that felt oddly significant. Hongjoong shook his head with a soft chuckle, feeling a strange mix of affection and concern.

With a sigh, he walked over to his office chair and sat down, glancing at the stack of papers and sketches on his desk. If he was still awake at this hour, he might as well get some work done. But as he picked up a pencil and began to sketch, his thoughts kept drifting back to you, sleeping soundly on the couch. The room was quiet, the only sound being the faint scratch of pencil on paper and your steady breathing.

You seemed to have already weaved the threads of your veins in the fabric of his mind, and it was dangerous.

—

Your eyelids flutter open, the soft murmur of voices slowly pulling you from sleep. You blink against the light filtering through the room, momentarily disoriented by your unfamiliar surroundings. As your vision clears, you see two figures across the room, engaged in a hushed conversation.

“I know you can only be quiet once a year, so why not use that trial card now and keep your voice down?” Hongjoong’s voice, though hushed, came off irritated.

“I’m not being loud!” came Wooyoung’s indignant reply, his voice just a tad louder than a whisper.

Their exchange halted abruptly as you sat up on the couch, instinctively pulling the sweater around you closer. The room was spacious, filled with a blend of modern and personal touches, but what caught your eye was the two men now looking at you, their conversation forgotten.

Hongjoong was the first to speak, “See? I told you not to be so loud,” he chided Wooyoung, who threw his hands up in mock defeat.

“Hongjoong?” you murmured, still groggy and a bit confused. Hongjoong was quick to leave his chair, grabbing a cup of coffee as he approached you. The rich aroma of the brew filled your senses as he placed the cup gently on the glass table in front of you.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice soft and soothing. “You fell asleep earlier at dawn while we were cleaning up the studio. I didn’t want to wake you, so I brought you here to my office.”

You nodded slowly, the events of the night starting to come back to you. As your consciousness fully returned, you noticed Wooyoung sitting comfortably in a chair across from Hongjoong’s desk. He offered you a friendly smile, his dimples deepening. “Hey there—didn’t mean to wake you up, sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assured him, smiling back before turning your attention to Hongjoong, who had now taken a seat across from you. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly cozy, almost domestic.

“Did you end up cleaning the whole studio by yourself?” you asked, a hint of guilt in your voice.

Hongjoong shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “No, I just left it as it was when I brought you here. I finished cleaning up an hour ago.”

Wooyoung, not being able to hold back his curiosity, leaned forward slightly, “So, why were you here all night?” He figured it should be in his best interest to always throw out inquiries about your relationship with Hongjoong here and there whenever you were around, because 1. He and Seonghwa genuinely believe the details are their necessities, and 2. He will never be able to gather any intel from Hongjoong.

You chuckled lightly, the memory of the previous night making you feel both amused and sheepish. “We got too caught up finishing one of Hongjoong’s designs. We didn’t even realize how late it was until we were done.”

Wooyoung made a mental note to share this little tidbit with Seonghwa later while he gave you a playful grin, as if to say he knew something was up, but he didn’t press further.

Hongjoong then turned his attention back to you, his expression sincere. “Do you want to go home now? I can drive you to your apartment.”

You shook your head, remembering the errand you needed to run. “No, I actually have something to do today. My landlord asked me to pick up some flowers from a shop for her. She wants to change the arrangements in her vases.”

Hongjoong looked intrigued. “Does she have a specific flower shop in mind?”

“Yeah, she does,” you replied, nodding. “I know the address, but I’m not exactly sure how to get there.”

Without missing a beat, Hongjoong offered, “I can drive you there.”

You glanced between him and Wooyoung, feeling a bit hesitant. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to leave Wooyoung here…”

Little did you know, Wooyoung was already picturing you and Hongjoong at a wedding venue, the image making him inwardly chuckle. He waved a dismissive hand, grinning. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Hongjoong turned back to you, his eyes warm and reassuring. You sighed softly, finally giving in to his offer. He smiled, clearly pleased. As you stood up from the couch, you realized you were still clutching his sweater. You blushed, holding it out to him apologetically.

He shook his head, a gentle smile on his lips. “You should keep it and put it on. The weather forecast said it would be a bit windy today.”

You hesitated for a moment before slipping the sweater on, the fabric feeling warm and comforting against your skin. It hung loosely on you, a stark contrast to how it fit Hongjoong. The sight seemed to catch him off guard; his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a look of something akin to awe crossing his features. Wooyoung cleared his throat, pretending to cough, snapping Hongjoong out of his thoughts. He sent Wooyoung an annoyed glare, which only made the younger man grin wider.

A few minutes later, you found yourself in Hongjoong’s car, the morning air crisp and slightly chilly. Despite the warmth of the sweater, you shivered a little, the coolness seeping in. Hongjoong noticed immediately, reaching over to turn off the air conditioner. You glanced at him, smiling gratefully. “Thank you,” you murmured, appreciating the small gesture.

As he drove, the city slowly waking up around you, the car ride was filled with a comfortable silence, broken occasionally by small talk. The earlier events played in your mind, the way Hongjoong had looked at you, the warmth in his voice, the care he showed. It was all so… unexpected, yet it felt oddly right. As the car moved smoothly through the streets, you felt a strange sense of contentment, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sweater or the car’s heater.

After a few more minutes of driving, the soft chime of bells greeted you as you and Hongjoong stepped into the quaint flower shop. The air was filled with the delicate fragrance of blooms, creating an atmosphere of calm and serenity. You couldn’t help but marvel at the array of flowers on display, each one vibrant and inviting in its own way.

“All the flowers look so beautiful,” you murmured, your eyes wandering over the petals and leaves.

Hongjoong glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips before he turned his attention back to the shop. “They sure do.”

A young woman behind the counter greeted you both with a warm smile, her voice cheerful. “Good morning! Please let me know if you need any assistance.”

You returned her smile, nodding politely. “Thank you, we will.”

As you and Hongjoong wandered through the aisles, the colors and scents enveloped you, making it feel like you were walking through a garden in full bloom. You turned to him, a playful glint in your eyes. “Hey, if you were a sweet old lady, what flowers would you like to put in your vases?”

He chuckled softly, considering the question with surprising seriousness. After a moment, he replied, “I think I’d choose peonies. They’re elegant, with layers of petals that unfold like a story. And they symbolize prosperity and good fortune—qualities any old lady would appreciate.”

You nodded thoughtfully, impressed by his choice and the sentiment behind it. As you pondered his suggestion, the soft melody of “La Vie en Rose” began to play through the shop’s speakers, filling the space with a romantic, timeless charm. You hummed along, the familiar tune bringing a smile to your face.

Suddenly, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you found Hongjoong holding out a single rose, his expression playful. “For you, my lady,” he said with a dramatic flair.

You laughed, delighted by his unexpected gesture. Placing a hand over your heart, you accepted the rose with a mock curtsy. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

The two of you shared a light-hearted laugh, the atmosphere between you warm and easy. The woman at the counter, watching your interaction with a knowing smile, subtly turned up the volume of the music, as if encouraging the moment. As the music swelled, Hongjoong offered his hand to you, a glint of amusement and sincerity in his eyes. “May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting.

A smile spread across your face, the offer too delightful to refuse. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to lead you into an impromptu dance. The two of you moved into the open space between the aisles, surrounded by the vibrant colors and fragrances of the flowers. Hongjoong began by twirling you gently, the world around you blurring as you spun, the music carrying you both into a rhythm that felt natural and unforced.

As he twirled you back toward him, you found yourself closer than before, your steps in sync as you followed his lead. Hongjoong’s movements were confident yet gentle, his hands guiding you with a surety that spoke of trust. He spun you out again, your skirts flaring slightly, and then pulled you back, his hand resting lightly on your waist as you moved together.

The dance took on a playful tone, with Hongjoong adding little flourishes—an extra twirl here, a playful dip there. You laughed, the joy of the moment bubbling up uncontrollably. Each movement felt like a conversation, unspoken yet understood, the two of you communicating through the language of dance. The flowers around you blurred into a vibrant backdrop, the soft hues of roses, daisies, and peonies blending together as you spun and swayed.

Hongjoong led you into a classic ballroom move, his hand firm on your back as he guided you into a dip. As you leaned back, your eyes locked onto his, the room seeming to narrow until it contained only the two of you. There was a shared breath, a moment suspended in time where the music, the shop, and the world outside ceased to exist. The dip was graceful, his hold secure, and for a brief moment, you felt as though you were floating, supported entirely by him.

As he pulled you back up, the song reached its crescendo, the final notes lingering in the air like a whispered secret. The two of you stood there, breathless and grinning, the joy of the dance and the unexpected intimacy of the moment lingering between you. The corners of your mouth lifted into a teasing smile as you remarked, “Didn’t know you had that whimsy in you.”

Hongjoong laughed in return, a sound that felt warm and familiar now, like a melody that lingered long after the music had ended. He shook his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “And here I thought I was full of surprises.” He then paused, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you with curiosity. “But, I have to ask—have you ever taken ballroom dance lessons? You moved like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You found yourself laughing again, shaking your head at the suggestion. “Not at all,” you replied, your voice light and amused. Unconsciously, you twirled the single rose he had given you during your playful dance, its soft petals brushing against your fingers. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding it, the delicate flower becoming an extension of the moment you had just shared.

Hongjoong’s eyes followed the movement of the rose, his expression thoughtful as you continued. “Dancing was just something I did for fun,” you explained, your tone growing a bit more nostalgic. “Back when I worked at the diner in Arcadia Bay, I’d sometimes be left alone to close up after a long shift. If it got really late, and the place was empty, I’d turn up the speakers and play whatever music I could find. The freshly cleaned floors made it easy to glide around, so I’d dance while I cleaned. It was my way of winding down, I guess.”

He leaned against the wall beside him, his posture relaxed yet attentive. A fond smile played on his lips as he listened, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze softened. “I never would have guessed,” he said quietly, almost as if the thought was meant more for himself than for you.

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued by the tone of his voice. “Really?” you asked, your voice dropping slightly, matching the intimacy of the moment.

For a long, quiet moment, the two of you just looked at each other. It was one of those instances where words felt unnecessary, where the silence between you spoke volumes. The connection that had sparked during your dance now hung between you, a quiet understanding that neither of you was quite ready to acknowledge fully.

Hongjoong’s eyes held yours, the intensity of his gaze making the world around you blur into insignificance. The soft hum of the flower shop, the vibrant colors of the blooms, even the scent of fresh petals—all of it faded away until there was only him, standing just a few feet away, yet feeling impossibly close.

But then, the gentle chime of the shop’s doorbell rang out, breaking the spell. The sound was like a pin pricking the bubble that had formed around the two of you, pulling you both back to the reality of where you were. The moment shattered, and you blinked, the trance broken.

You cleared your throat, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring your cheeks as you tore your gaze away from Hongjoong’s. He straightened up, pushing himself off the wall, his own expression a mix of awkwardness and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

“We should probably keep looking around,” you said, your voice sounding a little more hurried than you intended. You needed to anchor yourself back into the present, to remember why you were here in the first place.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong agreed, his tone softer now, almost subdued. His eyes flickered briefly to the floor before he glanced back up at you. “We should.”

After what felt like a careful, almost meditative process of choosing the right flowers, you and Hongjoong finally settled on a selection that seemed to embody the essence of Madame Dupont’s home. The bouquet was a harmonious blend of soft, pale pink peonies that spoke of tenderness and nostalgia, interspersed with the rich, deep purples of lilacs that exuded a subtle yet undeniable elegance. You added delicate sprigs of baby’s breath to weave through the arrangement, creating an ethereal touch that seemed to float among the other flowers. Finally, a few stems of white freesia were tucked in, their graceful blooms adding a layer of purity and lightness to the ensemble. It was a bouquet that, even in its stillness, seemed to tell a story—one of warmth, beauty, and timeless grace.

Satisfied with your choices, you and Hongjoong made your way to the counter to finalize the purchase. The young woman behind the register rang up your selection, and as the transaction was completed, you stepped away from the counter, your mind suddenly jolted with the realization that you had left your phone somewhere in the aisles.

“Oh, I think I left my phone in one of the aisles,” you said, turning to Hongjoong with a small, sheepish smile. “You can go ahead; I’ll just grab it and meet you outside.”

He gave a nod, a relaxed smile on his lips. “Sure, I’ll wait by the car.”

With that, you watched as he made his way toward the exit, the sunlight catching in his hair as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. You quickly retraced your steps through the aisles, scanning the shelves until your eyes finally landed on the familiar shape of your phone, resting innocently among the vibrant blooms. You let out a soft sigh of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing as you picked it up.

Just as you were about to head out, the florist’s voice called out to you, halting your steps mere moments before you could reach the door. You turned to face her, curiosity piqued by the sudden interruption.

“Can I ask you something?” she began, a playful glint in her eyes as she nodded toward the window, where Hongjoong was now leaning casually against his car, his attention elsewhere as he waited for you. “Are you two dating?”

The question caught you off guard, and you instinctively waved your hand dismissively, shaking your head with a quick, almost flustered laugh. “Oh, no, we’re just good friends,” you explained, the words tumbling out in an attempt to clarify. “He’s just helping me out with buying flowers for my landlord today.”

The florist nodded in understanding, though a knowing smile played on her lips. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think you two would look cute together, though.”

You blinked in surprise, your eyes widening at her unexpected comment. Before you could form a response, she leaned in even closer, her tone even more hushed as she added, “The security cameras actually caught footage of your cute little dance together. Do you wanna see it, by any chance?”

Do you?

The question hung in the air, wrapping itself around your thoughts as you considered the offer. Why would you want to see it? You told yourself it was just a silly moment, a fleeting bit of fun that didn’t hold any deeper meaning. But the more you thought about it, the more a strange, inexplicable curiosity began to take hold. The idea of watching that moment from an outsider’s perspective, of seeing the way you and Hongjoong moved together, felt oddly compelling. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why it mattered—or why you were even hesitating—but the thought lingered, tugging at the edges of your mind.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of internal deliberation, you found yourself nodding. “Sure, I guess I’d like to see it.”

But then, a new thought occurred to you, and your gaze flickered to the door where Hongjoong was still waiting. “But he’s waiting outside,” you murmured, the conflict between curiosity and courtesy evident in your voice.

The florist seemed to catch on immediately, her expression softening with understanding. “No worries,” she said, her tone light and reassuring. “I can send it to you. Here,” she quickly jotted down her contact number and handed it to you with a smile. “Maybe you’ll change your mind later, but if you ever get curious, I’m just a message away.”

Her words were punctuated by a knowing smile, one that hinted at an understanding beyond the surface of your interaction. You returned her smile, feeling a mix of gratitude and a strange sense of anticipation as you tucked the number away.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice sincere as you bid her farewell.

As you stepped outside, the warmth of the setting greeting your skin, you saw Hongjoong look up from his spot by the car. The brief exchange with the florist still lingered in your mind, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the simple pleasure of being in his company.

“There you are.” The look in his eyes was fond as he pushed himself off from his car, rounding it to open the passenger seat’s door for you.

You muttered a silent comment of gratitude with a smile, ducking your head as you went inside and shuffled in your seat for about a couple times until you felt comfortable. As Hongjoong went inside the car seconds later, he turned towards you. “What were you two talking about?”

“Oh, the florist?” You tilted your head, and he nodded. It took you a short while to respond as you looked down on your lap. Eventually, you decided to finally meet his gaze. “She was just… asking me who we bought flowers for.”

The look on Hongjoong’s face seemed like an implication that he wasn’t satisfied with your answer, but he decided not to press further, settling with a small smile as he leaned back on his seat and began driving on the way to your apartment. As you and Hongjoong settled into the comforting ambience of his car while admiring the scenery of the warm sky outside, on the flip side, Seonghwa and Wooyoung, who were now snooping around Hongjoong’s studio, were having the time of their lives psychoanalyzing whatever’s going on between the two of you.

“Oh—speaking of, when I was on my way to my office, I crossed paths with one of your fellow photographers and they asked me about her relationship with Hongjoong. Asked him why they were suddenly curious about it and apparently they saw her wearing the sweater Hongjoong would usually wear to work on his lazier days…” Seonghwa trailed off, and Wooyoung’s eyes widened at his words.

Wooyoung snapped his fingers in the air, getting lost in the moment and slamming his hands on one of the tables in Hongjoong’s studio. “Right! I forgot to tell you, but, see, here’s the thing. So, you already know she stayed the night here with the willingness to help Hongjoong finish one of his designs, right?”

Wooyoung waited for a silent nod from Seonghwa, seeing it as a sign for him to continue. When he got what he wanted with the older man, he cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I can’t be too sure about this, but when I visited his office earlier in the morning, she was there, laying down on his couch with his sweater draped over her.”

“I think some sort of seismic activity from my jaw hitting the floor just occured,” Seonghwa whispered to himself. “So, what else is there for me to know about the sweater?”

Wooyoung clasped his hands together, leaning back on his seat slightly. “She told him her landlord asked her to buy some new flowers for her vases today, and he offered to drive her there. At that moment, she realized she was still holding onto his sweater and held it out to him. But, much to the surprise of all of us in the room except for Hongjoong, he told her to not only keep it, but he also told her to wear it because the weather’s cloudy outside! I’m telling you, there has to be something going on between them!”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Seonghwa muttered in a low tone while rubbing his chin. “They’re definitely not dating yet, that’s for sure, but somehow… I feel like Hongjoong’s got heart eyes for her yet is blissfully unaware of it. I mean, you know how he is.”

Just as Wooyoung was about to contribute his own theories to the gossip session, his phone rang in his pocket. Pulling it out, he was greeted by a message notification from Hongjoong flashed on his lockscreen.

It might take a while before I can get back there. The traffic on the way to her apartment is horrible right now.

“...”

“Yep, he’s definitely unaware of it.”

—

“Um…”

You didn’t exactly have the capability to own up to your words, were you to ever say that you’re used to having guests come over your house. The first and last person who’s ever done such a thing was Chloe, and most of the time, she’d only wish to bask in the silence of your house when she felt like hers was becoming too loud to bear.

Now, here you were, feet swaying slightly to the sides as you fiddled with the hem of Hongjoong’s sweater that you haven’t noticed you still haven’t taken off, while he was settled comfortably on the couch, looking at you with a soft gaze—as always…?

“Is everything alright? It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind about having me stay over for dinner, just say the word and I’ll—”

“No, no, that’s not, um…” You were quick to wave your hands off, shaking your head and instinctively moving one step forward, as if to stop him from leaving your abode. “I just… Would you like some water? Or coffee, perhaps? Wait, no, sorry, that sounded so stupid, there’s no way you would want coffee at 7PM in the evening—”

His gentle laugh stopped your mouth from running even faster, and you looked at him with a confused gaze. “Is that why you’ve been silently staring at me for the past few seconds?”

“Well,” you began as you looked around the room, pressing your lips together, making it form a thin line. “I mean, I’m not used to having guests come over, so I just didn’t know what the appropriate thing to say was…”

“A glass of water would be lovely.”

“Right. A glass of water. Gotcha.”

His gaze followed you as you rounded the couch and made your way to the kitchen by your fridge, yet he turned his eyes back to the television in front of him the moment your head subtly moved to the side. Having a nice conversation with the carpet on the floor as he patiently waited for you to come back, he finally turned his head back up with a look of gratitude as you placed a glass of water on the table in front of him. “Thank you,” he said before chugging it all down in one go.

You settled down on the empty spot beside him, making the cushion underneath you sink. You turned your body slightly towards him, the fabric of his loose denim pants rubbing against the skin of your thigh lightly. “Is there anything you’d like to have for dinner? Any favorite dishes, maybe?”

“Actually,” he began, settling his palms on his thighs. “I was thinking we could cook dinner together. It wouldn’t be fair for you to do all the work, especially after a long day.”

You were quick to shake your head in protest. “Hongjoong, I’m the one who invited you over for dinner. It’s my responsibility to make sure everything’s taken care of. You’ve had a long day yourself, and I wouldn’t want to—”

“Let me.”

“...Please?” he soon added, looking at you with a mildly pleading gaze. After a few seconds of contemplation, you finally gave in, responding to his offer with a nod of resignation, which made him smile. It’s endearing how you never have to do anything alone, as long as he’s around. Just how much longer would it take until the idea of doing things without his aid becomes unimaginable?

As you and Hongjoong stood up and made your way to the kitchen, you decided to keep the conversation light and breezy, your earlier question slipping out again as you searched for a starting point. “So… is there any favorite dish you’d like to eat tonight?” you asked out of curiosity.

Hongjoong hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms. He tilted his head slightly, as if searching through the vaults of his memory. “Hmm… there is one dish that comes to mind, actually. It’s something my mother used to make for me all the time when I was a kid. It’s kind of a comfort food for me, I guess.”

Your interest piqued as you looked at him with anticipation. “Oh? What dish is that?”

He smiled warmly, the light in his eyes softening with nostalgia. “It’s a type of kimchi jjigae, but not just any kind. My mom would make it with extra soft tofu, lots of garlic, and a touch of sweetness from a bit of sugar or honey. She’d add in some pork belly, but the real kicker was the homemade anchovy broth she’d use. It gave the stew this deep, rich flavor that I haven’t been able to replicate on my own. And she always served it with freshly steamed rice and a side of crunchy radish kimchi.”

You could almost taste the dish as he described it, and you nodded along. “That sounds amazing. I’d love to try making it together—if you’re up for it?”

Hongjoong’s face brightened, and he smiled in excitement. “I’d love that too. I’ll do my best to guide you through it, but fair warning, my cooking skills aren’t nearly as good as my mom’s,” he joked while raising his hands in mock surrender.

“I literally worked at a diner for a good long while before I got fired for the most ridiculous reason ever. I’ve got you,” you reassured him with a smile.

You both began the process, starting with reaching for the tofu from the fridge. As you turned back, you nearly collided with Hongjoong. His hand was just inches from yours, holding the green onions, and the proximity caught both of you off guard. For a moment, you were both still, the space between you charged with something electric. His eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of surprise there. Your breath hitched slightly, feeling your nerves go haywire until Hongjoong cleared his throat softly and took a step back.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, his voice a little lower than before.

“No, it’s okay,” you replied quickly, your cheeks warming as you placed the tofu on the counter. The lingering closeness left your skin tingling, and you tried to focus on what you were supposed to do, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the way he had looked at you.

Hongjoong began instructing you on how to make the anchovy broth, and you both worked together, cleaning the dried anchovies and preparing the kelp, your hands occasionally reaching for the same ingredient at the same time. At one point, when you both reached for the soy sauce, his fingers wrapped around the bottle just as yours brushed against the cool glass. The brief contact made you both pause, and you glanced up to find him already looking at you, his expression annoyingly soft.

The moment stretched out, a silent exchange passing between you before he finally released the bottle, allowing you to take it. As you poured the soy sauce into the pot, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind—and if it mirrored the thoughts swirling in your own.

As you leaned over to check the pot on the stove, you felt Hongjoong’s presence close behind you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the warmth of his body just inches away, and the awareness of how close he was made your pulse quicken. His breath fanned lightly against your neck as he leaned in to adjust the heat, and for a split second, you thought he might press closer, but he didn’t. Instead, he lingered there, close enough that you could feel the energy between you, almost tangible in the small space.

“You’re really good at this,” he commented, his voice close to your ear, making your heart skip a beat. The compliment was simple, but for some reason, you felt something different due to the way the words came out of his mouth.

“Thanks,” you replied, your voice nearly hushed as you turned slightly to meet his gaze. “I just hope it turns out the way you remember.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “I’m sure it will.”

The moment lingered longer than it probably should have, and you found yourself staring at him, your thoughts racing. His eyes were warm and inviting, and for a second, you wondered if he might be thinking the same thing you were. But before you could dwell on it, he stepped back, giving you room to breathe.

As you continued cooking, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—his favorite childhood memories, your own cooking mishaps, and the occasional joke that had you both laughing. At one point, when the time to add the garlic and kimchi to the pot came, you reached for a knife just as he did, your fingers accidentally grazing the back of his hand. You both froze for a moment, and when you pulled your hand back, he did the same, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on your hand for just a moment longer before he returned to his task.

“No problem,” you replied, feeling a bit flustered as you resumed chopping the garlic.

A little later, while you were stirring the pot, Hongjoong came up behind you, his hands gently guiding yours on the ladle. His touch was light, but the effect was immediate. Your heart skipped a beat as his fingers rested over yours, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your temple as he leaned in closer.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered gently.

As the stew continued to simmer, you found yourselves moving in closer proximity, your movements almost synchronized as you prepared the final touches. You were reaching for the lid of the pot, intending to cover it, when you suddenly felt Hongjoong’s hand on your lower back, a light touch that made you pause. He was standing behind you, his body just inches from yours, and you could feel the warmth of him seeping through your clothes.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, and the closeness of his face to yours caught you off guard. For a split second, you thought he might lean in and close the distance between you. The air was thick with anticipation, your breath caught in your throat as his gaze dropped to your lips.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He stepped back, his hand leaving your back as he cleared his throat. “Let’s not overcook it,” he said lightly, but there was some sort of hesitance in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and somewhat disappointment as you placed the lid on the pot.

As the final moments of cooking approached, when you reached for the soup bowls at the same time, your fingers brushed against his once more, but this time, neither of you pulled away immediately. You both laughed softly, but the way his hand lingered over yours told you there was more to this moment than just a little joke.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your cheeks heating up as you finally withdrew your hand.

“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice soft, almost tender. “Really.”

When you both finally sat down to eat, the tension from earlier hung in the air like a weight you couldn’t quite shake. Hongjoong tried to focus on the meal, making small talk about the dish. “This really turned out well,” he said, breaking the silence with a warm smile. “You did a great job with the broth.”

You nodded, returning his smile, but you could feel your mind drifting back to those moments in the kitchen—the closeness, the way he felt so close, yet so far away. “Thanks,” you replied, trying to sound casual. “It’s all because you knew exactly what to do.”

Despite the light conversation, your thoughts kept slipping away from the food in front of you and back to the way his fingers had lingered on yours, how his breath had warmed your skin when he leaned in. You could hardly focus on anything else, and the awkwardness you felt only seemed to grow with each passing moment.

Hongjoong, on the other hand, seemed more composed, as if the closeness had been as natural to him as breathing. You could tell that the only unease he felt was a reflection of your own, a mirror to the nerves that were slowly tying you up in knots. But even so, there was something in his eyes—something just beneath the surface that told you he wasn’t completely unaffected either.

“This is really good,” you commented after a few bites, desperate to fill the silence with anything other than your racing thoughts. “I’d love to eat this more often.”

He looked up at you, a small, pleased smile forming on his lips. “I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favorites.”

You hesitated for a moment, your mind scrambling for something else to say, something to ease the tension, even if only slightly. “You’ll have to come over more from now on,” you joked. “So we can make it again.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized how they might have sounded, and your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t meant it to come out that way, but now it was too late to take it back.

Hongjoong paused, his fork hovering in midair as he glanced up at you. For a moment, he just stared, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as his gaze lingered on your lips.

You tried to focus on your food, your grip on the utensils slowly loosening as you found yourself getting lost in his eyes. It was as if everything around you had faded away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, dimly lit room. Not even the warm lights scattered all over your living room were able to help. You glanced down at his lips, and for a second, you thought he might be leaning in closer, that maybe this time he wouldn’t hesitate.

But then you quickly tore your gaze away, trying to steady your breathing. “Your food’s getting cold,” you muttered, the words coming out softer than you intended.

Hongjoong blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Right, sorry,” he replied, a touch of embarrassment in his voice as he rubbed the back of his neck. You noticed his hand ghost over his face, as if trying to hide the rosy tint that had crept into his cheeks.

Fortunately, before you knew it, dinner was already over, and you found yourselves standing at your front door, the cool evening air slipping in from the hallway. Hongjoong shifted slightly, his hand lingering on the doorframe as he turned to face you.

“Thanks for inviting me over today,” he said with a gentle smile. “I had a really great time.”

You smiled back, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “No, thank you for coming with me to buy those flowers. I probably would’ve been lost without your help.” You let out a light laugh, hoping to ease the tension you both felt, but it only seemed to make it more palpable.

As the conversation lulled, you became acutely aware of just how close he was standing, the space between you shrinking as the seconds ticked by. You could feel your pulse quickening, a soft flutter in your chest that made it hard to breathe normally. There was a moment of silence, just the two of you standing there, lost in each other’s eyes.

You took a small step forward, and almost unconsciously, he did the same, the gap between you closing even further. His hand slowly began to rise, moving towards your neck but stopping just short of touching your face. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he hesitated as if unsure whether he should take that final step.

For a second, you convinced yourself that he wouldn’t actually do it, that he would pull back just like before. But then, to your surprise, his hand found its way to your face, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed against your cheek.

Almost without thinking, you nuzzled into his hand, welcoming the touch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Your own hand came up to rest on top of his, your fingers curling around his as if to anchor yourself in the moment, to make sure it wasn’t just a dream.

But just as you were about to say something, to lean in just a bit closer, the shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet, startling you both. You flinched slightly, pulling back as you glanced down at the screen, which displayed Wooyoung’s name.

The sudden interruption felt like a cold splash of reality, and you quickly stepped back, trying to regain your composure. “You might need to answer that,” you mumbled, turning your face to the side to hide the disappointment in your expression.

Hongjoong hesitated, clearly torn between ignoring the call and staying in the moment with you. But seeing how you had pulled away, he sighed softly and stepped back as well. “Yeah, I probably should,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “He’s been trying to reach me all day.”

You let out a small, forced laugh, finally looking back at him. “See you when I see you?”

He nodded, a reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, see you when I see you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the doorway, watching as he disappeared down the hall. The moment the door closed behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, leaning against the door as you slid down onto the floor.

Your heart was still racing, the memory of his touch still lit aflame, and you couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Wooyoung hadn’t called—if that tension would have finally broken, or if you both would have continued to dance around it, pretending it wasn’t there.

It was all confusing, truly. The way his gaze kept traveling back and forth between your lips and your eyes, the way he kept initiating small touches here and there that seemed to still have been lingering on your skin even up till now, the way it felt like you two were separate threads tangled up in each other attempting to break free from the knot. What was most confusing was how you didn’t even mind any of it. Maybe it was all bound to happen, maybe the circumstances required the proximity, maybe he just couldn’t move around that much.

But your kitchen wasn’t even that small.

🪞 — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#hongjoong #hongjoong fluff #hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong x reader #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez angst #hongjoong angst #jung wooyoung #park seonghwa

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