#the three golden hairs of the devil

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Could you tell a gender-swapped version of The Giant with the Three Golden Hairs?

Hmmm I am not a fan of completely gender-swapping fairy tales without regard for narrative structure and I would argue that Joseph Jacob's The Fish and The Ring pretty much is a gender-swapped version of this tale type (and a fun one too!).

But I do have a soft spot for The Giant/Devil With The Three Golden Hairs because of the adaptation The Luck Child in Jim Henson's The Storyteller, so...

The Devil With The Three Golden Hairs

A fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm, retold by Laura Simons.

There was once a poor woman who gave birth to a little daughter; and as she came into the world with a caul on her head, it was predicted that in her eighteenth year she would have the Queen’s son for her husband.

It happened that soon afterwards the Queen passed through that village, and no one knew that she was the Queen, and when she asked the people what news there was, they answered, "A child has just been born with a caul on; whatever any one so born undertakes turns out well. It is prophesied, too, that in her eighteenth year she will marry the Queen’s only son."

The Queen, who had a bad heart, and was angry about the prophecy, went to the parents, and, seeming quite friendly, said, "You poor people, let me have your child, and I will take care of it."

At first they refused, but when the stranger offered them a large amount of gold in exchange, and they thought, "She is a luck-child, and everything must turn out well for her," they at last consented, and gave her the child. For if their little girl was truly destined to marry the Prince, perhaps she was likewise fated to be raised by such a grand and wealthy lady.

The cruel Queen put the baby in a box and rode away with it until she came to a deep piece of water; then she threw the box into it and thought, "I have freed my son from this unsuitable bride."

The box, however, did not sink, but floated like a boat, and not a drop of water made its way into it. And it floated to within two miles of the capital city where the royal family resided, to a spot where there was a mill, and it came to a stand-still at the mill-dam. A miller's boy, who by good luck was standing there, noticed it and pulled it out with a hook, thinking that he had found a great treasure, but when he opened it there lay a pretty baby inside, quite healthy and lively. He took her to the miller and his wife, and as they had no children they were glad, and said, "God has given her to us." They took great care of the foundling, and she grew up in all goodness.

It happened that once in a storm, the Queen passed by the mill and went into it. She asked the mill-folk if the cheerful youth who had gone to help with the horses was their daughter.

"No," answered they, "she's a foundling. Almost eighteen years ago she floated down to the mill-dam in a box, and the mill-boy pulled her out of the water."

Then the King knew that it was none other than the luck-child which she had thrown into the water, and she said, "My good people, could not your girl take a letter to the Queen? I will give her two gold pieces as a reward."

"Just as Your Majesty commands," answered they, and they told the girl to hold herself in readiness.

Then the Queen wrote a letter to the King, wherein she said, "As soon as the girl arrives with this letter, let her be killed and buried, and all must be done before I come home."

The girl set out with this letter; but she lost her way, and in the evening came to a large forest. She was not afraid, for no harm had ever come to her in her life that she knew of. In the darkness she saw a small light; she went towards it and reached a cottage. When she went in, an old man was sitting by the fire quite alone. He started when he saw the girl, and said, "Whence do you come, and whither are you going?"

"I come from the mill," she answered, "and wish to go to the King, to whom I am taking a letter; but as I have lost my way in the forest I should like to stay here over night."

"You poor girl," said the man, "you have come into a den of thieves, and when they come home they will kill you."

"Let them come," said the girl, "I am not afraid; but I am so tired that I cannot go any farther:" and she stretched himself upon a bench and fell asleep.

Soon afterwards the robbers came, and angrily asked what strange boy was lying there?

"Ah," said the old man, "it is an innocent child who has lost herslef in the forest, and out of pity I have let her come in; she has to take a letter to the King."

The robbers opened the letter and read it, and in it was written that the girl as soon as she arrived should be put to death. Then the hard-hearted robbers felt pity, and their leader tore up the letter and wrote another, in the exact same hand, saying that as soon as the girl arrived, she should be married to the Crown Prince at once. Then they let her lie quietly on the bench until the next morning, and when she awoke they gave her the letter, and showed her the right way.

And the King, when he had received the letter and read it, did as was written in it and had a splendid wedding-feast prepared. And neither the Crown Prince nor the foundling made any protestations, because the luck-child was honest and affectionate and the Crown Prince was as kind as his mother was cruel. So the two of them were married and they lived together in joy and contentment.

After some time the Queen returned to her palace and saw that the prophecy was fulfilled, and the luck-child married to her son. "How has that come to pass?" said he; "I gave quite another order in my letter." So the King gave him the letter, and said that she might see for himself what was written in it. The Queen read the letter and saw quite well that it had been exchanged for the other. She asked the youth what had become of the letter entrusted to her, and why she had brought another instead of it.

"I know nothing about it," answered she stoutly; "it must have been changed in the night, when I slept in the forest." But now she knew that whatever that first letter must have held, it would not have been good for her.

The Queen said in a passion, "You shall not have everything quite so much your own way; whosoever marries my son must fetch me from hell three golden hairs from the head of the devil; bring me what I want, and you shall keep my son." In this way the Queen hoped to be rid of her for ever.

The Crown Prince wept when he heard it, for he loved his young wife, but the luck-child answered, "I will fetch the golden hairs, I am not afraid of the Devil."

Thereupon she took leave of them all and began her journey. The road led her to a large town, where the guard by the gates asked her what her trade was, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered the luck-child blithely, for so it goes with young people who know themselves for a fact to be blessed with good luck.

"Then you can do us a favour," said the guard, "if you will tell us why our market-fountain, which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water?"

"That you shall know," answered she; "only wait until I come back." Then she went farther and came to another town, and there also the gatekeeper asked her what was her trade, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered she.

"Then you can do us a favour and tell us why a tree in our town which once bore golden apples now does not even put forth leaves?"

"You shall know that," answered she; "only wait until I come back." Then she went on and came to a wide river over which she must go.

The ferryman asked her what her trade was, and what she knew.

"I know everything," answered she.

"Then you can do me a favour," said the ferryman, "and tell me why I must always be rowing backwards and forwards, and am never set free?"

"You shall know that," answered she; "only wait until I come back."

When she had crossed the water she found the entrance to Hell. It was black and sooty within, and the Devil was not at home, but his grandfather was sitting in a large arm-chair. "What do you want?" said she to her, but she did not look so very wicked.

"I should like to have three golden hairs from the devil's head," answered she, "else I cannot keep my dear husband."

"That is a good deal to ask for," said he; "if the devil comes home and finds you, it will cost you your life; but as I pity you, I will see if I cannot help you." He changed her into an ant and said, "Creep into the folds of my coat, you will be safe there."

"Yes," answered she, "so far, so good; but there are three things besides that I want to know: why a fountain which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water; why a tree which once bore golden apples does not even put forth leaves; and why a ferry-man must always be going backwards and forwards, and is never set free?"

"Those are difficult questions," answered he, "but only be silent and quiet and pay attention to what the devil says when I pull out the three golden hairs."

As the evening came on, the devil returned home. No sooner had he entered than he noticed that the air was not pure. "I smell human flesh," said he; "all is not right here." Then he pried into every corner, and searched, but could not find anything.

His grandfather scolded him. "It has just been swept," said he, "and everything put in order, and now you are upsetting it again; you have always got human flesh in your nose. Sit down and eat your supper."

When he had eaten and drunk he was tired, and laid his head in his grandfather’s lap, and before long he was fast asleep, snoring and breathing heavily. Then the old man took hold of a golden hair, pulled it out, and laid it down near him.

"Oh!" cried the devil, "what are you doing?"

"I have had a bad dream," answered the grandfather, "so I seized hold of your hair."

"What did you dream then?" said the devil.

"I dreamed that a fountain in a market-place from which wine once flowed was dried up, and not even water would flow out of it; what is the cause of it?"

"Oh, ho! if they did but know it," answered the devil; "there is a toad sitting under a stone in the well; if they killed it, the wine would flow again."

He went to sleep again and snored until the windows shook. Then his grandfather pulled the second hair out. "Ha! what are you doing?" cried the devil angrily.

"Do not take it ill," said he, "I did it in a dream."

"What have you dreamt this time?" asked he.

"I dreamt that in a certain kingdom there stood an apple-tree which had once borne golden apples, but now would not even bear leaves. What, think you, was the reason?"

"Oh! if they did but know," answered the devil. "A mouse is gnawing at the root; if they killed this they would have golden apples again, but if it gnaws much longer the tree will wither altogether. But leave me alone with your dreams: if you disturb me in my sleep again you will get a box on the ear."

The grandfather spoke gently to him until he fell asleep again and snored. Then he took hold of the third golden hair and pulled it out. The devil jumped up, roared out, and would have treated her ill if he had not quieted him once more and said, "Who can help bad dreams?"

"What was the dream, then?" asked he, and was quite curious.

"I dreamt of a ferry-man who complained that he must always ferry from one side to the other, and was never released. What is the cause of it?"

"Ah! the fool," answered the devil; "when any one comes and wants to go across he must put the oar in his hand, and the other man will have to ferry and he will be free."

As the grandfather had plucked out the three golden hairs, and the three questions were answered, he let the old serpent alone, and he slept until daybreak. When the devil had gone out again the old man took the ant out of the folds of his coat, and gave the luck-child her human shape again.

"There are the three golden hairs for you," said he. "What the Devil said to your three questions, I suppose you heard?"

"Yes," answered she, "I heard, and will take care to remember."

"You have what you want," said he, "and now you can go your way."

She thanked the old man for helping her in her need, and left hell well content that everything had turned out so fortunately.

When she came to the ferry-man she was expected to give the promised answer. "Ferry me across first," said the luck-child, "and then I will tell you how you can be set free," and when she reached the opposite shore she gave him the devil's advice: "Next time any one comes, who wants to be ferried over, just put the oar in their hand."

She went on and came to the town wherein stood the unfruitful tree, and there too the gatekeeper wanted an answer. So she told her what she had heard from the devil: "Kill the mouse which is gnawing at its root, and it will again bear golden apples."

Then the watchman thanked her, and gave her as a reward two asses laden with gold, which followed her.

At last she came to the town whose well was dry. She told the guard what the devil had said: "A toad is in the well beneath a stone; you must find it and kill it, and the well will again give wine in plenty."

The guard thanked her, and also gave her two asses laden with gold.

At last the luck-child got home to her husband, who was heartily glad to see her again, and to hear how well she had prospered in everything. The King, too, was relieved to see his daughter-in-law safe and sound, but the Queen could barely keep her countenance when the girl brought her the devil’s three golden hairs.

When she saw the four asses laden with gold, however, she suddenly grew very pleasant, and said: "Now all the conditions are fulfilled, and you can keep my daughter. But tell me, dear daughter-in-law, where did all that gold come from? this is tremendous wealth!"

"I was rowed across a river,” answered she innocently, "and got it there; it lies on the shore instead of sand."

"Can I too fetch some of it?" said the Queen; and she was quite eager about it.

"As much as you like," answered she. "There is a ferry-man on the river; let him ferry you over, and you can fill your sacks on the other side."

The greedy Queen set out in all haste, and when she came to the river she beckoned to the ferry-man to put her across. The ferry-man came and bade her get in, and when they got to the other shore he put the oar in her hand and sprang out. So from that time forth the Queen had to ferry, as a punishment for her sins. Perhaps she is ferrying still? If she is, it is because no one has taken the oar from her.

[carlinstitches]

Page 7: "I looked down the well, but it was so deep that I became dizzy...

"You should have told them that they had to pull out the white stone lying at the bottom..."

[adarkrainbow]

Some scholarly notes about the Grimm fairytales (1)

Recently in France (well... for the last two dozen years), the publishing house José Corti has been specializing itself in scientific fairytales collections. While for the study of literary fairytales one would go towards Honoré Champion, when it comes to folktales and fairytales it is José Corti one must check. In their "Merveilleux" collection they have been publishing for the very first time in France or republishing out-of-prints collections of various European fairytales (from Denmark, Spain, Romania, and more) - with a few classics of the "literary" fairytales that marked deeply the evolution of the genre (such as Straparola's Facetious Nights or Ludwig Bechstein's fairytales).

All of that to say, José Corti has in 2009 published the most recent scientific (but for an all-public) edition of the brothers Grimm fairytales. The full collection of their fairytales, translated accurately in French, with annotations about their type/classification, their evolution throughout editions and their predecessors. I can't share all of these annotations with you, of course, but I can share a handful of them, about the most famous stories of the Grimm. They all come from the same person who translated the story in this edition: Natacha Rimasson-Fertin. (Of course my notes might be incomplete but hey, you'll have to buy the books to see the whole thing :p Or check them out at your local library)

The devil with three golden hairs (Der Teufel mit den dre goldenen Haaren)

This story is at the crossroa between the Aa-Th 461 "Three hair from the devil's beard" ; the AT 460B "The quest for fortune" and the AT 93à "Urie's letter/The prophecy".

In the 1812 edition, there were two different versions of this tale. Story number 29 "The story of the devil with three golden hair", told by Amalia Hassenpflug, and number 75, "The phenix", told by her sister Mary. In the second version the devil was replaced by a phoenix, and the hero had to get three feathers. In the 1819 edition the two stories disappeared and were replaced by the version we know today, told by Dorothea Viehmann. Another version that the Grimms had collected in 1812 had a princess falling in love with the woodsman that cuts a tree below her window.

The final episode, where the hero asks three questions to the devil through the old woman, echoes the Pentamerone's "The Seven Doves". Other versions of this story include Asbjörnsen-Moe's "The wealthy Peter Krämer", and Afanassiev's "Marco the Wealthy and Vassili the Unfortunate". The story of the brothers Grimm gathers several references to the Bible: the child throw in the water echoes Moses' abandonment, the letter meant to kill the hero is similar to the one David uses to kill Urie, finally the hair as holders of a being's wisdom and strength is linked to the legend of Samson and Dalila. But many other elements of the story evoke older faiths. The idea of a body of water as the frontier with the Otherworld can be found in the Classical Antiquity with the Greek Charon, and is found in other stories of the volume, such as "Frau Holle" and "The Iron Stove" - it as believed that water formed an obstacle spirits could not cross. The hero's mission recalls a tale of Saxo Grammaticus where Thorkill enters Utgard (the realm of supernatural beings) to steal a hair from the beard of Utgard-loki. The brothers Grimm had noted that the belief in the exceptional fate of a child born with a "hood" was also found in Iceland, where the "caul", called Glückshaut (skin of luck) was the home of a genie that would follow the child all of his life. And indeed, modern research has proven that the name given to this caul, the "fyljia" was also the name of a spiritual double, a tutlar spirit tied to a person or a family. This is why the tradition was to preserve and hide this "pileus naturalis" - in Belgium, it was called a "hem" and its color allowed for divination rituals about the child's future.

The girl without hands (Das Mädchen ohne Hände)

This fairytale is actually a cross between the AT type 706 "The maiden without hands" and the AT 930 "Urie's letter/The prophecy". The story was created by the brothers mixing two versions from Hesse, one told by Mary Hassenpflug, the other by Dorothea Viehmann. The second version lacks this story's introduction and begins with a father trying to marry his own daughter - when she refuses, he cuts off her hands and breasts, and chases her out of his house. It then follows the story. Meanwhile, the first version differs when the heroine is with her child in the forest: an old man tells her to hug three time a tree with her arms, which makes her hands grow again. He also tells her to only open the door of her house to one who will ask to enter "for the love of God" three times in a row - the king will be forced to do this before entering.

Outside of these two main versions, the brothers Grimm collected three additional ones. In the first, the angel that guides the girl is replaced by a small light that descends from the sky ; and the hands of the girl grow back when she plunges her arms in a stream after seeing a blind mouse enter its water to regain its sight. In the second version, a man is upset at his little girl praying for him day and night, but since she refuses to stop despite his demands, he cuts off her tongue. But she prays in thought and makes the sign of the cross, so he cuts off her right hand, then her arm all the way to the elbow, before banishing her. She is saved by a hunter that hides her in his master's domain and feeds her in secret with his master's dogs. When the master discovers this, he decides to raise the girl as his own child. One day she gives money to a poor man, who tells her she will regain her arm and tongue if she goes to drink of a certain stream, and he gives her a magical staff to protect her. When she returns at the lord's house, he marries her. The third version is about a queen banished by her husband with her two children, and is identical to the legend of saint Helen.

Other international versions of the tale include Zingerle's "The pretty daughter of the innkeeper", Basile's "Penta the one-armed girl" and Afanassiev's "The young girl without hands". There are some versions where it is a man that is mutlated, such as Afanassiev's "The brave without legs and the blind brave". The roots of this story date back to the end of the 12th century, and are located in southern England - this tale was the subject of numerous literary adaptations, the most famous being the verse romance of the 13th century "The Beautiful Helen of Constantinople".

The motif of the child sold to the devil is recurring among the Grimm fairytales - even though the character of the devil can be replaced by another supernatural being, such as in "Rapunzel" or "The Nixie of the Mill-Pond". The idea of offering the first thing one sees upon returning home is as old as the Ancient Testament (Judges). This story bears the signs of a heavy Christianiation, and was clearly inspired by the legend of Saint Genevieve of Brabant, falsefely accused of being unfaithful and condemned to death with her newborn child. The executioners take pity on her and she lives alone in the woods for seven years. As with other tales from the Grimm collection, this story mixes the Christian fantasy (the hands that regrow are treated as a Christian miracle) with pagan fantasy (there are several elements of folk-magic, such as the circle the girl draws around her to be protected from the devil, or the accusations of the queen giving birth to a changeling - a changeling also appears in the third story of "The Elves", KHM 39).

The Robber Bridegroom (Der Räuberbräutigam)

This story belongs to the fairytale type Aa-Th 955, named after it: "The robber bridegroom".

The tale was told to Jacob Grimm by Mary Hassenpflug, and was present as early as the 1810 manuscript. However this first version, that the brothers deemed "incomplete" was replaced from the 1812 edition onward by a new version which mixed two versions from Lower-Hesse. The brothers noted the existence of another version where the robber indicated the road to his house to a princess, by tying ribbons around the trees.

Ludwig Bechstein took inspiration from the brothers Grimm's tale to create his own "The Robber Bridegroom". This fairytale, like "Fichter's Bird", belongs to the "Bluebeard cycle" (several tales that the brothers removed from their first edition also belonged to this cycle).

Fitcher's Bird (Fitchers Vogel)

This tale is a variation of the Aa-Th 311 "The heroine rescues herself and her sisters", usually classified under the "Bluebeard" category.

The final text of the Grimms is actually a mix of two different versions of the same story that was told to the brothers by both Friedrike Mannel and Dortchen Wild. The Grimms noted the existence of a version from Hanovre which goes as follow: a poor woodcutter asks his daughter to bring him his meal in the forest, and to show them the way he places peas on the floor. However dwarves notice this, and change the emplacement of the pea so that their path leads to their grotto. The older girl follows the peas, and become the dwarves' slave. Then we have the Bluebeard "forbidden room" motif, and the story goes as the "Fitcher's Bird" goes, as the dwarves lure the two other sisters to their cave. The last sister sticks the feathers on her body by rolling herself in blood (presumably the blood of the dwarves' victims), and there is no resurrection of the sisters. Everybody that meets her on the way call her "geputzter Vogel". The dwarves hunt the girl down and almost catch her just as she reaches her father's house - she is so fast in closing the door that it cuts a piece of her heel. The Grimms also knew of a Dutch version of the story, translated in German, and that was identical to one of their first-editions tales, "The Murder-Castle".

The translation of the name of the "bird" always caused many problems, due to the difficulty of understanding the expression. The brothers Grimm themselves explained the name of the bird by the Icelandic "Fitfuglar", meaning "birds that swim" - as such, the girl would be called "Fitchers-Vogel" because she looks like a swan". However, other people do not agree with this etymology, some linking Fitcher with "Fitze", the thread. Rimasson-Fertin highlights that the expression "Fitchers Fitze", outside of a simple sonority game, might be two variations of the male name Fritz (the diminutive of Friedrich) - other usual diminutives were Fitze, Fitz and Fiete. The brothers Grimm noted that the motif of the blood that cannot be erased was much older than Perrault's Bluebeard - it could be found as early as the "Gesta Romanorum", where a mother who had murdered her child couldn't erase three blood-drops from her hand, forcing her to wear a glove. This story must be compared to the KHM 40, "The Robber Bridegroom".

The Juniper Tree (Von dem Machandelboom)

It is the AaTh 720 "My mother killed me, my father ate me".

Just like the tale of "The Fisherman and his wife", this story was written by the painter P. O. Runge, and the brothers Grimm used it as a model for how they should present their own fairy tales. In fact, we can note sentences almost identical between the two tales.

The brothers noted a variation of the story where the stepmother places her daughter near the pot where her brother cooks, and she forbids her from looking inside. But since the pot boils too much, the girl lifts the lid - then her brother's hand reaches out to her from the cauldron. There is yet another version noted by the Grimm where there are three children, not two, and the stepmother sends them pick up strawberries in the wood, promising an apple to whoever comes back first.

The cruelty of this fairytale earned the brothers a serious criticism from Achim von Arnim - who only tolerated such violence because it echoed the one present in Goethe's Faust. The description "red as blood, white as snow" of course echoes the tale of "Snow-White". The brothers Grimm mentionned in their notes that the juniper tree was a plant believed to have the power to bring back youth - and Rölleke noted that the juniper-tree's red berries were used in folk-magic. It seems to be a very ancient tale due to several very old motifs such as the soul returning in the shape of a bird, a resurrection out of bones, and cannibalism. This tale must be compared to "Brother Lustig", "The Singing Bone" and, of course, "The Fisherman and his wife".

Briar Rose (Dornröschen)

Of course, it is the AaTh 410 "Sleeping Beauty".

This fairytale was present as early as the 1810 manuscript, written by Jacob Grimm from a tale told by Marie Hassenpflug. Research has proven that this story is derived from Charles Perrault's own Sleeping Beauty. We also find back in the German story a motif coming from another famous French literary fairytale, madame d'Aulnoy's "The Hind in the Woods/The Doe in the Woods" (also known as the White Doe). In this story a Crayfish/Lobster fairy announces to the queen she will have a child, and later the same fairy curses the princess as she is born - and what a coincidence! In the first edition of "Briar Rose", the animal that announces the princess' birth is not a frog... but a crayfish. Proving that there is a direct link. As for the name of the princess n German, "Dornröschen", "small briar rose", it actually first appeared in the German translation of a 1730 fairytale by Anthony Hamilton (an Irish man who however spoke and wrote French), "Fleur d'épine" (Thorn flower/Briar flower) - it had been translated in 1790. Bolte and Polivka have also noted a comedy by Gryphius from 1660 whch was named "Die geliebte Dornrose", "The beloved briar rose".

In their notes about the fairytale, the Grimm brothers explicitely compare Briar Rose to the legend of Brunhild asleep behind a wall of fire, cursed into a magical slumber by Odin's "sleep-thorn" and woken up by Sigurd, the only one able to cross the wall of flames. The brothers Grimm were also aware of Basile's version of the story, "Thalia, Sun and Moon", which they compared to their own Briar Rose in their notes. The brothers were very fascinated by the consistant naming of the princess' children from Perrault (Dawn, Day) to Basile (Sun, Moon) and compared it to the occurences of "Day, Sun and Moon" as names within the Eddas. However we know that Perrault was heavily inspired by Basile's story when writing his own Sleeping Beauty, and only modified some parts so as to erase the more shocking and "unpleasant" parts (such as the married prince having sex with the sleeping girl). Of course, this story is also to be compared with the 14th century medieval tale of the Roman de Perceforest.

The wise women that appear in this story are the Germanic equivalent of the fairies. In fact, we know that the brothers Grimm carefully avoided (or erased) any mention of "Fee" (the German word for the English "fairy" and French "fée") from their tales, so as to better differentiate them from the French "fairy tales", "contes de fées". By turning the fairies into wise women making predictions at the child's birth, the Grimms notably opened an entire set of symbolism and interpretations linking them to the mythological figures of the Norns, Parcae and Moirai.

Snow White (Schneewittchen)

Of course, it is the AaTh 709 "Snow-White".

The full editing history of this tale was only "recently" recreated (the book was published in 2009, it was recent back then) in its entirety. We know that it begins in 1808 with a version collected by Ferdinand Grimm, brother of Jacob and Wilhelm, called "Schneeweibchen". It seems Ferdinand might have invented the story on his own. Wilhelm and Jacob then slowly modified it, by adding details from other collected versions, before publishing it in their first edition in 1810 (they did note at the time that it was a Lower-Germany story, and that in Upper-Germany the tale did exist but with the deformed name of "Schliwitchen". When the Grimms did their second edition, the main change they performed onto this story was the modification of the wicked mother into a wicked stepmother - something they also did for "Hansel and Gretel". In fact, from edition to edition the Grimms kept adding adjectives and expressons highlighting the opposition between the girl and the vain queen.

Th Grimms had collected several variations of the tale. One was much closer to the tale of "The Juniper Tree" and in it the queen, as she was with the king on a hunting sled, cut her finger while peeling an apple. In another variation the king and queen were walking by three mounts of snow, than went by three pools of blood, and finally saw three ravens in the sky, and each time the king wishes for a girl with the corresponding colors - soon afterward the couple encountered a little girl fitting this description. The king, immediately attached to her, takes her with him in their royal carriage, but the queen immediately hates her and tries to get rid of her - so she asks the girl to go seek a glove she threw out of the window, and while she is out of the carriage she asks the driver to leave as fast as he can. Then the little girl takes refuge at the seven dwarves' house.

The fairytale existed in German literature before the brothers Grimm published it. Indeed J. A. Musaüs had published in 1782 a fairytale called "Richilde" - and the Grimm were influenced by this tale, since in the margins of their first edition, they noted about Snow-White "It is Musaüs' Richilde". There was also a Snow-White story that had been published in 1809 in a fairytale book by A. L. Grimm (no relationship to the brothers Grimm). The Brothers Grimm did note the striking similarity between this story and the Norse pseudo-historical legend of Snäsridr, the beautiful wife of "Harald with fair hair", a wife that, when she died, stayed in her prime state so that it seemed she was still alive.

This fairy-tale has a very wide area of spreading, as it can be found from Ireland to Turkey passing by central Africa. It is especially present in the literary Italian compilations of fairytales. Basile has three variations of the story in his Pentamerone: "The raven", "Nennillo and Nennella" as well as "The she-cook".

The various virtues that Snow-White shows in this tale made her one of the big role models within the education of bourgeoisie girls in the 19th century - alongside Cinderella, of course. In fact, according to H-J Uther's analysis of the story, it is because of all her virtues that Snow-White's beauty does not fade away and stays undamaged even in death, unlike her wicked stepmother whose vices causes the fading of her charms. Finally, this fairytale is actually the proof that the brothers Grimm did not simply listed their fairytales one after the other in a random order, but deliberately created "bridges" and internal references to create a cohesive world within their book. Indeed, the mention of the snowflakes looking like feathers references "Frau Holle", while the glass coffin can be found back in, of course, "The Glass Coffin", and the blood-drops on the snow evokes "The Juniper Tree".

Rumpelstilzchen

Yes this story is the famous "Rumpelstilskin" (or Rumpelstiltskin? I never know how to write it in English). But why keep the German spelling? Because Rimasson-Fertin has some stuff to say about it: this name is the diminutive form of "Rumpelstilz", a term that Jacob Grimm defined in his "German Dictionary" as being synonymous with "poltergeist" (he noted a similarity between Poltergeist and Rumpelgeist, both designated a very loud spirit). While today "poltergeist" is mostly associated with ghosts, in a much broader way it designate a dwarf, a dead or a devil - or just any kind of phenomenon caused by witchcraft.

This story corresponds to the AaTh 500 "The name of the supernatural being". This fairytale has an interesting evolution history... Jacob Grimm had a version of it as early as 1808, named "Rumpenstünzchen", which was then slightly modified for the 1810 manuscript. This tale was actually the mix of two different versions - and one of these versions had a different ending. The queen didn't sent messengers searching for the dwarf's name, rather the king spotted the little man while returning from hunting on the third day. The Grimm also noted a variation where the initial situation was reversed: a young girl who had to spin hemp but could only manage to spin gold much to everybody's despair, and a small man appeared to promise her a wedding to a king's son in exchange for her firstborn child. It ended in such a way: the queen herself spotted the small man singing his name, jumping around a fire while riding a ladle like a horse. When she guessed his name, he flew out of the window and into the sky, riding the ladle like a witch's broom. We know that the episode of the spinning of the straw was only added by the Grimm in 1812 (it is not in the 1810 version), and that the final scene of the dwarf self-mutilating comes from a story of Lisette Wild and was added in 1819.

The first literary record of this story is a French fairytale published in 1705 and written by Mlle Marie-Jeanne L'Héritier de Villandon. It was "L'Histoire de Ricdin-Ricdon" (The Tale of Ricdin-Ricdon), published in her "La Tour ténébreuse et les jours lumineux" (The Shadowy tower and the luminous days). It had been translated in German by Johann Gottwert Müller in 1790, under the title "Straubfedern", "Ostrich feathers". As for the name "Rumpelstilzchen", it actually originates from Johann Fischart's Grman adaptation of the French "Gargantua", "Geschichtklitterung" (1584) - in it, Fischart lists various children game by name, and mentions a "Rumpele stilt oder der Poppart".

This fairytale type is very present in Western, Central and Northern Europe (British Isles and Ireland included), with also a few spottings in the Baltic countries, China and Japan. The name of the supernatural being always changes from one region or country to the next (in Swiss it is Hans-Öfeli, in Dutch Trillevip, in Swedish Titteliture, in Finnish Tuttirituli, in the Suffolk it is Tom Tit Tot, in Welsh Gnarwynathrot, in Irish it is Eve-Trot or Trit-a-Trot...). It is part of the enormous success of this tale-type: every country has to invent its own brand of nonsensical, un-guessable name. As for the rhymed song through which the dwarf betrays its name, it is found in England as "Nimmy nimmy not / My name is Tom Tit Tot", and in an Afro-American version of North Carolina "I'm so glad that she do not know / That my name is Tabutoe Tambutoe".

The brothers Grimm noted that in Germanic mythology it was typical for underground beings (aka dwarfs) to have names that are not usual among humankind, which is why, again according to them, the dwarf of this story would feel in perfect safety proposing the queen such a game. The rule according to which obtaining the name of a supernatural being means gaining a form of power over them is very common, and is even reused in another one of the Grimm stories: KHM 136, "Iron John". H. Rölleke did an analysis of the names the queen proposes at first: we have the three names of the Magi, aka the Three Wise Men, or King-Magi, which gives a Christian setting to the story, and could also serve as a metonymy for all the saint names found in the Christian calendar. As for "Heinz" and "Kunz", Rölleke sees in them the diminutives of the names of the medieval emperors Heinrich and Konrad, which used to be some of the most popular male names among German-speaking countries.

All-Kinds-of-Fur (Allerleirauh)

It corresponds to the AaTh 510B "The dresses of gold, silver and stars", also known as "Donkey Skin", after the famous Charles Perrault fairytales.

The story we read today was the one told to the Grimm by Dortchen Wild, but there was a variation of it told to the brothers by Jeannette Hassenpflug, "Princess Mouse-Skin", which was present in the 1812's edition of the volume (n°71) but was then moves to the annotations as a mere mention. The version of the story from the first draft (the 1810 manuscript) was called "Allerlei Rauch", "All Kinds of Smoke", and was heavily inspired by one of the tales present within the novel "Schilly" by Carl Nehrlich.

The line "God forbade a father from marrying his daughter. Nothing good can come from this sin which will cause the kingdom's decadence" was added in the 1819 edition, and references a tale of Albert Ludwig Grimm called "Brunnenhold und Brunnenstark". The brothers Grimm insisted even more on the condamnation of the sin of incest when rewriting the story for their "small collection" for kids, and also insisted heavily upon a political extension of such a decision, which would damage the state itself. It is actually an allussion to the failure of the Frankfort Parliament, which had been gathered in 1848 at the Paulskirche in an attempt to create a constitution for all of Germany - to which Jacob Grimm had taken part.

A variation of the story collected in Paderborn has the last coat made of all the furs of the kingdom, plus moss and various forest-related material. In this version, the heroine puts the cloak on top of her three beautiful dresses before fleeing, and she hides in an empty tree where she is discovered, not during a hunting party, but by woodsman that cut off the tree she was sleeping into, to bring wood to the king. All-Kinds-of-Fur works in the castle's kitchen but one day as she is preparing the soup, the king has her sit on his chair so she can delouse him (a motif also present in "The Devil with Three Golden Hair). As she does, the king glimpses the beautiful shining dress under the cloak's sleeve, and this is how he discovers the girl's true appearance. Another variation of the story yet, also collected in Paderborn, has the heroine pretending to be mute. One day the king hits her with a whip, it rips apart the coat, revealing the golden dress underneath.

Not all the German versions of the story include the incest motif. In Musaüs' take on the story, "Die Nymphe des Brunnens", "The Nymph of the Well", the heroine leaves her father's castle because it has been destroyed. Her godmother, an undine, gifts her a small magical box and when she leaves the ball she says "Night behind me and day before me / Might nobody see me!". As for the version of Hassenpflug, "Princess Mouse-Skin", it begins as the KHM 179, "The Goose-Girl at the Well": a king wants to know which of his three daughters love him the most, the first says she loves him more than the whole kingdom, the second more than pearls and precious stones, the third more than salt. The furious father has the last princess be sent into the woods to be killed, but the servant tasked with the execution spares her out of pity, and gives her, by her request, a coat made of mice skin. The rest of the story goes like within "All-Kinds-of-Fur", except for the final wedding, to which the father-king is invited. All the dishes served to him are without salt, and he ends up saying he prefers to die rather than continue eating without salt. The princess-daughter reveals herself and points out how he tried to had her killed for loving him more than salt. Her father begs her for forgiveness, and the tale ends with her accepting.

The motif of the incest can, however, be found back in a variation of the KHM 31 (The Girl Without Hands) that the Grimms collected, and where the father mutilates the daughter for refusing to marry him. The motif of the king trying to marry his own daughter has been attested in many, many European stories ever since the 12th century. As for the boots that are thrown in the heroine's face in the Grimm story, while in the final edition it has no follow-up, in the 1812 edition it was a recurring element forming a motif within the tale. Another German version of the story that preserved this structure that the Grimms erased is the story collected by Vernaleken, "Throw-Broom, Throw-Brush and Throw-Comb". In it the king throws out of anger at the face of the heroine (Adelaide) a broom, a brush and a comb. Every time she goes to the ball, she changes her pseudonym to fit which item hit her (one night she is "Throw-Broom", another she is "Throw-Brush", etc...). There are many, many variations of the story containing such a "name play".

Other famous examples of this variation, outside of Charles Perrault's Donkeyskin, include Straparola's "The maiden in the chest", Basile's "The She-Bear", Afanassiev's "Pig-Skin".

Jorinde and Joringel (Jorinde und Joringel)

It corresponds to the AaTH 405, named and created after this story, "Jorinde and Joringel".

The interesting thing with this story is that the brothers Grimm did not collect it from a direct source. Rather they lifted it, to the exact word, from the autobiography of Johann Heinrich Jung, "Jugend/Youth", published in 1779. The brothers deemed that the way Jung-Stilling had written the tale was the "perfect" way to tell the story, according to their definition of a fairytale. Though they did note the existence of a version of the story told in Schwalm - but which differs very little from the story of Jung-Stilling.

The brothers Grimm themselves noted a similarity between this story, and the KHM 123, "The Old Woman in the Wood". Rimasson-Fertin notes that the witch in this story is to be compared to the ones appearing in "Hansel and Gretel" and in "Little Brother and Little Sister". As for the name of the demon the witch invokes, "Zachiel", H. Rölleke identified it as a form of "Zachariel", a demon name coming from the very popular 17th century demonology grimoire "Clavicula Salomonis", "The Clavicles of Salomon".

[mythosblogging]

This month we’re taking a look at another Brothers Grimm fairy tale, this one collected in Germany, that tells the tale of a lucky boy born with a caul. A child born with a caul is a child born with a portion of the amniotic sack unbroken, usually covering their head or face, and said to resemble a veil or crown. The caul was said to prevent drownings, and a superstitious sailor might pay good money to purchase one from the midwife after such a birth. The fate of the caul in ‘The Devil and the Three Golden Hairs’ is unknown, but the child it came into the world with would go on to achieve riches.

 

Once in a small village ruled by a cruel and uncaring king, a poor woman gave birth to an infant boy, born with a caul. Being born with a caul was very rare, and a sure sign of great fortune to come in the child’s future. It was predicted that in his fourteenth year, the caul-child would win the hand of the princess...

Keep Reading

[fairytalemovies]

[historicalreusedcostumes]

This Crown with white pearls is worn in Beutolomäus und die Prinzessin (2007) on Josephine Preuss as Princess Eleonore and worn in King Drosselbart (2008) on Jasmin Schwiers as Princess Isabella of Gerania and again worn in The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs (2009) on Ina-Alice kopp as Princess Isabella and many years later worn on Helene, die wahre Braut (2020) on Janna Striebeck as Queen Larissa

Credit: magnificentlyreused

[thecoochiefairy]

xxx. suguru.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 6.4K word count. blackfem!reader, drabble, roleplay, non-consensual consent, rough sex/rough play, dominant suguru, black woman, vaginal penetration, hair pulling, creaming, squirting, choking, knife play, oral [f] [m], praising, size kink, overstimulation, degrading, LOTS of dirty talk, riding, doggy style, condomless sex, kissing, spanking, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ this may not be everyone’s tea. for sure one of the hottest things i wrote in my book of eroticas. enjoy, cause i did. dedicated to my mocha, @st4rbwrry ,she asked me to do this for her once.

nasty links, ya nasty— bounce. take it like a good girl. ooh, you’re so good for me.

SCARY MOVIES WEREN’T YOUR THING. They were simply a morbid curiosity, especially in your household. Your father was an extremely Christian man, anything seemingly too creepy or Halloween affiliated was the work of the devil. A god-fearing man, yes—But nothing was more terrifying than your boyfriend. 

Suguru Getou. It was like a hushed name within the night, calling him three times like CandyMan, even a cross wouldn’t keep him away from you. You were a Christian woman as well, but not as harshly as your father. You had your own questions, moralities, beliefs. You didn’t judge anyone based on their views—you never judged him. 

Meeting him within the bookstore as you went to pick up a pink Bible, your cheeks went warm as you accidentally dropped the book in your hand on the way out—he then noticed the second one you clutched to your chest, never noticing it was a deeply egregious erotica. His tattooed hand gripped the object off of the ground, veiny and large as he handed it back to you. You were a beauty to him. 

Freckles along your cheeks, button nose and slender eyes with bohemian goddess braids, flyaways sticking to your round face. He caught sight of the golden cross that sat in between your breasts, the dark inked skull tattooed along your neck giving him whiplash. When you bent down to reach for the book, he caught back dermals just above the yoga pants you wear, long sleeve top clinging to your frame. Your voice was sweet, the blush of your cheeks delineated innocence, even if the sight of you didn’t.  You were pure to him. 

At least…he thought you were. 

You were sitting along your bed, the sheer white canopy atop of it paired with champagne lights hung all around the ceiling. Your background played SCREAM, one of your favorite horror movies that Suguru had introduced you to, as you were a little afraid to watch them by yourself—but he was busy tonight, and you figured you’d face your fears. 

Your glasses hung on the tip of your nose as you were more hyper-focused in your book, the sexual endeavors of the characters making your thighs rub together a bit, a highlighter in between your plump lips as you wanted to remember all the best parts. Your attention was pulled away as you heard rustling coming from your open window along the second floor of the house, enjoying the cool air of the night. You frown, lowering your book. You listen. 

Nothing comes in return, so you go back to your book. The rustle happens again. You narrow your eyes, standing from the bed as you go towards your window in preparation to just close it. That’s when a knock comes on your door, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. You were always jumpy.

You go towards the door, tightening the robe you wear, pushing your glasses upon your nose as you open it. It’s your father. 

Giving him a warm smile, you greet, “Hi, Daddy. All packed up for your trip?”

“Yup. All packed up and ready to go, sweetie. Did you remember everything?”

A gentle yet stern tone comes from him. One you were used to hearing by now. The tall, strong yet slender man gave a soft smile before speaking once more.

“You’ all right? You seem a bit startled.”

You sigh, “Been watching scary movies again—it’s only the first ten minutes where the girl gets a weird phone call. I thought I could handle watching it alone—unfortunately, I’m a wuss. Are you heading out to the airport now?”

Your father let out a soft chuckle.The first ten minutes always got to you somehow. To his dismay, this was why you had Suguru at your side to comfort you when you needed it. But he wasn’t here tonight.

“I’m about to head out now. I was hoping I would be able to see you one more time before I get on the plane.”

“You’re such a big teddy bear,” you poke fun, “I’ll walk you to the door,” you offer, pushing on your bunny slippers as you follow behind him downstairs. You lived in a big house, taking ages to get anywhere whether it was a bedroom or bathroom.

The man rolled his eyes though he couldn’t help a soft smile, amused from the way you teased him. He loved you, all too much. 

Once you both get downstairs, you go to the front door where your father picks up his bags and checks to see if he had everything. He spoke again, a frown appearing once more.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright in the house by yourself? I know you’re not always fond of being alone at night.”

“I think I’ll survive,” you give him a warm smile, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sigh, “I love you, okay? Be safe.”

He wraps his strong arms around your frame, hugging you close to his form as he kisses your forehead. He loved you more than words could describe. You were his little girl, after all.

“I love you too. I’ll call you once I get to the hotel, alright?”

You give him a final wave as he makes it out to his taxi, blowing a kiss as the vehicle pulls off. You were relieved to get some alone time, and now you could fully dive into your book. You search the pantry as you grab for your sour gummy bears, plopping one into your mouth as you make your way back upstairs. You could hear the sound of screams, knowing the movie was still faintly playing on your TV. But as you enter your bedroom, you notice something. 

Your window was…closed?

You frown. You were certain that you had left the window open, but yet, it was closed. You shake your head, telling yourself that it was nothing and you’d forgotten to close it. 

You release a breath as you mutter, “Girl. Don’t be scaring yourself now.”

With that, you decide to cut off the movie, turning on some soothing music to calm your nerves. You return to your bed soon after, setting your gummy bears down beside you. You’re back to reading—but you can’t shake the raised awareness in the back of your mind.

As you continue to read, you can hear the house's landline going off downstairs. You sigh, pausing your music. You’re quickly making your way downstairs before the call hangs up, pulling the phone to your ear as you speak, “Hello?”

You expected it to be your father, telling you that he had left something behind, or maybe a friend of yours. It would’ve been normal for either. However, you were only greeted with silence for a moment.

But then, you soon hear the sound of a deep voice, an…unfamiliar tone.

“Hello, ❤︎.”

You blink at the voice knowing your name, placing your hand along the table as you speak, “Um—hi. Who is this?”

The voice was deep and alluring. But that didn’t make his familiarity any less uncomfortable. It’s a tone you’ve never heard. It sent chills down your spine.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. Let’s keep that a secret for now.”

“Well if it’s a secret, then we don’t need to be talking,” you say, quickly hanging up the phone. 

You frown, wondering if you should call your father. Or Suguru. You didn’t want to worry him as he was on the way to the airport, and his flight would be soon. On top of that, your boyfriend was at work. You decide on grabbing a bottle of water, going to make your way back upstairs—

But that’s when the phone rings again.

Your breathing picks up a little. No, you shouldn’t answer it. You hope it’s a simple prank. Your mind goes back to the movie earlier. You should just ignore the call, or maybe you’re just scaring yourself over something so simple. 

You take the phone back into your hand, answering as you say, “Hello?” More impatient this time. 

Once again, the same deep voice is heard on the other line, though the tone had a hint of annoyance. You could practically feel a sinister smile through the phone.

“Why so impatient now, sweetheart?”

His tone was taunting, almost as if they were making fun of you. It was starting to get under your skin.

“Because you’re playing on my phone. Who is this?” You question again, eyes warily looking around your kitchen. You then make your way over to your front door, unlocking and relocking it for your own security.

There’s a soft, airy chuckle that comes before the voice replies, his tone still playful. Like this was some sort of game to him.

“You’re awfully stubborn, aren’t you? Do you always have this much trouble listening?”

The line goes silent for a moment, though you can still hear faint breaths. Chills run over your body again. You could feel eyes on you. Like someone was watching you at this very moment.

You grip the phone tighter in your hand. You then say, “Suguru, I know this is you. Quit fucking with me because I told you what I was watching earlier. It’s not funny.”

“It’s unfortunate for you that I’m not your boyfriend.” 

It’s like all the small hairs on your body prick up. Your heart begins to stammer in your chest, your eyes blinking. You feel like you’re in a dream.

“…What?”

The tone is no longer playful, instead becoming more…disturbing. But, there’s also a hint of amusement. Like they’re enjoying this. Enjoying you getting frightened.

“I said— I’m not your boyfriend.”

A pause, your heart beating faster. All of this felt so… wrong. Then, the voice continues—

“Though, I wish I was. You look good as fuck in that robe.”

That sentence was chilling. Your entire body went cold, and you felt frozen in your spot. You joked about watching this type of situation in the media. What you would do, how you’d never be as stupid as the character in this scenario. But here you were, unable to move, your heart pounding in your chest.

The voice on the other line chuckles again, his walk heavy as you can hear his steps. Though, he can’t help but become intrigued that he had struck such a nerve in you. You were such a…fascinating little thing. He knew you were shaking.

“Now tell me, ❤︎. Did locking your door make you feel safe?”

You didn’t know if anymore fear could strike through your veins, but you felt paralyzed.

 You try to keep yourself calm as you lie, “My boyfriends gonna be here soon. So I suggest you get the fuck off of my property before he kills you.”

“I don’t like being lied to.” 

The line goes silent again, but your heart still pounds in your chest. Where could he be at this very moment?

“My next suggestion would be that if you’re gonna lock your door…at least check if your window was actually closed.”

From your eyesight, you can see your bedroom. But you can only see the light coming from it, and your heart stops. You don’t have time to be afraid. You just needed to leave.

You slowly back your way towards your front door, continuously watching the outline of your bedroom, as if you were just waiting to see a figure pop out. As soon as your hand reaches the lock, you slowly turn it, reaching for the handle. 

The sound of your window within your room slams shut.

You yank the front door open, going to make a desperate run for the neighbors—

But that’s when a figure is already in front of the door, and as you trip back, you freeze.

A GhostFace mask appears in your sight, the person wearing it tall, broad. The dark shirt clinging to his olive complexion, tattoos scathing along his large arms, holding a chrome Bowie knife. 

Your scream pierces through the door frame as your instincts make you step back, thinking quickly as you take off back into your house.

Letting out a chuckle at your attempt to escape, he steps into the doorway, slamming the door closed as you try to run off. His footsteps were loud and heavy, like he was taking his sweet time, knowing that you were only tiring yourself further.

You eventually find yourself ducking into the next hallway, finding yourself in your father’s cigar room. You find the closet within it, rushing inside as you close the door, holding it towards yourself. Tears want to brim your eyes as your entire body vibrates from the fear, and you clutch your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from crying, hearing as his footsteps become closer.

Your breathing goes ragged and labored, your chest tightening as you try your best to muffle the sound of your hyperventilating. You then hear the footsteps get closer and closer. That’s when they stop right outside of the closet.

At this moment, you stop breathing. You close your eyes, awaiting for the next few moments. Nothing.

Instead, you hear the footsteps begin to echo away, up until you don’t hear them at all. You wait for a moment, wishing you had a phone to call someone. Anyone. But you couldn’t stay in this closet forever.

This was your opportunity to escape. You give it a couple more seconds as you gently push the door open, sliding yourself through the small opening to not cause any noise. You peek down the hallway, seeing nothing again. Yet you hear the sound of footsteps from above, meaning he was checking to see if you’d hidden yourself upstairs. 

You bolt down the hallway and back towards your front door, going to throw it open as you see that large, veiny palm raise over your head, slamming the door shut. Your scream rips from your throat, ducking under the figure, trapped as their hand clasps along your throat, thumb along your jaw.

 All you can see is that mask, your eyes wide as they lock down to the blade coming at your throat, lightly connecting to the skin of it.

He was much bigger than you, broad with a toned muscular body. He could easily have you in a death grip if he wanted. You could feel his hot breath coming from under the mask, staring down at you.

“Please don’t hurt me…” you’re desperate, unable to know what else to say at this moment.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, though he can’t help a soft laugh as he’s just realized something. And it makes him…furious. But he keeps his cool, tightening his grip on you ever so slightly.

Leaning down, he brings his covered face so close to your ear that it makes your skin tingle. He speaks in a low tone. It’s almost a growl.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t…I didn’t lie…” you say, “…I don’t know what you’re talking about…” your eyes roam back and forth, hand pressed along his stomach. It’s hard.

His frame is solid, all muscle and toned. He doesn’t buy your excuse for a second. But he continues to take you in. Your face, your body. Your scent. It’s a mixture of amber and vanilla. He could feel how you trembled in his grip, though a part of him wished he was gripping by your chin, making you look him in the eye. But he was enjoying this. The fear on your face.

“You told me your boyfriend was coming.”

Shit, you did say that. 

You can’t come up with a quick enough excuse. You say, “I’m sorry.”

“You will be.”

He has a grip on your wrist, dragging you up the stairs as you try to pull away, yet the knife in his other hand keeps you from fighting more than you wanted to. He slams the door of your bedroom, your fearful frame stepping back as you’re trapped inside with him, glancing back over to your window.

At this moment, he has you trapped alone in your bedroom with no one to help you. Yet, you could see his eyes studying you through the mask. Taking in every slight movement of your body. Every shake, every shiver. He was enjoying the sight of you being afraid. It was thrilling.

It felt stupid to plead your case. But you didn’t know what to do. Your brain runs amuck, and you can’t stop yourself as you stupidly say—

“Please don’t hurt me,” you repeat, “I’ll do…I’ll do anything.”

He can’t help the wicked smirk that appears across his features under the mask as he tilts his head, taking a single step closer to you. Like a predator closing in on its prey. The way his eyes remained on you was entrancing. 

“Anything?” 

He repeats, his voice deep.

You clutch the material of your robe, nodding your head in response, your heart in your throat. 

It’s like you’re trying to play detective, eyeing his tattoos, his muscular arms, trying to find a familiarity in his body. Nothing. His onyx shirt clings to him, which almost curves inwards from how fit he was. His ring clad fingers, veins traveling beneath as he clutched his weapon within his hand. A rush of…something else ran within your body. 

What was wrong with you? 

Yet, your fuzzy brain is pulled out of the clouds as you hear his low tone tell you to, “Take off your robe.” 

You blink for a moment. You then give a soft nod, beginning to untie your robe, draping it off your shoulders, dropping it down along the floor. The air in the room hits your skin, the pale pink babydoll slip you wore, your brown nipples showing through the thin fabric. The sheer material glides down to the thong you wear, barely covering your ass, the small bow within the back attached to the lingerie. 

Your body is revealed to him, his eyes gazing over your figure. Yet, he remains still. Though, you can see the rise and fall of his chest become slightly quicker. He just didn’t move, his expression almost unreadable behind the hard, white mask. Silence, all apart from the hammering of the heart that was stuck in your throat.

You can then hear him say, “On your knees. Crawl.” 

And so, you listen. Your palms lead the way, your legs slightly dragging against the carpet as you make your way over to him, slender eyes feline, coaxing. You don’t know why you have the urge to give him a show, but you pause when you’re directly in front of him, politely sitting on the balls of your feet, knees pointed to the floor. 

He towers over you, his large frame making you look so… tiny. Yet, he can’t help but become impressed at the way you had obeyed his request. His dark eyes don’t remove themselves from you for a single moment. Like he’s studying every movement you make.

He was being far gentler than what you expect. He tilts your head by the point of his knife, forcing you to look up at him as he looks down at you through that damn mask.

“You listen good as fuck, pretty.” 

Your eyes blink at him, palms itching along your lap. He then takes his other hand as he runs it through your hair, lightly, as if you were delicate to the touch. Your body tenses as he then gets a grip on your hair, clutching the braids in between his fingers, tugging your head back to fully look at him. 

And he likes it. He likes how you look right now. Your head pulled back, looking up at him. It’s like you were at his mercy. Like you were completely and utterly at his whim. Just how he wanted you.

“Open your mouth for me.”

Another slow flutter of your lashes surpass, and you part your Cupid’s bow lips, sticking your tongue out in the process. 

A sinful grin makes its way across his face, even if you can’t tell. 

He moves the knife's blade to your chin, tipping your jaw a little more up to see you better. His voice is still low as he tells you, “Wider.”

You open your mouth even more, breath hitching as you do so. Your eyes can only search the terrifying white expression, but when you glance down, his body…terrifying wasn’t the exact word you’d use. 

He’s enjoying the way you’re submitting to him. It’s like something within him had woken up. You can see the rise and fall of his chest again, his breathing having picked up slightly. Like it was arousing him. 

“All that fuckin’ mouth you had over the phone. Where’s that shit at now?” 

You lightly dig your teeth into your lip, the tone of his voice through this mask. It’s doing something to you. You’re crazy. But this entire situation is.

Your voice is soft, your own words passing through your mouth before you could think about them.  

“Put something in it, then.”

His fingers come along the side of your jaw, his thumb running over your lip, sliding against your tongue. 

“You’ want it in your mouth?”

You nod your head, eyes glimmering beneath the lights of your room. 

“Suck some fuckin’ dick, then.”

You’re already unbuckling his belt, reaching under his boxers as you pull his length from beneath the compressing fabric. It springs out as it’s already hard, pink tip glistening from the pre-cum, slapping along his belly button in freedom. 

The veins along it make it look terrifying, heavy in your palms as you lean forward, taking in the scent of rum spice and cedar wood against his smooth skin. The olive tone of his complexion is covered by ink, even in the most intimate areas. You drag your tongue along his tip, raising your eyes up, lash extensions flickering like dark butterflies.

You can hear the grunt that comes from his mouth, tugging at your hair as you fully wrap your lips along his tip, swirling your tongue around, enveloping the clean taste of his flesh. You adjust yourself along your knees, arching yourself closer to him, moving your head slowly back and forth, allowing your mouth to collect more inches each time you take him deeper. His tip begins to caress against the roof of your mouth each time you move.

The warm walls of your cheeks hollow his dick, entrapping the heaviness of it as you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut as you wrap your small fingers along the base of him, rotating your palm around. Pulling his tip out of your mouth you then drop spit along the veiny flesh, beginning to revolve your hand around, almond brown vision flickering back up to the mask, your other hand running under his shirt, feeling the way his muscles flex within his abdomen.

His hand grips tighter in your hair, pulling you closer to him as you stroke faster. He lets out a low groan, hips bucking slightly, grinding his dick between your lips and hand. You can feel his pulse beating against your fingertips, throbbing with every pass through. He pulls your head back, smearing saliva across your jaw before shoving his tip back into your mouth, sliding all the way to the back of your throat. Your head nuzzles side to side, allowing it to shuffle even deeper, the walls of your throat flexing as you gag.

 You hear his deep voice lowly drop, ”Fuuck...”

You pull your mouth back, cheeks warm on the outside, freckled and lightly hueing a red tint as you softly ask, “Does it feel good?” Slapping his dick along your tongue, kissing the tip in an almost polite way.

“Feels good as fuck,” He grunts, grabbing your chin firmly and tilting your head back, exposing your neck to him. "You’re so fuckin’ sexy. Pull your tit’s out. Go down until you’re rubbing your pussy, I know this shit’ is making you wet.”

He was right, it was. Each time his tip slammed against the back of your throat, your inner thighs became warm as you rubbed them together. You yank down the material of your babydoll slip, exposing your brown nipples, using one hand to lightly rub at the hardening skin, using the other to hold his dick in your hand, dragging your mouth back around the shaft of it. He twitches in your mouth as you start to suckle, slurping heavily, saliva spurting in between the space of your lips each time his balls slam along your jaw. He keeps a grip on your onyx hair tighter—you’re nasty with it, guiding your head up and down erotically.

You then slide your hands down your stomach and thigh, coming around to meet with the inner part of it, brushing your fingers against your clit that throbs along your thong. It almost makes you flinch.

He watches you with lust-filled eyes, the ghost mask seeming to leer as you touch yourself. He feels as you tense up, “Be a big fuckin’ girl and make yourself feel good.” 

He guides your head faster, thrusting into your mouth with increasing force. His balls begin to slap loudly against your chin, precum leaking from the tip to coat your tongue.

“Call me baby,” you protest as you find the space to pull away, immediately going back to keeping your mouth full. You almost break, your voice feeble as you talk, “Want your fingers. Wanna squirt on them…” you can’t stop whining to him, moving your head back and forth, faster to meet the mean pace he gives.

“I know you fuckin’ heard what I said. Sink your fingers in,” he grunts to you, feeling the whimper around his dick, your fingers listening as you drag them down, nudging them at your opening. You can hear how wet you are, but your own aren’t enough. You need more. 

Your other hand is still locked around him, keeping your mouth steady as he has one hand on the back of your head, the other on your jaw, pulling it open wider as he fucks your face. 

“That’s fuckin’ good, baby. Listening good as fuck.”

You become frustrated as you pull back, pouting to him, “I can’t make myself cum…” 

You spit against his tip, now focusing in as it seems to be sensitive. You protect your teeth with your lips, sucking inward as you bob your head up and down, using your throat as you muffle out hums to add to his stimulation, talented in pleasuring him. 

He groans deeply, feeling your tongue continuously swirling around the tip, sending jolts straight to his entire body. 

“Fuck,” he aggressively grunts, “Ooh, shit. Baby. Keep doing that," he growls, his hips jerking slightly as he loses control for a second, pushing deeper into your mouth. "Gonna fill that pretty ass throat up."

That’s when you become more defiant—The pressure in between your legs is almost painful. You need him. You pull yourself back, placing yourself along the bed, spreading your knees apart, arching your back as you press your stomach against the sheets. Your face is tilted backwards to watch him, taking your hands as you spread yourself apart.

“Fill up my pussy, baby,” you whine, pitiful, but you didn’t care.

His eyes darkened with lust as he saw you spread yourself open for him, your juices dripping onto the sheets below. You’re grinding your clit against the pink comforter, making it a darker shade as it becomes drenched. He stalks towards the bed, fully ripping off his clothes in haste, dragging you fully to the end of the bed as his palms locked around your ankles. 

"Shit, look at that pretty ass pussy," he mutters, his gaze fixated on your glistening folds, “You want my cum, huh? Beg for it."

His words are demanding, but there's an underlying tone of pleasure and desire. He's eager to claim you.

But you’re even more eager.

 You grip his arm, pulling him down to where his back is along the sheets, climbing atop of him. You don’t forget to lock your mouth around his tip for a moment, dropping your lips down to reach his abdomen, saliva dragging out of your mouth, dribbling along your chin as you pull back, seeing as his abs tighten, giggling as that makes him give you a harsh spank to your ass. 

Your knees are on each side of him, already wrapping your fingers around his tip, guiding it as you rub it along your clit. 

You whimper, “Wanna slide down on your dick, baby. Tell me I can…”

“Go ‘head. Drop down, slowly.” 

You do as you're told, placing your hand along his stomach as you lean forward, sinking yourself down, his tip plunging in between your tight folds. He was like a monster, attempting to rip you in half. Your eyes lightly roll, your hips spazzing at the feeling. A baby gasp parts from your mouth as he roughly spanks you again, coaxing you to keep going. You sink yourself down farther, the heaviness of your ass sticking against his abdomen, his tip already kissing your cervix, it makes your face contort in an aching pleasure, so fucking horny as you already begin bouncing on him, your pussy squelching as you whimper from the slight pain.

It was like a soreness from a workout, a burn from a meal you couldn’t wait to cool down, you whine messily as you drive yourself wild, clapping your ass down against his thighs.

His eyes follow every movement of your hips, drinking in the sight of your ass slapping against his thighs. The lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh fill the room, mingling with your desperate moans of pleasure. He grips your hips tightly, fingers digging around into the soft flesh of your ass as he begins dragging you to meet your own downward motions.

"Yeah? You’ gonna keep fucking me like that? Like you needed this fuckin’ dick?”

You’re looking back as the skin of your ass shaking in his palms, sobbing already, eyes rolling back as you pout heavily, nodding your head as it falls back, whimpering out messily, “Yes, baby. Been wanting to bounce on your dick just like this…” 

You hiccup, your soft cry echoing along the walls, louder than your skin slapping against his, “So fuckin’ needy for you…”

His thumbs dig deeper into the supple cheeks of your skin, spreading them apart slightly as he watches himself disappear into you over and over.

"Pussy hungry as fuck, sucking my shit in…” He growls low in his throat, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine. 

"Keep going, needy ass fuckin’ girl—fuck,” he lowly moans, head falling back against the bed, mask tilting upwards. His hands move to grip your waist, helping pull you down onto him with force, his thick shaft stretching you impossibly wide. The sensation borders on painful, but the pleasure far outweighs it, making you pathetically cry out in ecstasy.

With a guttural groan, he thrusts up into you hard, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the sudden depth. He holds you there, still and deep, letting you adjust to the overwhelming fullness before starting to move once more. His hand is on your shoulder, slamming you back down, sounds erotically implausible. 

"You love this, don't you?" He growls, voice strained with pleasure. "Love being stuffed full of my dick,” His hands slide up your sides, fingers splaying across your ribs as he begins to piston in and out of you with relentless intensity.

He’s like a demon climbing out of hell for the first time. You keep up with him though, keeping your eyes locked on his as you groan, “Love it so fuckin’ much. Gonna’ cum in my tight pussy, baby?” You can hear the grunt he makes from that question, planting your feet along the bed as you raise your hips, dropping them down, “Hit my spot, baby. Wanna squirt all in your mouth soon.”

His grunts deepen into animalistic growls, the force of his thrusts growing harder, faster, more erratic. Sweat drips down from under his mask, tattooed muscles flexing beneath his skin. 

“Nasty ass fuckin’ mouth. I hear you, baby. ‘Gonna' drench me," he rasps, one hand moving between your bodies to rub at your clit in time with his strokes. 

His other hand grips your hip, using it as leverage to slam you down onto him, hitting that sensitive spot inside you with unrelenting precision. The wet squelching of your juices and the slap of skin on skin fills the air, punctuated by your high-pitched moans and his guttural sounds. He's close, you can tell, his movements becoming almost violent in their desperation.

“Fuck me from the back,” you beg, “Come fuck me, baby. That’s how I wanna cum,” you beg him, swirling your hips in circles, dragging your nails along his skin.

He flips you over onto your stomach without hesitation, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his masked gaze. One hand remains gripping your hip while the other moves around to grasp your throat, applying gentle pressure.

"You’ better be fuckin’ me back," he smacks his lips, “Keep asking for shit. Spoiled as fuck.”

With a sharp tug, he rubs his tip in between your folds, the sensitivity making you hiss a bit. But he does the opposite of what you expect, raising you up slightly to press your back against his chest, material of the mask pressed up against your face, almost to where you can feel his lips against your skin. 

You reach your hand behind yourself, holding him as he sinks himself in. You feel every inch as it goes in, sinking so deep it inflames your walls, your eyes rolling back as you gasp, “Oh, shit,” as you unexpectedly squirt, the fluid gushing out so harshly that it nearly pushes his dick out. Your thighs tremble as you shudder out in broken whines, his hand gripping tighter along your throat, hearing the arrogant chuckle in your ear.

He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle against your ear, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine even as your inner walls clench around him. His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, a subtle reminder of his dominance.

"Look at you, squirting like a fuckin’ faucet.”

You shriek as he spanks you, “So fuckin’ responsive for me. Love milking this pussy, baby. Goood fuckin’ girl,” he riles you up, withdrawing until just the tip remains inside,  slamming back in, driving deep once more, making you squirt out again.

Your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets, reaching behind helplessly as you try to halt his hips, feeling as he yanks your hand behind your back. You plead, “W—wait, baby. Wait. Wait. Ooh, shi—oh—fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck…”

Your whine is so pretty, your body relaxing as if you’ve given up at this point, back to pouting as you can’t. Stop. Squirting. 

Tears well in your eyes, you’re crying at this point, your hips tensing, a soreness beginning to produce from your body pushing out so much energy. You’re moaning weakly as he coos behind you, “Yeah, baby. That’s good. Open up your pussy," his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I've got you."

With a sudden, brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you, grinding against your cervix. Your scream is muffled by his palm over your mouth as he holds you still, impaling you on his dick.

“Told you to fuck me back, your ass don’t fuckin’ listen,” he grunts, his hips beginning to piston in and out at a bullying pace. "Fuck, your pussy is perfect."

This is what you asked for. This is what you wanted—now you were paying for it. You’re sobbing in patterns, broken and repetitive, trapped as you can only whimper, “Please cum, baby. Cum in me. Fuckin’ fill me up, baby,” but this is your only way of escaping this depraved act.

He laughs cruelly, the sound echoing through the room as he continues to pound into you relentlessly. "You want my cum? Then fucking earn it, slutty ass fuckin’ girl. My slutty ass baby.” 

His grip on your throat tightens, cutting off your air supply as he fucks you even harder, each thrust jarring your entire body. The pressure builds in your core, your orgasm just out of reach.

With the last bit of strength you have, you apologize, “So sorry, baby. Didn’t listen. Lemme’ be your good girl,” as you begin to throw your ass back, slamming it along his abdomen, it’s nearly too slippery to have the skin stick together. You’ve coated him with your arousal, you have nothing left to give him, “Cum for me, baby. Cum inside me, need your cum, pretty boy…”

At your pitiful plea, he releases your throat, gripping your hips instead as he pounds into you mercilessly. His breathing grows ragged, muscles straining as he chases his release, his helpless moans are sexy, even a light whimper slipping out— it was rare for him to have. 

"Fuckin’ hell..." he grits out between clenched teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. "I’m about to bust, baby. Where you’ want it?”

“In me,” you whimper desperately, “Don’t be mean.”

The bastard. He chuckles, “Shut that shit up. I know.” 

With one final, intense thrust, his dick pulses as he unleashes a torrent of cum deep inside you. He pulls himself out to replace his dick with his fingers, rubbing chaotically in between your opening and your clit, knowing how you’d react to that. Your entire body spazzes as you shout, groaning into a scream as you gush out more cum, causing him to rip the mask off, burying his face in between your legs, lapping up the final orgasm that completely drains you. You’re crying and shaking, nearly dropping forward along the bed as he’s there to catch you. 

The familiar coconut scent of his dark hair rubs up against your cheek as he turns your face to kiss him, sloppily sinking his tongue into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself.

“That was good, baby,” Suguru grunts, both of you breathing heavily against one another, desire and passion filling the air. 

“We need to watch scary shit more often,” he holds your throat, talking within your ear, the breathless giggle only being your response for a moment. 

“Yeah, we do.”

[itendtothinkalot]

in this economy? (part 1)

summary: you needed money. he needed a fake girlfriend. easy deal, right? except he’s your best friend’s boss. and you’re one minor inconvenience away from setting something on fire. he’s cold, rich, emotionally unavailable. you’re loud, broke, and very good at pretending this isn’t slowly turning real.

genre: fluff | fake dating

characters: ceo!heeseung x f! broke ass reader

words: 12k?

warnings: none in this part

a/n: damn didnt know tumblr had a word limit so heres a 2 parter i didnt realise would be a 2 parter

part 2

You were in your final year of college, living what could only be described as the off-brand version of Hannah Montana. Two jobs, endless assignments, zero glam. You had the double life down—student by day, overworked part-timer by night—except instead of rocking out on stage, you were rocking a polyester apron and a mild caffeine addiction.

Despite working like a hamster on an espresso wheel, your bank account stayed somewhere between “embarrassing” and “haunted.” Thanks, student loans. They followed you like an ex who couldn’t take a hint—except this one charged interest and occasionally sent you emails that made your eye twitch.

Still, you powered through. Broke, yes. Sleep-deprived, absolutely. But functioning? Debatable.

Fortunately, your best friend Jake—resident golden boy, and somehow always suspiciously well-rested—had just landed a Big Boy Job. He was now the personal assistant to the Lee Heeseung. Which sounded impressive… you guessed. You wished someone had warned you what a big deal this guy was, but no one did. You didn’t know. You really didn’t.

You were three bites deep into your third roll of bread, barely chewing anymore. It wasn’t about manners—it was about survival. Tuition was due, your rent deadline loomed like a jump scare, and your bank account balance looked like a bad joke.

Jake sat across from you at the glossy conference room table, watching you with an expression that landed somewhere between mild horror and disbelief.

“Slow down,” he said, nudging the breadbasket just out of your reach. “The bread’s not running anywhere.”

You glared at him, a crust still stuck to your bottom lip. “Easy for you to say. You���re not living on instant noodles and silent sobbing.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You literally had coffee and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast.”

“Because I couldn't afford a second spoonful.”

Flipping through your notes with one hand and clutching a half-eaten roll with the other, you tried to cram half a semester’s worth of marketing strategy into your already overloaded brain. You were multitasking. Efficient. A legend, if legends were broke and hungry.

Jake looked personally offended. “This is a workplace, you know. There are millionaires walking around here. You’re dropping crumbs on a seven-thousand-dollar chair.”

You paused mid-bite. “Seven what now?”

He tossed you a napkin with the kind of disappointment only a best friend could perfect. “Just—try not to look like a starving Dickens orphan if my boss walks in.”

You frowned. “Your boss?”

And that’s when the air changed—like a cold draft had slinked in through invisible cracks. Jake straightened. The playful glint in his eyes flickered out.

Speak of the devil in designer slacks.

The door creaked open, and in walked the heir to Luxen Technologies: Lee Heeseung.

Cold. Polished. Annoyingly symmetrical.

You promptly choked on your bread.

"That's your... boss?" you asked, staring as the man strolled in like he was walking on a Calvin Klein runway in slow motion, his coat flaring just slightly, hair annoyingly perfect.

Sure, he was good-looking. Objectively. Like, if you had a dollar for every sharp angle on his face, you could maybe afford two spoonfuls of peanut butter.

But you didn’t have time for men. You barely had time for yourself.

Here you were, fully dependent on your best friend and roommate’s snack stash and corporate pantry privileges, inhaling free carbs like your life depended on it—which, honestly, it kind of did. This had become your daily routine: roll out of bed, survive uni, raid Jake’s office for bread and maybe some emotional support tea every morning.

Jake sighed, already bracing for impact like someone who'd lived through this exact scenario too many times. “Look, you have to leave before he comes over and kicks you out.”

You snorted, entirely unbothered, and waved him off like he was being dramatic—which, to be fair, he usually was. Reaching for another roll from the meticulously arranged snack spread (which you were absolutely not supposed to touch), you said breezily, “He wouldn’t do that. Right?”

Jake didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gave you the kind of look reserved for people about to learn something the hard way. “He’s kicked people out for less,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the growing constellation of crumbs you were generously distributing across the sleek, glass conference table—like you were decorating it for a carb-themed holiday.

Your chewing slowed. “Oh,” you said, mid-bite, hand frozen halfway to your mouth.

Silence.

The kind of silence that prickled.

Something shifted in the air, and you felt it—like animals sensing a predator approaching. You turned your head slowly.

And there he was.

Lee Heeseung. In the flesh. A few steps away and looking like he’d just walked into a crime scene. He was tall, sharp, and immaculately put-together, holding a tablet in one hand like it offended him. His eyes scanned the table, then landed on you—the uninvited guest currently mid-chew, hoarding bread rolls like it was your last meal.

If disapproval had a face, his was it.

Your brain, bless its useless soul, screamed: Run.

Your stomach had other plans: Finish the bread first.

And your hands? They casually reached for two more rolls while maintaining steady eye contact with the most terrifyingly attractive man you’d ever seen.

Honestly, if you were going to get kicked out, you might as well be full.

You glanced at Jake. With as much dignity as one could muster while chewing, you gave a dramatic bow, wiping a suspicious smear of butter off your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “Good day, Mr. Sim. I shall see you again tomorrow. Absolutely lovely businessy chat. So productive. Okay. Bye now.”

Jake snorted. Loudly. But you ignored him, choosing instead to hoist your laptop bag like a makeshift shield, holding it in front of your face in an attempt to avoid the burning scrutiny of one Lee Heeseung. Eye contact was the enemy. Recognition was a death sentence. And above all else: pantry access must be preserved.

If he ever put two and two together—that the very person chewing her way through his conference table like a feral carb-goblin was you—you were done for.

Goodbye, free bread. Goodbye, Jake’s fancy office snacks. Goodbye, dignity… not that there was much left to begin with.

You began edging toward the door, sidestepping like a raccoon caught red-pawed in the middle of a kitchen raid, trying not to look suspicious. Which only made you look so much more suspicious. And to make matters worse, the more you tried to vanish, the longer Heeseung stared.

His eyes followed you with a slow, assessing calm—like a predator trying to decide whether the strange creature in his territory was worth the energy to chase. He didn’t say a word. Just watched. Silently. Intensely. Unreadable.

Probably wondering who let the help in.

“Smooth,” Jake muttered behind his hand, clearly enjoying every second of your descent into awkwardness.

“Shut up,” you hissed, tripping slightly over your own bag strap on your way out, a quiet wheeze of panic slipping from your lips.

You didn’t dare look back until the elevator doors had closed behind you, safely sealing you in a metal box where embarrassment couldn’t reach you. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Still tasting sourdough.

So that was him, you thought. Jake's boss.

And if he ever figured out who you were? You were screwed.

Meanwhile, back in the war zone formerly known as the conference room, Jake turned back around slowly to face his boss.

Heeseung didn’t look up. He was scrolling through his phone like none of that had just happened. “What time’s my meeting again?” he asked casually, thumb gliding across the screen.

“Three,” Jake replied quickly, slipping back into assistant mode with the smoothness of someone who really needed to keep his job. “Then another one at five with the UX development team. They’re presenting the wearable AI prototype.”

Heeseung gave a brief nod, still scrolling.

There was a beat of silence. Jake almost allowed himself to exhale.

And then—“Who was the girl?”

Jake blinked. “Girl?”

Now Heeseung did look up. One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted just a fraction. “The one eating the bread like it owed her money.”

Jake choked. “She's just...she's my friend.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes, the phrase clearly not satisfying. “Your friend. In my conference room. During working hours. Helping herself to my carbs.”

“To be fair,” Jake offered, voice cracking like a freshman in choir, “they’re technically Luxen’s carbs. Also, you don’t even eat the bread—”

“She wiped her mouth with her sleeve,” Heeseung said, looking deeply betrayed. “Do people do that?”

Jake had no idea if he was supposed to laugh, apologize, or call security on your behalf.

“She’s harmless,” he said quickly. “You won’t even see her again. I think."

Heeseung hummed, a noncommittal sound that somehow said everything. His gaze drifted back to his phone.

But Jake caught it.

A flicker at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth—so quick it almost didn’t happen.

Not irritation. Not disapproval.

Curiosity.

Almost.

—

Heeseung sighed.

It wasn’t that he hated his life. Far from it, actually.

He liked working. Loved it, even. There was something deeply satisfying about losing himself in spreadsheets, contracts, and a calendar so tightly packed it could give a scheduler heartburn. He was good at it—no, great at it. The kind of great that turned heads in boardrooms. The kind of great that earned nods of respect from executives twice his age. Even his notoriously competitive older brother and stone-faced father begrudgingly acknowledged his brilliance when it came to the company.

They weren’t jealous of his success—not exactly. Just… quietly resentful that their grandfather, the patriarch of the empire, seemed to have written Lee Heeseung in bold letters at the top of every metaphorical will, wish list, and family legacy blueprint. Heeseung was the golden boy. The prodigy. The one who could do no wrong.

Well—except in matters of the heart.

His grandfather, a man of steel nerves and silk pocket squares, had one tragic flaw: he was a hopeless romantic. The handwritten-letters, crying-during-Hallmark-movies, “Love conquers all” kind. Back in his youth, he had famously eloped with Heeseung’s grandmother after her parents forbade the match. It was the tale he recited at every family dinner like a dramatic bedtime story, wine glass in hand, pausing for emphasis with misty eyes and unnecessary violin music playing in everyone’s heads.

Now, he’d made it his personal mission to marry off every last descendant like he was casting a period drama.

And naturally, he took particular offense to Heeseung—the youngest, most accomplished, and most emotionally unavailable—refusing to so much as glance at romance. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Not even the vague interest of someone who knew love existed in the same universe.

So imagine Heeseung’s horror when, despite all logic, he found himself distracted. Haunted, even. By the mental image of some girl with a mouthful of carbs, an unapologetic sleeve-wipe, and crumbs on her cheek like a personal brand.

Utterly ridiculous.

Infuriating, even.

There were precisely three things Lee Heeseung could not abide during work hours:

Unexpected visitors.

Long-winded conversations.

Family.

So, naturally, all three arrived in one dramatic flourish when the office doors slammed open with the subtlety of a wrecking ball wearing designer shoes.

“Seung!”

Heeseung didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. That voice had the energy of a Broadway debut and the volume to match.

“Why is he here?” Heeseung asked flatly.

Jake froze mid-sip of his iced Americano, nearly choking on the absurdity of being blamed for something he had very clearly tried to prevent. “I told him not to—he didn’t even call—”

Heeseung finally looked up, just in time to watch the hurricane make landfall.

Grandpa Lee swept into the room like he still ran the place, all charisma and cologne, his cane purely decorative and his expression full of self-satisfaction. Former CEO. Founder of Luxen Technologies. Current full-time menace to his grandson’s blood pressure.

“Grandpa,” Heeseung said through clenched teeth, voice just shy of a groan. “You can’t keep barging in here every time you have a thought.”

“Of course I can,” the old man said cheerfully, already heading for the plush chair across from Heeseung’s desk. “It’s my building. My company. My bloodline. And also, you left Sunday dinner early, again, so I brought the discussion to you.”

Jake slowly sank into his seat, doing a decent impression of a man attempting to fuse with office furniture. He opened his laptop, not to work, but to pretend like he was somewhere—anywhere—else.

Across the room, Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, the weariness in his expression not from deadlines or meetings but from the familial storm that had just rolled in, all bluster and dramatic flair.

It wasn’t that Heeseung didn’t love his grandfather. He did. Deeply. He’d grown up listening to Grandpa Lee’s stories—some romantic, some insane, all borderline exaggerated. He loved the old man’s fire, his flair for theatrics, his unwavering belief in love.

But the thing was, Heeseung didn’t believe in love. At least not for himself.

Love happened, sure. It was cute in theory. Like puppies. Or those couples who held hands in grocery store aisles. But for Heeseung? The concept belonged in other people’s lives. He had things to build. A company to run. An empire to uphold. There wasn’t room in his carefully scheduled, emotionally vacuum-sealed world for candlelit dinners and grand declarations.

“Seung,” Grandpa Lee began, already digging into the contacts on his ancient phone like he was summoning a spell. “One of the kids—from—uh—SunTech, I think. His granddaughter—”

“Not interested,” Heeseung groaned, dragging his chair out and dropping into it like a man preparing for battle. He turned on his computer and focused all his energy on his Google Calendar, as if the overlapping blocks of color could protect him from whatever matchmaking scheme was brewing.

“She’s your age,” Grandpa insisted, swiping through what looked like a very poorly lit photo. “Exceptionally bright. Lovely eyes. Probably fertile—”

“I don’t care,” Heeseung said, without even blinking.

Grandpa Lee scoffed so hard, Jake briefly checked the air conditioning to make sure it wasn’t just the vents.

“Jake, my boy,” the old man thundered, turning to Jake with the dramatic flourish of a stage actor mid-soliloquy, “you best prepare an umbrella for tonight. The ancestors are going to cry from how rude my grandson is.”

Jake coughed behind his hand, clearly losing the battle not to laugh.

“Rude?” Heeseung repeated, eyes still fixed on his screen. “Didn’t you run away from your family to marry Grandma?”

“She was the love of my life,” Grandpa snapped, puffing out his chest like he was about to monologue about moonlight and destiny. Again.

“And didn’t you yell something along the lines of—what was it?” Heeseung pretended to think for a beat, then smirked. “Oh right. ‘Kiss my ass.’”

Grandpa Lee’s face wrinkled into an affronted frown. “You little—!”

He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, cane in one hand like he was about to duel.

Jake peeked up from behind his laptop, eyes wide, mildly alarmed.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking irritatingly calm. “Just saying, if rebellion for love was good enough for you, maybe rebellion against love is good enough for me.”

“You’re twisting my legacy, you arrogant little–” Grandpa snapped.

Heeseung let out a long-suffering sigh. “I love you, Grandpa,” he said, not without sincerity, “I really do. But I don’t think—”

Whack.

The cane came down with expert precision, connecting with the top of Heeseung’s head before he could finish the sentence.

“Ow—! What the hell?! Grandpa!” Heeseung hissed in pain, one hand flying up to his hair as he recoiled in disbelief.

“That,” Grandpa Lee said, lowering his cane with the pride of a seasoned warrior, “was for being stupid. I may be old, but I’m not senile.”

Jake, valiantly trying to remain neutral, let out a sound that could only be described as a muffled snort, quickly masked behind his coffee cup. He was, unfortunately, enjoying this far more than his employee handbook allowed.

“You assaulted me,” Heeseung muttered, rubbing his scalp and glaring at the very man who used to tuck him in with bedtime stories about elopements and destiny.

“That wasn’t assault,” Grandpa countered, straightening his lapels. “That was discipline. You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Jake quietly slid a packet of ice from the mini fridge toward Heeseung’s desk like a peace offering. Heeseung took it with a scowl, pressing it to his head as Grandpa settled back into the chair he had so dramatically abandoned.

“I’m not saying fall in love today,” Grandpa continued, voice a touch gentler now. “But open your eyes. One day, someone is going to walk into your life—and she won’t give a damn about your meetings or your title or your five-year plan. She’ll probably be a disaster. A whirlwind. And exactly what you need.”

Heeseung stared at him, unimpressed. “You’ve been watching those stupid dramas again, haven’t you?”

“I like them,” Grandpa sniffed, unbothered. “They speak to the soul. And unlike you, they have range. Emotional range."

Jake lost the battle with his laughter, letting it escape in a quiet wheeze.

Heeseung gave him a sharp look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not at all,” Jake said, already typing something into his notes app with far too much amusement. “Should I call Legal and ask about emotional damages from relatives?”

“Call a therapist while you’re at it,” Heeseung muttered.

Grandpa Lee stood again, “I’m not cancelling the date with SunTech’s granddaughter,” he announced, as if this declaration were final, written in stone, sealed by the ancestors themselves.

Heeseung groaned, already feeling the migraine bloom behind his eyes. “Grandpa. Cancel it. I’m not sitting around awkwardly sipping tea with some random girl—”

“Not random. SunTech’s granddaughter,” Grandpa corrected, his tone haughty, as though the corporate pedigree alone should be enough to send Heeseung into a frenzy of romantic interest.

“You don’t even know her name.”

“It’s something to do with the sun,” Grandpa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Sunny? Sunrise? Sunhwa? Something celestial. The details aren’t important.”

“Oh, I think they are,” Heeseung deadpanned.

“Seung.” His grandfather’s voice softened with a rare touch of sincerity. “Please. Just one date. One.”

Heeseung hesitated. Not because he was considering it, but because he was trying—desperately—to find a way out that didn’t involve disappointing the man who once taught him how to drive and also how to spot a bad merger.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“And why not?”

Heeseung opened his mouth, then closed it. Thought. Thought harder. Came up with absolutely nothing. His brain was a clean whiteboard where excuses usually lived, but today, apparently, they’d taken the morning off.

He glanced at Jake. Still in his chair. Still sipping his iced Americano. Still laughing silently behind his laptop like this was a free improv show with catered snacks.

“Because…?” Grandpa prompted, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Jake?” Heeseung said, turning toward his assistant like a man clinging to the edge of a lifeboat.

Jake blinked. The sip of coffee in his mouth stalled somewhere in his throat.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

Heeseung’s eyes screamed Help me. Jake’s brain screamed Why do I work here. But somewhere between panic and pity, an idea emerged—terrible, reckless, and unquestionably effective.

Jake cleared his throat. “Because,” he said slowly, “Mr. Lee already… has a girlfriend.”

The room went still.

Utterly, impossibly still.

Heeseung blinked once. “I what.”

Grandpa Lee's gaze sharpened like a hawk spotting prey. “You what?”

Jake could feel the weight of both their stares, but he pressed on, fully embracing the reckless commitment of a man now in far too deep.

“Yes,” he nodded, his voice unnaturally bright. “He has a girlfriend. Very real. Extremely non-fictional. You just haven’t met her yet.”

Heeseung turned to him slowly, his face a portrait of stunned betrayal. “Jake.”

Jake gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Go with it.”

Grandpa folded his arms, skeptical. “And why haven’t I met this girlfriend?”

Jake hesitated for only half a second—just long enough for his brain to spin a web of half-truths and whole lies. “Well, it’s still new. They only started seeing each other last month. And Heeseung’s, you know…” He looked at his boss meaningfully. “Shy.”

Heeseung let out a sound that could only be described as internal screaming.

“Shy?” Grandpa repeated, eyebrows raised like the concept was foreign.

Jake nodded solemnly. “Very reserved when it comes to feelings. Doesn’t like to share until he’s sure. That’s why he hasn’t said anything. It’s still early, and he’s trying not to mess it up.”

For a moment, Grandpa said nothing.

Just stood there, his sharp eyes narrowing, gears visibly turning behind them like he was piecing together a very juicy puzzle.

Then—“It’s that… Bread Girl, isn’t it?”

Heeseung blinked. “Bread girl?”

The name rang a bell. Faintly. Something Grandpa had muttered earlier about a chaotic woman who’d been assaulting his company’s carb inventory with reckless abandon. Right. Jake’s friend. The one who'd been in his conference room. The one who chewed like it was a competitive sport and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Jake’s eyes widened in alarm. “You… you saw her?”

“She knocked into me on her way out of the conference room just now,” Grandpa said, nostrils flaring like he was reliving the moment. “Nearly knocked my cane out of my hand. I was ready to launch into a full lecture on manners and public decency—until I saw the amount of bread she had crammed in her arms.”

He smiled, clearly delighted. “That’s when I knew. She wasn’t being rude. She was just in love. Hungry and in love. My favorite combination.” And without further warning, he pulled Heeseung into a firm, proud hug. “Keeping my granddaughter-in-law well-fed. That’s my boy.”

Heeseung stood there like a mannequin in a hostage scenario, arms limp at his sides, staring over Grandpa’s shoulder with wide, blinking disbelief. His gaze locked on Jake, who looked dangerously close to either exploding with laughter or faking his own death.

Was he going to throw his best friend under the bus?

Apparently, yes.

“Yep,” Jake said with a helpless shrug. “That’s her.”

Heeseung opened his mouth to protest—but then paused. The wheels in his brain, previously stuck in panic mode, began to turn. Slowly, reluctantly, but undeniably. There was an idea forming. A stupid, dangerous, possibly reputation-ruining idea.

But it might just work.

“She’s… shy,” Jake added, already spinning the web a little further, clearly hoping Heeseung would not kill him in his sleep later. “Which is why she hasn’t been introduced yet. It’s still… new.”

Grandpa pulled back just enough to give Heeseung a squint of suspicion. “New?”

Heeseung hesitated.

And then, with the kind of sigh one gives right before jumping off a metaphorical cliff, he nodded. “Yeah. We, uh… only started seeing each other last month.”

“She’s still adjusting,” Heeseung continued, falling into the role with the grim acceptance of a man who’d rather fake a relationship than go on another one of Grandpa’s curated matchmaking setups. “Not really used to… all this.”

“All this?” Grandpa gestured around the office.

“The… CEO thing,” Heeseung said, waving vaguely. “The attention. The—uh—pressure. You know how it is.”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes further, scrutinizing his grandson with the intensity of a man deciding whether to believe a magician or demand to see what’s up his sleeve.

Finally, after a beat of silence: “So you’re saying the girl who wiped her face with her sleeve in your conference room... is your girlfriend.”

Heeseung nodded once. “Yes?"

Grandpa considered. Then smiled. “Well, damn. That explains the crumbs.”

Heeseung exhaled slowly, like he’d just avoided death by PowerPoint. “So you’ll cancel the SunTech date now?”

Grandpa chuckled, already heading toward the door. “Of course, of course. I would never interfere in true love. But now that I know she’s real…” He paused dramatically at the door. “I expect to meet her properly next week. Bring her to dinner. No excuses. And tell her to bring an appetite. There will be baguettes.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Jake leaned forward, voice dry and just the right amount of judgmental. “You do realize what you just did, right?”

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, groaning as he pinched the bridge of his nose like he could physically squeeze the consequences out of existence. “Jake… I’m gonna need your friend’s phone number.”

Jake stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

—-

You were halfway up the street, your backpack tugging at your shoulder and your feet dragging after a long day, when someone came jogging toward you from the bus stop.

“Hey! Hey hey—!” Jake’s voice rang out, breathless but chipper, his hand waving like he was flagging down a taxi.

You squinted at him. “Why are you running like I owe you money?”

He didn’t bother answering. Just grinned—way too wide, way too bright—and looped his arm through yours, tugging you along.

“I brought you dinner,” he announced, tone suspiciously light.

You stopped walking, brows pinched. “What?”

Jake held up a plastic bag in front of your face with exaggerated pride. The aroma hit you first, warm and familiar. You peeked inside.

Your eyes widened. “Is this—Sue’s? As in the good roast chicken?”

“With the chili oil packets,” Jake said smugly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You went all the way across town?” you asked, mouth falling open as you cradled the bag like it was gold.

He nodded, almost bouncing. “And there’s more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “More?”

“I ordered your bubble tea too. It should be here any minute.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Taro oat milk with brown sugar pearls?”

Jake mimicked a solemn oath, placing a hand over his heart. “Taro oat milk. Brown sugar pearls. No ice. Less sweet. Just how you like it.”

Your face lit up immediately. “You’re my favorite person. EVER!”

“I know,” he said, leaning into you with an overly sweet smile. “Just remember...that I love you. I love you. Deeply. Eternally. Unconditionally.”

You snorted, nudging him away with your elbow. “Okay, drama queen.”

But then he paused. His voice dipped just slightly, soft but steady. “I’m serious. I love you.”

You froze for a second.

Your smile faltered.

There was something off in his tone—too sincere, too heavy for a roast chicken and bubble tea run. You turned to look at him properly.

“Jake,” you said carefully.

He straightened, schooling his face into something resembling innocence. “Yeah?”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

Jake blinked, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You only say ‘I love you’ like that when something’s wrong. It’s your guilty voice. So what is it? Did you clog the sink again? Spill something on the couch? Sign me up for something I didn’t agree to?”

His laugh came out high-pitched and thin. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Jake.”

“It’s not bad,” he said quickly, holding up both hands.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “What did you do?”

“It’s not illegal,” he added, stepping back slightly as you took a slow, threatening step forward.

“Jake.”

He held out the roast chicken bag like a shield. “Eat first. Yell later.”

You snatched the bag but kept your gaze locked on him, lips pressed into a flat line. “Talk.”

He scratched the back of his neck, clearly stalling, eyes darting around like he was hoping a car would hit him and end the conversation.

—

The door to your shared apartment swung open with a slam, and you stormed in like a woman possessed.

Jake had barely made it through the front door before you launched yourself at him like a sleep-deprived hurricane.

“YOU—YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE—”

“Wait—WAIT—THE CHICKEN—!” he squeaked, still trying to kick his shoes off as you flailed your arms with righteous fury.

You were half-thrashing, half-swatting at him with the plastic bag still clutched in your hand, the scent of roasted garlic and chili oil trailing behind every slap. Jake yelped, stumbling backward as he grabbed the nearest couch cushion to shield himself.

“IT’S FIVE HUNDRED PER DATE!” he shrieked. “WHY ARE YOU YELLING—”

“I’M YELLING BECAUSE YOU SOLD ME LIKE I'M SOMETHING YOU CAN BUY FROM THE STORE!” you cried, swinging the chicken like it owed you rent.

Right then, Jungwon’s bedroom door flew open with a bang. His hair was sticking up in all directions, eyes wide with panic, an oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it had lost the will to live.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” he demanded, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Is someone dying?!”

“HES A FUCKING IDIOT, THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON!” you shouted, jabbing a finger at Jake like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.

From behind the couch cushion, Jake winced. “Okay, I understand that you're mad."

Jungwon blinked, processing. “Dude, what the hell did you do?"

"HE WANTS ME TO FAKE DATE HIS BOSS!” you screamed again, nearly vibrating with rage.

Jake raised a finger. “For money,” he added helpfully, as if that made the entire situation perfectly reasonable.

Jungwon stood there for a beat, then tilted his head. “...Is the boss hot?”

The entire room fell into silence.

You turned to Jake slowly, brows lifting. “Wait. Is the boss hot?”

Jake’s grin spread, lazy and far too pleased with himself. “You tell me. You met him.”

Your brain stuttered. Froze. Replayed the memory of a tall man in a dark suit, judging you with cold eyes while you stuffed your face with carbs like a gremlin.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had finally won. “You’re all insane.”

Jungwon wandered over and sat beside you, already reaching for the plastic bag. “I’m just here for the roast chicken,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Can someone pass me a leg?”

Jake, still crouched like a man dodging emotional bullets, gently placed the bag on the coffee table like it was a sacred offering. Then he looked over at you, head tilted, eyes wide and hopeful.

“So,” he said softly, “can I explain now? No hitting this time?”

You stared at him.

He grinned anyway.

And unfortunately for him, he was still within arm’s reach.

—

You sat on the couch like a judge ready to deliver a life sentence, arms crossed so tightly your shoulders were starting to cramp. The look on your face could’ve wilted houseplants. Jake, for once in his life, had the good sense to sit on the floor at a safe distance, hands folded on the coffee table like he was about to pitch a startup you were morally opposed to.

Jungwon sat cross-legged between you, gnawing on a chicken leg and swiveling his head left and right like a referee at a very dramatic tennis match.

“So,” Jake began carefully, voice high and overly gentle, “first of all, I just want to say that I love and appreciate you—”

“No,” you cut in, eyes locked on him. “Start with the part where you volunteered me—your best friend, your roommate, your tragically broke companion in poverty—to pretend to date Lee Heeseung. The CEO. The multi-billionaire. Your boss.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

Jungwon, through a mouthful of chicken, offered, “That guy’s scarier than my thesis supervisor. And mine once made someone cry over a missing footnote.”

“THANK YOU!” you shouted, pointing at Jake like you were about to sentence him to community service.

Jake threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, yes, I panicked! Grandpa Lee was in the office, demanding to know why Heeseung was single, and I didn’t know what to say! So your name just—came out!”

“Like a demon leaving your body?” you snapped.

Jake pointed a finger at you. “Also, this is kind of your fault!”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“HE SAID YOU BUMPED INTO HIM!” Jake practically shouted, voice cracking. “And he saw, like, four bread rolls in your arms!”

“It was three!” you yelled, scandalized.

Jake flailed. “Okay, THREE! Doesn’t change the fact that Grandpa Lee saw you, assumed you were stealing company bread, and decided obviously you and Heeseung were secretly dating.”

You stared at him. “In what world does that even make sense—”

“SO THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” Jake yelled dramatically, pointing like you’d been caught on a crime scene.

You gaped. “I didn’t know the old man I bumped into was Heeseung’s grandfather! How is that my fault?!”

“I don’t know!” Jake shouted back. “But somehow it is!”

Jungwon raised a hand without looking up. “To be fair, you did look suspicious carrying that much bread.”

“I WAS HUNGRY!” you barked.

Jake groaned. “Look, I didn’t plan this, okay? It happened. It’s done. And now we just need to go along with it for a few fake dates—three, four tops—and we’re good.”

You glared. “This is literally fraud.”

Jake held up a finger. “This is capitalism—and you get paid. Five hundred per date.”

You opened your mouth to yell again—then paused.

Because five hundred… times four…

Your gaze dropped to the roast chicken on the table, suspiciously thoughtful.

Jake leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing the math.”

“No.”

“You are.”

Jungwon didn’t miss a beat. “Two grand.”

“Shut up,” you and Jake snapped in unison.

You sagged into the couch like the weight of student loans had finally won. “He’s not even going to like me.”

Jake tilted his head. “He already noticed you. Asked about the girl who ‘wiped her mouth with her sleeve like she was raised in the wild.’”

Jungwon snorted so hard he nearly choked.

You exhaled, long and slow. “...Fine.”

Jake’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“But if this backfires,” you said, pointing a chicken drumstick at him with all the gravitas of a loaded weapon, “I’m shitting in your room.”

Jake didn’t even blink. “That’s fair.”

Jungwon nodded solemnly. “Reasonable terms.”

—

As Heeseung always said—often, and with great pride—he wasn’t the relationship type.

Too much work. Too much noise. Too many unnecessary emotions clogging up the schedule.

People around him dated like it was a seasonal hobby. Fell in love in spring, broke up by fall, recycled the whole cycle again by winter. But for Heeseung? It had never been appealing. He didn’t need anyone. He liked being alone. He thrived alone.

He was an expert at sidestepping dating scandals. A pro at slipping out of flirty conversations with a well-timed smile and a conveniently urgent phone call. He could survive dinner parties full of “When are you getting married?” aunties without so much as a twitch in his left eye.

Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.

Until now.

Now, he was sitting in his office—his very sleek, very expensive office—surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the Seoul skyline stretch out like a smug reminder that his life was supposed to be pristine.

And it was. Mostly.

His suit was charcoal grey, custom-tailored. His coffee, bitter and scalding, sat in its perfectly symmetrical spot on the table. His hair, of course, was slicked back with enough precision to win a military medal. Everything in his life was polished.

Everything… except this one absurd detail.

He exhaled slowly.

Jake.

Jake and his chronically reckless mouth.

This wasn’t the usual “Oops, I told the intern you’d review their pitch” kind of trouble.

This was “Oops, I told my grandpa you’re dating a girl you don’t know, and now she’s coming to a meeting at 2:30” kind of trouble.

Heeseung had handled high-stakes mergers. He’d stared down stone-faced investors and charmed half a dozen billionaires before lunch. But now? Now he was apparently in a fake relationship.

And paying for it.

Five hundred dollars per date.

He wasn’t sure which part offended him more—the relationship, or the invoice.

Jake had made it sound like she was some half-wild creature who pillaged the office pantry and vanished into the wind. Which… wasn't entirely inaccurate. But what Jake didn’t know—and what Heeseung would rather jump out the boardroom window than admit—was that he had noticed her.

Actually, he’d remembered her quite clearly.

Big eyes. Crumbs on her cheek. Confidence like she owned the place, despite clearly not belonging there. She’d looked him dead in the eye with a mouthful of bread and the pure, unbothered energy of someone who’d never been told “no” in her life. Honestly? It was a little bit impressive.

And yes. Fine. Maybe she was cute.

Not that it mattered.

Because Heeseung didn’t do feelings. He didn’t get involved. He didn’t believe in all that heart-fluttering, stars-aligning nonsense.

Cute or not, this wasn’t going to turn into anything.

It was just a favor. A fake setup. A temporary solution to a very loud grandfather.

That was all.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and breathed through his growing irritation. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to perform feelings. He didn’t want to drink overpriced coffee with some girl pretending to be his girlfriend so his matchmaking grandfather could sleep peacefully at night.

A quick glance at his watch: 2:27 p.m.

—

You were pinching Jake’s side like your entire financial future depended on it.

“Ow!” he yelped for the third time, swatting at your hand. “Okay, I need those ribs!”

You didn’t care.

You were terrified.

No—beyond terrified. Every synonym in the English language applied. Petrified, horrified, on-the-verge-of-spontaneous-combustion. Your heart was trying to launch itself into space. Your soul was threatening to exit your body via sheer panic.

“Breathe,” Jake said gently, trying to peel your claw-like grip off his hoodie. “You’re gonna be fine. You look amazing. Honestly, if you weren’t my best friend, I would've totally tried to kiss you by now.”

“You’re not helping, Jaeyun,” you hissed, teeth clenched, eyes wide and manic like you’d just seen the end of civilization.

“Right, sorry,” he said quickly—still grinning, because Jake had zero fear of death, apparently.

You glanced at your watch.

2:25.

Ten minutes until showtime.

Your heart was doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Your stomach was performing Cirque du Soleil. Your brain was stuck on a loop of elevator music and “what if” scenarios.

You looked ahead—at the sleek, modern glass door of Heeseung’s office. Too clean. Too intimidating. Too expensive-looking. Even the potted plants screamed, You don’t belong here.

The panic hit like a freight train.

Without thinking, you grabbed Jake’s arm and yanked him back, nearly slamming both of you into a very offended-looking potted plant near the elevator.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, voice shaking, hands clammy. “I cannot do this.”

Jake blinked. “Whoa—okay. Deep breath. You can do this. You’re just nervous.”

“Nervous is messing up a group project. This is like—I don’t know—faking a relationship with a corporate cyborg while praying I don’t end up blacklisted from every job ever.”

Jake made a soothing gesture. “He’s just a guy. A guy in a very expensive suit with the social skills of a brick and a caffeine addiction that’s borderline medical.”

You let out a half-sob. “Jake, what if I say something weird? What if I trip? What if he hates me on sight and then cancels the whole thing and somehow calls my school and gets me expelled just for existing—”

“Hey.” Jake grabbed your shoulders, firm but gentle. “Look at me.”

You did. Barely.

“You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re gorgeous. You’re the only person I trust with this because you’re the only one who could handle him. Even when he’s acting like some emotionally stunted AI in a suit.”

You sniffed. “I hate you.”

Jake smiled, soft and annoyingly sincere. “Love you too. Now breathe, princess.”

You inhaled. Exhaled.

Inhaled again. Slower.

It helped. Barely. But it helped.

Jake stepped back and nudged you gently toward the glass doors. “Go in there. Pretend you like him. Pretend you’re not thinking about chicken. Smile. Look mysterious. Say something deep like, ‘I don’t really believe in love.’ He’ll be confused. That’s how you win.”

A dry laugh escaped you—half squirrel, half dying engine. But still. A laugh.

Your watch blinked again.

2:28.

Showtime.

You straightened your shoulders, fixed your expression into something halfway pleasant, and took a step forward.

Let the corporate fake dating games begin.

—-

Heeseung sat alone in his office, posture perfect, fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee cup. His suit was sharp, pressed so crisply it practically gleamed. His expression, as always, unreadable.

Except for the slight crease in his brow.

Because she was late.

He glanced at his watch.

2:31.

Not catastrophic. But still. He didn’t like being made to wait. Especially not by someone he was paying.

He exhaled quietly, sipped his coffee, and shifted his gaze to the window—

—just in time to watch a girl crash headfirst into the glass office door.

He blinked.

There was a muffled thud, followed by a dramatic, “OW, MY FACE!” and Jake’s voice yelling, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY?!”

The girl stumbled back, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other still valiantly clutching a bubble tea with a bent straw and a leaking lid. Her dress was cute, her hair a little windswept, and her face was lit up in full, blazing embarrassment.

Heeseung stared.

“This is your fault,” she snapped at Jake, rubbing the growing red mark on her forehead.

“If you hadn’t roped me into this, I wouldn’t have walked straight into your invisible death door.”

Jake gasped, wounded. “My fault?! Are you blind?! The door wasn’t even moving!”

“I was panicking! I thought you were going to shove me through it like a sacrificial lamb!”

“You were already walking!”

“You said, ‘smile and act normal’ right before I hit it. What part of that was helpful?!”

“You looked cute! Until, you know… the impact.”

Inside the office, Heeseung remained still. Coffee in hand. Silent. Watching.

Through the glass, their chaotic little argument carried on without shame. You were waving your hands in frustration; Jake was holding your elbow with exaggerated concern, both exasperated and wildly entertained.

It was loud. Messy. Unprofessional.

It was… oddly funny.

A faint tug pulled at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth before he even noticed it.

Not quite a laugh. Not quite a smirk.

Just… the suggestion of something warm.

Jake finally spotted him and started waving like a man trying to signal an aircraft.

“Let’s go already! He hates tardiness.”

You turned.

Your eyes met Heeseung’s through the glass—annoyed, wide-eyed, bubble tea still clutched like a fallen soldier in one hand.

Heeseung raised his coffee in silent acknowledgment.

And nodded.

You swallowed. “Great,” you muttered. “He saw all of that, didn’t he?”

“Every second,” Jake said cheerfully.

You groaned and took a cautious step forward. Jake placed a hand on your back and gently—but undeniably—shoved you through the door like you were an offering to royalty.

He guided you across the room like a handler walking a nervous show dog.

“Mr. Lee,” Jake said smoothly, already shifting into his polished Assistant Mode. “This is my friend.”

Heeseung didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on his coffee mug, fingers tapping lightly along the rim like it was conducting an orchestra only he could hear.

You stood stiffly in front of him, hands clasped like you were about to deliver a public apology. Jake stood beside you with the smug energy of a man watching chaos unfold exactly as he planned.

Finally, Heeseung looked up.

His eyes moved from Jake to you.

To your forehead.

Back to your eyes.

“…You’re late,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “It’s 2:32.”

“Yes,” Heeseung replied. “Which is not 2:30. Like we originally planned.”

Your jaw twitched. “Psycho,” you muttered, just loud enough for a small god to hear.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

You straightened. “Sorry. I meant… yes, I know. Won’t happen again.”

Jake nudged your side and whispered, “Off to a strong start.”

—

The past five minutes were the longest of your life.

You stared at your feet. Then your thumbs. Then the floor again, like something might appear to save you. A trapdoor, maybe. Or the sweet embrace of the earth swallowing you whole.

Heeseung, meanwhile, had been staring at you. The entire time.

Not speaking. Not blinking. Just… watching.

Jake sat between you like a silent referee, sipping his coffee with the energy of someone watching a sitcom he’d accidentally created.

It was weird. Weird. Weird. Unbearably weird.

Finally, mercifully, Heeseung cleared his throat. The sound cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“I prepared a contract,” he said, voice calm. Businesslike. As if you weren’t about two minutes away from passing out in his office.

You blinked. “A contract? For something as—” you stopped, but it was too late—“as stupid as this?”

There was a pause.

Heeseung’s brow lifted. Just slightly. “Stupid?”

You froze. Your mouth opened. Nothing helpful came out.

“I didn’t mean—it’s not—I’M stupid,” you blurted, clapping your hands over your face. “That’s what I meant. I’m stupid. Please ignore everything I say for the next ten years.”

Jake choked on his drink.

You kept your face buried in your palms, wondering if anyone in the building would trade places with you. Janitor? Security guard? Plant in the corner?

Heeseung said nothing. For a long second.

Then, very dryly: “Good to know.”

You groaned.

Jake leaned over, voice low and unhelpfully cheerful. “You’re doing great.”

“Mr. Lee has written up a draft of the contract,” Jake said, slipping into full assistant mode, posture straight, tone clipped and professional.

You squinted at him. “Ew. Why are you talking like that?”

Jake glanced at you, then back at Heeseung with a sigh. “I’m working, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh. Right.” You scratched your neck, sheepish. “Forgot.”

Across the table, Heeseung bit his bottom lip—subtly, quickly—but it didn’t go unnoticed. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time since you walked into the room, something shifted. His eyes didn’t look annoyed anymore.

Amused, maybe. Just slightly.

Dangerously close to smiling.

Jake cleared his throat, snapping back to task. “In the contract,” he continued, “you’ll find a breakdown of the terms—including Mr. Lee’s expectations, your responsibilities as his… companion—” he winced a little at the word “companion,” “—and a list of things you’re explicitly not allowed to do.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what? Wear Crocs in public?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, yes. Clause six.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

Heeseung finally spoke, smooth and unbothered. “I don’t joke about footwear.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Jake leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee again like he was watching live theatre.

“Okay… and what else?” you asked, trying—and failing—to sound chill.

Jake cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Clause five…Physical��”

Heeseung looked up, expectant. “Yes?”

Jake made a face like he was already regretting his entire existence. “Do I… have to explain it?”

“Yes,” Heeseung said calmly, without even looking up from the contract. “It’s in the terms.”

You squinted at him. “Terms? What is this, fake dating or joining the military?”

Jake pressed on. “Physical contact. Mr. Lee has stated that there should be… none. Or at least not without clear, mutual agreement. No uninvited touching. No sudden… anything. Basically—don’t grope the CEO.”

You choked. “What?! I wasn’t—Why would—That wasn’t even on the table—”

Jake raised both hands. “I’m just reading the clause!”

Your face went red. Hot. Instantly.

You turned to Heeseung, eyes wide. “Not that I was planning to touch you or anything! Like, why would I—Not that you’re—okay, you are technically—”

You made a sound that wasn't even a word and slapped a hand over your own mouth.

Jake let out a slow, gleeful exhale. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

You groaned and sank lower in your seat. “I hate it here.”

Heeseung, annoyingly composed, glanced up at you. His expression unreadable… but his lips twitched. Barely.

You swore he was enjoying this.

You had been in the office for an hour.

One full hour.

Sixty minutes of your life you were never getting back, spent listening to Jake read through a contract like a local news anchor trying to make tax reform sound exciting.

“…Clause twelve: Should the second party—meaning you—be asked to attend any corporate function, you will refrain from referring to the first party—meaning Mr. Lee—as ‘my sugar daddy,’ even in jest.”

You blinked. “That… needed to be clarified?”

Jake didn’t look up. “You’d be surprised.”

You slowly slid further down in your seat, gripping your bubble tea like it was the last tether to your sanity. Your legs had gone numb. Your dignity had long since packed its bags and fled the room. And the worst part?

You still had to sign this thing.

All this—for a whopping two grand.

Across the table, Heeseung was unmoved. He hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes, just sipped his now-cold coffee and occasionally made a small note in the margins like he was preparing for a stockholders’ meeting instead of a fake relationship.

Jake flipped the page. “Clause thirteen…”

You groaned. “There are thirteen?”

Jake looked up. “We’re only halfway through.”

You dropped your head to the table.

This was your life now.

—

You had officially entered hour two of your Fake Dating Orientation.

Jake, your overly enthusiastic best friend and traitor to your dignity, was seated across from you like a talk show host who’d been waiting all day for the drama. He’d already gone through the entire contract. Twice. And now, unfortunately, it was time for the “chemistry test.”

“We’re going to do a little practice,” he announced, clasping his hands together. “Let’s see how well you two can sell this.”

You blinked. “Sell what, exactly?”

Jake beamed. “That you’re in love, of course.”

You visibly recoiled. “Oh god.”

Heeseung, seated beside you, didn’t say anything, but his entire body tensed like he’d just been told he had to perform on a game show. His fingers gripped the armrest, jaw tight.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at you.

Then you both looked in opposite directions so fast it would’ve given a chiropractor whiplash.

Jake leaned forward, utterly enjoying himself. “Okay. Pretend you’re on a casual third date. You’re into each other. You’re comfortable. There’s hand-holding. Eye contact. Smiles. Soft laughter. Possibly some light touching of the knee if you're really ambitious.”

You turned your head just enough to catch Heeseung already looking your way. Your eyes met. Instantly, you looked back at the floor.

Your cheeks were burning.

So were his ears.

Jake let out the loudest, most exaggerated sigh in human history. “You two haven’t even held hands yet.”

“I don’t—this is ridiculous. I don’t need acting lessons,” Heeseung muttered, running a hand through his hair in mild frustration, clearly more flustered than he was willing to admit.

“Clearly you do,” you mumbled under your breath.

He turned his head slowly. “Your face is flushed.”

You raised a brow. “Your ears are red.”

That shut him up.

For a second, the two of you just stared at each other. Not blinking. Not smiling. Like two cats waiting to see who flinched first.

Then you both sneered. Simultaneously.

Jake, watching from the corner of the room like a director overseeing a painfully awkward indie film, clapped once. “Amazing. So natural. This is going great. Really convincing chemistry.”

You and Heeseung didn’t look away from each other.

He raised an eyebrow like this was some kind of silent battle.

You narrowed your eyes in return, mouth twitching.

Jake clapped his hands together like a game show host about to announce the bonus round. “Alright. Let’s take it out there.”

You squinted at him. “Out where? Hell?”

Jake ignored the comment. “The office. The hallway. The real world. You two need a test run.”

Heeseung exhaled through his nose. “This is stupid.”

Jake raised a brow. “Should I just go ahead and reschedule that SunTech date, then? I’m sure she’d love a Thursday dinner.”

Heeseung shot him a look. “You’re forgetting you work for me.”

Jake smiled sweetly. “And you’re forgetting you need me to fix this mess.”

You, meanwhile, were sprawled on the couch like an exhausted Victorian heroine. “I’m bored.”

Jake turned, hands on hips. “You’re getting paid five hundred dollars per date to fake-date a CEO. Try to look alive.”

“Fine,” you groaned, hauling yourself up. “Let’s get this over with. What exactly do you want us to do? Gaze longingly into each other’s souls and whisper sweet nothings about fiscal responsibility?”

Heeseung rolled his eyes. “She’s really dramatic.”

“And you’re really uptight,” you shot back.

Jake clapped again, delighted. “Perfect. Just like a real couple.”

You both glared at him.

“Okay,” Jake continued, stepping into director mode. “Stage one: casual physical affection. We’re going for subtle intimacy. Nothing over-the-top. Just enough to make people go, ‘Hmm. They might be sleeping together.’”

Heeseung nearly choked on air.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jake gestured between you like a choreographer. “Heeseung, arm around her waist. And you, try not to look like you’re being taken hostage.”

Heeseung looked vaguely alarmed. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Jake said cheerfully. “Like you’ve touched another human being before. Preferably without looking like it’s a tax audit.”

There was a long pause.

Then, reluctantly, Heeseung stepped closer. His hand hovered awkwardly near your waist like it had never been introduced to the concept of touch.

You raised your eyebrows. “You’re not disarming a bomb.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re… shorter than I thought.”

“I’m wearing flats.”

“Still. Noted.”

Jake watched with glee as Heeseung finally, finally placed his hand on your waist—so lightly it was barely there. You tensed anyway. Because apparently your nervous system hadn’t signed off on this level of contact.

Jake turned to you. “And you, sweetheart, try not to smile like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

You bared your teeth in what could only generously be described as a grimace.

Heeseung glanced at you. “That’s your fake dating face?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“You look like you’re about to offer me life insurance.”

You sighed. “Okay, let’s not pretend you’re Mr. Suave. You touched me like I’m made of porcelain and trauma.”

“I didn’t want to overstep.”

Jake, now leaning on the doorway like a proud parent at a talent show, was positively glowing. “This is amazing. I should be charging admission.”

You groaned. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost,” Jake said, eyes twinkling. “Now walk out there. Just a quick lap around the office. Arm around her waist. Maybe whisper something flirty if you’re feeling bold. Bonus points if someone drops their coffee.”

You turned to Heeseung, who looked like he’d rather be hit by a bus.

He glanced back at you.

You both exhaled.

And in perfect, miserable unison, you muttered, “Let’s just get this over with.”

—-

At the entrance of Heeseung’s office, Jake had—because of course he did—another brilliant idea.

“Let’s try a… scenario,” he’d said, eyes gleaming like he’d just discovered a new form of social torture. “Something romantic. Circumstantial. Like you just got caught in a moment. You know, one of those ‘oh, didn’t see you there, just happened to be holding each other and laughing softly’ kind of deals.”

You and Heeseung stared at him in silence.

Jake pointed to the glass wall just beside the door. “Over there. That’s your stage.”

So now, here you were—pressed awkwardly to the side of the office entrance, standing shoulder to shoulder with Lee Heeseung, the human embodiment of a luxury watch ad.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m gonna be completely honest,” you whispered, glancing up at him. “I forgot the plan.”

He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There shouldn’t be a plan.”

You frowned. “What?”

“This kind of thing,” he said, voice lower now, thoughtful, “should be natural. If we rehearse every little move, it’ll look fake.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because honestly?

You had no idea how to make it look real.

You’d never been on a fake date before.

Actually, you’d never even been on a real date.

You’d spent your entire life chasing deadlines, side gigs, tuition payments, and discount ramen packs—love had never exactly made it into the schedule. Flirting was an optional elective you never had time to take. The closest you’d ever gotten to romantic tension was arguing with a vending machine.

And now here you were. Being gently stared at by a man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and eyes like he was actually trying to understand you. You had half a mind to pull the fire alarm and flee.

Instead, you cleared your throat and said, “Right. Natural. Got it. So should I just… laugh at nothing? Flip my hair and pretend you said something charming?”

Heeseung smirked—actually smirked—and looked away. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m trying,” you hissed.

“I can tell.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Well, you’re not exactly oozing romance either, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”

He huffed a small laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Do you always insult the people you fake date?”

“Just the ones who critique my performance before the show starts.”

He glanced back at you then, gaze lingering a bit longer this time. “You’re nervous.”

You stiffened. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“No, I’m—”

“You keep tapping your fingers.”

You looked down. Your hand was, in fact, tapping against your thigh like it was performing a solo.

“…It’s called rhythm,” you muttered.

Heeseung just gave you a look.

And for a moment, just a moment, the tension shifted. Slightly softer. Slightly less unbearable.

Heeseung exhaled slowly and said, almost reluctantly, “Let’s just… be still for a second. Pretend we’re mid-conversation. Look relaxed.”

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

From inside the office, Jake was pressed dramatically against the glass, holding his phone up like he was filming a nature documentary.

You both ignored him.

Mostly.

Then, quietly, Heeseung said, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

You blinked. “What, pretend to be someone’s fake girlfriend?”

He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated. Then sighed. “I’ve never been any kind of girlfriend.”

Heeseung looked at you.

Not judgmental. Not surprised.

Just… quiet.

And for the first time, you wished this moment wasn’t fake. Just for a second.

Then Jake knocked on the glass like a proud zookeeper.

“THAT LOOKS AMAZING!” he yelled. “Now do a forehead touch!”

You turned back to Heeseung, mortified.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Heeseung nodded. “Absolutely not.”

But when he looked at you again, his ears were pink. And this time, yours were too.

—-

The next few days were absolutely unhinged.

When Jake told you Heeseung was meticulous, you thought he meant the occasional Google Calendar reminder. What he actually meant was: this man plans your fake relationship like it’s a Fortune 500 company launch.

From Monday to Friday, he had everything scheduled down to the minute.

Monday

"Coffee shop. 2 p.m. Look approachable."

Those were his exact words. Not cute. Not casual. Approachable. Like you were a storefront. You showed up early—naturally—and promptly spilled oat milk across the table trying to jab your straw into your cup. It exploded like a dairy crime scene.

Heeseung just stared at you. Then slid a napkin across the table, deadpan. You muttered, “You're welcome for the entertainment.”

You made fun of his black coffee. “You drink it like a bitter old man who’s lost faith in humanity.”

He looked at your lavender oat milk iced monstrosity. “And your drink choices are one of a six-year-old’s.” 

You laughed. 

He didn’t.

But his eyes softened. Just a little.

Tuesday

PR strategy, according to Jake: “Be seen. Look adorable. Pretend you like each other.”

You: showed up in his office.

Also you: immediately raided the pantry and stole three muffins.

Heeseung watched from his desk. Said nothing. Pretended to type very seriously while clearly watching you.

You plopped down on his couch, opened your laptop, and made very dramatic “working” noises.

At one point, your laptop screen dimmed. Before you could even react, he walked over silently and plugged in your charger.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” He just shrugged and returned to his desk. But you caught it. The ghost of a smile as he sat down. Like he was trying not to like you. Failing, obviously.



Wednesday

You accompanied him to a fake business lunch.

There were women in designer outfits, expensive perfume clouding the air, and stiletto heels you were sure doubled as weapons. They looked at you like you’d crawled out from under the table.You sat there in an old blouse your mom gave you, heart thumping in your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the ketchup stain you thought you removed.

You fidgeted. Overthought. Considered hiding under the table.

Then Heeseung leaned in, so close his breath grazed your ear. “You’re doing fine.” That was it. Just those words.

And you didn’t remember a single thing after that. You just nodded and smiled and let those three words replay in your head like a calming song.

Later, in the car, you kicked off your heels like they’d personally betrayed you. He raised an eyebrow.

“A little dramatic, no?”

“I’ve suffered,” you whined.

 He handed you a water bottle and rolled the windows down.

 “You’re welcome,” he said.

 You rested your feet on the dash. Caught him looking at you at a red light.

 He looked away too fast. Suspiciously fast.

Thursday

You brought takeout to his office, unannounced.

He looked up when you entered, blinking like you’d just done something absurd. “You brought food?”

“Yes. Humans eat. Shocking, I know.”

You sat on the floor beside his desk. He joined you. In a full suit. Cross-legged like a model student, tie undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You offered him a dumpling. He took it. No hesitation.

 You grinned. “Isn’t it so good?”

He chewed. “Greasy.”

“But good?”

He hesitated. “If I say yes, will you stop bothering me?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You pretended not to notice the way his eyes lingered on your face longer than they needed to.

Friday

You were late. By five minutes.

He texted: “Late.”

You texted back: “Cry about it.”

He didn’t reply.

You arrived out of breath, annoyed, hair windswept and bag hanging off one shoulder like you’d run a marathon to get there.

He just handed you a drink. Your favorite.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look smug. Just passed it to you with one hand and opened the door to a rooftop garden with the other. Of course he had a rooftop garden. Because he was secretly the male lead of a tragic romantic comedy and you were starting to hate how well the role fit.

You sat on the bench beside him, knees brushing under the table. “You’re so serious all the time,” you said, teasing. “Do you even know how to smile?” He scoffed. 

“Do you even know how to tell a joke?”

 “Excuse me—I am hilarious.”

 “You’re… something.”

—-

You lay in bed, burrito-wrapped in your blanket, one arm tucked under your head and the other dramatically thrown across your eyes like a Victorian ghost overcome by mild emotional instability.

Your ceiling stared back at you like it knew.

And unfortunately, your brain did that thing it loved to do: play a full highlight reel of the past week.

It had been five days.

Five fake dates.

You were getting paid five hundred dollars per day to pretend to like Lee Heeseung.

That was the deal. The entire deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And honestly? Not a bad one. Amazing hourly rate. Low stakes. You just had to hang out with a man who looked like a luxury perfume ad and acted like a spreadsheet given life.

You could do that.

You had survived retail during Christmas and three years of sharing a bathroom with Jungwon.

And yet… somehow, you were the one spiraling.

Because Heeseung wasn’t awful.

Actually—he was kind of…

Nice.

Underneath the sleek suits and emotionally stunted persona, he was… oddly considerate. The kind of guy who noticed when your laptop was dying and plugged it in without comment. Who remembered your coffee order after one chaotic spill. Who didn’t flinch when you shoved dumplings into his mouth like a sleepover buddy instead of a business partner.

And okay, fine. He was also really easy on the eyes.

With his annoyingly sharp jawline and those lips that were probably illegal in several countries. And the way his tie loosened around his neck by Thursday, and how he laughed—actually laughed—at your dumb joke on Friday.

You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, burying your face into your pillow.

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

You barely knew him. You’d been fake-dating for a week. You didn’t even know what kind of music he liked. For all you knew, he could be a hardcore jazz saxophone guy. Or worse—he liked podcasts about finance.

This wasn’t real. You were faking it.

Professionally.

And still…

You wondered what it would feel like to hold his hand with no one watching. No “scene” to pull off. No Grandpa to impress. Just… you. And him. And the quiet weight of something unsaid.

You wondered—horrifyingly—what it would feel like to kiss him.

Just once.

Just to see.

You smacked your forehead. “I need therapy.”

The worst part? It wasn’t even entirely about Heeseung.

You were realizing, in a slow, sinking kind of way, that your romantic life was… embarrassing.

Jake, your best friend-slash-chaos goblin, didn’t count. Jungwon, your honorary brother, sure as hell didn’t count. And your last date had been someone who said “let’s split the bill” and then left you with it.

You hadn’t been around someone kissable in a long time.

And now you were being paid to fake-date someone who might actually ruin your life if you let him.

You groaned into your mattress again.

At this rate, you were going to fall for your fake boyfriend before your first paycheck cleared.

—

Heeseung was not sleeping.

It was after midnight. The city outside was quiet. His entire house was dark.

And all he could think about… was you.

Which made no sense.

You had shown up in his life like a whirlwind. Unpredictable. Loud. Crumb-covered. You drank rainbow-colored lattes and wiped your mouth on your sleeve and called his contract “stupid” without blinking.

But you’d also fed him dumplings on the office floor—the office floor—which he’d never sat on in his life. But then you’d whined, kicked your feet like a brat, and said, “Just join me. Or are you too much of a rich bitch to?”

And that was all it took for Lee Heeseung—the picture of corporate perfection—to sit beside you, cross-legged, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You’d teased him until he smiled without realizing. You’d let your legs rest on the dashboard and talked about nothing like it mattered. And you hadn’t cared who he was. Not the CEO. Not the heir. Just… Heeseung.

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling with all the enthusiasm of a man confronting his own emotional shortcomings.

Was he really catching feelings after five “fake” dates?

Apparently, yes.

Which was alarming.

He had spent his entire adult life navigating business galas and high-end blind dates with elegant, polished women. The kind who wore heels taller than his emotional range. He knew how to charm. How to play the part.

And yet none of them had ever stuck.

None of them made his hands twitch when they leaned in.

None of them made him smile like an idiot when they were five minutes late.

But you?

You with your loud opinions and easy laughter and tendency to steal muffins like they were currency?

You were dangerous.

And you were fake.

A fake girlfriend, in a fake arrangement, for a fake relationship.

And yet here he was—imagining what your hand might feel like in his. What your laugh might sound like in his apartment, in the morning, when you were still sleepy.

Heeseung groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

This wasn’t good.

He was supposed to be managing this. Keeping things professional. Keeping his head clear.

Instead, he was lying awake at 1:34 a.m., thinking about your smile and the way your voice got all soft when you called him out for being too serious.

God help him.

He was catching feelings.

And he was completely, utterly screwed.

part 2

[the-real-timeloop-tourney]

Best Character Stuck in a Timeloop

Propaganda for Chonny:

- From a musical album (Doubt any other characters will be from an album) - Said Album is really good. everyone should go listen to it - This one's a bit hard to characterized bc it's sort of three characters and sort of one. Just listen to the album and it still won't make sense but at least you'll have listened to one of my favorite albums - The album has a really compelling story about the division and unification of Heart, Soul, and Mind and idk if I've said this enough but it's a really good album ------------------------------------ -whole is going through a loop of events... Very often... Including the heart, mind and soul going through those with him.

-album... Very cool.

-yeah I can't make proper propaganda for him either

Propaganda for Homura:

you are 14 years old. after your first friends at your new school revealed they are Real Life Magical Girls, they die horribly against this super powerful monster witch. you make a wish to meet your best friend again so you can save her this time. every time you try to reach a golden ending where everyone lives goes horribly wrong so you resign yourself to letting your best friend's (and once your) friends die every time so you can save your best friend. you become colder, more efficient as the loops go on. you go through the same few months around a hundred times to try to save your best friend from her fate. this time you'll save her. she sacrifices herself for the every single magical girl and becomes a god and now you're the only one who remembers her. great! hooray! anyways a win for homura is a win for magical girls (and yuri). why relive a day or so when you can relive months am i right? ------------------------------------ "Poor girl relives the same 2 months 100 times just to prevent her doomed-by-the-narrative girlfriend from dying and becoming God ------------------------------------ - Was literally in the timeloop for 12 years - Did it all for yuri - Became like. the devil (also for yuri) - magical girl who's weapon is just normal ass guns and bombs and shit " ------------------------------------ When you go into a time loop to save your girlfriend from dying but she just keeps dying horribly in every universe so you slowly start to get sick of looping and start using more direct routes to try to save her to the point where she doesn’t even know you anymore as you’re just trying to save her but it gets to the point where you’ve looped so many times trying to save her that her soul has become so powerful that she can become god only then does she remember you. And she does to free you and all the other magical girls in history from their pain but because she did this she rewrote the rules of the universe and therefore became a non physical entity and you had to watch her rebuild the universe. No one else even remembers she existed except for her little brother who sees her more as an imaginary friend than anything else and the only thing you have to remember her by is the pink ribbon that she wore in her hair. Btw you and your friends still aren’t free from being magical girls but at least you can’t become horrible monsters who are but a shell of your former self when everything becomes to much so now the only risk is dying in combat horribly instead. ------------------------------------ There was a psp game once and I'm pretty sure the whole thing was just recurring nightmares of the timeloop. Like. This isn't canon. But it lines up to me. She went to catholic school once, also, like, she deserves a win. Not because of Christianity or whatever but in spite of it.

[emchant3d]

They say Captain Munson has a gift. That he’s blessed by a god’s touch.

His ship has survived every battle. His crew flourishes with bounty, with health and good fortune. He steers them unerringly through every storm, sailing directly into the gargantuan waves, into the lightning and rain, and comes out the other side pristine while other vessels would have been sunk, snapped and splintered on the ocean floor, crew turned to ghosts to haunt the waters.

They say he made a deal, sold his soul, sold his crew’s souls, will find his reckoning one day at the end of a sword or drowned in the sea he loves so much. They say he’s a devil of his own, that his eyes glow red and black and his teeth are sharp and fanged, nails clawed, that he slaughters innocents and bathes in their blood.

But the truth is much simpler. Captain Munson is no devil, he did not sell any souls, and he certainly isn’t blessed by any god.

Captain Munson fell in love.

He didn’t mean to. When the fishing nets are reeled in that fateful day he expects nothing more than a few meals, a couple pounds to send to the kitchens for Benny to work his magic with. He isn’t even on deck when the catch is brought in.

It’s Gareth’s frantic voice that draws him upwards, his shouting and knocking on his cabin door that has him strapping a sword to his hip before taking the stairs two at a time to see the threat.

He’s expecting a King’s ship. Maybe another pirate. 

He isn’t expecting a mer.

Pale, unconscious, bleeding, sprawled on the deck, plush and soft and gorgeous, tan torso tapering down into a huge, shimmering tail. He’s breathing but it’s shallow, weak, a shell on a necklace moving faintly with each hitch of his chest.

And the crown. A simple circlet, golden and shining, tangled in his chestnut hair, gems glinting from the locks.

Mers are mythical, believed to be stories by some and history by others, but Eddie grew up hearing the tales of them every night from his mother, and the evidence is right in front of them - how can they do anything but believe?

It takes three of them to move him below deck. Eddie grips him under his arms, Gareth supports his hips, and Jeff wrangles his tail. They take him to Eddie’s quarters, the only bed big enough to fit him.

He wakes in stages, delirious from pain, snapping teeth and swinging claws when he has the strength for it and slurring rambling words when he doesn’t, head lolling on the pillow, eyes rolling back. 

His injuries are strange - a band of dark bruising around his pretty throat, his back shredded, bites taken out of the dips of his sides and the meat of his tail. There’s sickness in him, but Joyce is patient. She patches him up, soothes the mer’s fever and stitches the wounds she can, bandages what she can’t, keeps it all clean, keeps it wet because apparently that’s what he needs - salt water, which makes Eddie cringe in sympathy, but only seems to ease the mer’s pain, not make it worse.

It’s a week before those pretty eyes blink open with genuine awareness in them, sharp and wary. Eddie’s taken to sitting at the mer’s side, feels a strange responsibility to him that he doesn’t want to look too closely at, and he glances up from his journal to find the other’s gaze locked on him.

“Where am I?” he croaks out, and Eddie smiles, snapping the journal shut.

“You’re aboard the Hellfire, sweetheart. Captain Eddie Munson, at your service.” He bows in his seat, and it goes over about as well as he thought it would.

There’s a lot of threats and snarling and cursing, but Eddie simply leans back, out of the mer’s reach as he crowds himself into the corner of the mattress, back pressed to the wall and sheets tangled around his tail.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tries to soothe, and the mer scoffs. Eddie can’t blame him for his caution, but he tells him the honest truth - where he was found, the state of him, how they’ve nursed him back to health.

The mer’s hand hovers over one of the nastier wounds at his side, covered in gauze, dampened with saltwater. When he cuts his eyes back to Eddie there’s a little less animosity in his gaze, and Eddie will take what he can get.

Eventually he pulls a name from that snarling mouth. Stephan. “Prince Stephan,” he begrudgingly admits once Eddie points out the crown that he’d gently worked free of his hair. 

And he’s a mer, but different.

“Siren, is what I believe your kind calls mine,” Stephan says, “half and half. Mer and human.” 

“Human,” Eddie muses, and Stephan confesses, warily, haltingly - he’s the King’s bastard son. Born to King Richard of the land and the Mer Queen of the sea.

“And how did the Prince of the Mer find his way into my net, hm?” Eddie asks, smiling, and Stephan rolls his eyes at him. 

He’s a runaway. King Richard had come looking for his son and with his mother’s blessing Stephan abandoned his title, his home, because the King would find him eventually if he stayed, and whatever dangers he might face in the open sea would be nothing compared to what the King might use his gifts for.

“Gifts?” Eddie asks, and Stephan smiles, his pointed teeth glinting.

It’s a clear day, not a cloud to be seen, no sign of rain or bad weather. And yet as Steve begins to hum softly, a shadow crosses overhead. 

It happens slowly. Stephan’s voice builds, a wordless little melody, something melancholy and soft, and the sky beyond the windows of the cabin darkens. Thunder rolls and in the distance, Eddie can see a crack of lightning.

The ship rocks as waves begin to form, the once-smooth water taking a turn. Eddie can hear the crew above deck begin to shout to one another, confusion building, growing more insistent as Stephan’s song grows, and Eddie’s stomach drops.

The siren’s voice is haunting, terrifying. Eddie’s frozen in place, meeting his eyes even as tears well in his own. He’s transfixed, can’t move, can’t speak, paralyzed with some ancient, instinctual knowing of danger, of death.

Eddie does not scare easy. But this is terror personified. This is the true threat that lives in the sea. Not the waves, not man, this. This creature who smiles at him with sharp teeth and a haunting voice, reaching towards Eddie with a clawed hand, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear in a touch that makes Eddie’s skin crawl and his heart skip and dread sink into his very bones.

He’s staring death in the face, and death is smiling.

Then Stephan quiets, and it’s over as quickly as it had begun. The sky clears in moments. The waters calm. The vessel’s heaving calms, and Eddie’s spine unlocks.

He stares at the being before him, amazed, before a slow, brilliant smile breaks over his face.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you, Prince Stephan?” he asks, and gets a smile in return.

“Call me Steve,” he tells him, and fondness begins to worm its way into Eddie’s chest.

“Then call me Eddie.” He sees Steve’s eyes flutter, and he tilts his head. “You’re tired,” he tells him, and gets a huff in response. “You’re safe here, Steve,” he tells him, and he knows he doesn’t trust him, not fully, not yet, but that’s okay. “Rest. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Steve watches him warily, but clearly the little display has worn him out. His hand finds that same wound on his side, cradling it carefully, back shifting like it hurts to sit up straight and stretch all that marred skin.

“Lay a hand on me, and I’ll eat you,” Steve warns, and Eddie snorts a laugh. 

“Whatever you say, highness,” and he tugs the sheets back into place over that large tail, and lets the mer get the rest he still clearly needs.

part 2 💕

[wonyowonyo]

Rulebreaker's Rush (P. Chaeyoung / Rosé X M! Reader)

Wc: 7.5k

Y/N, a rebellious running back who breaks rules, gets shy and flees when caught by Rosé, the strict student council president. Their lively clashes ignite a romance, urging Y/N to face his feelings and stop running from love.

A/N: Back to back drops baby, emptying my long overdue unfinished stuffs one by one so tune in for more, as always hope yall enjoyed this one!

The Deimon High sports field pulsed with the raw energy of the Deimon Devil Bats’ afternoon practice. The sun dipped low, casting golden streaks across the grass, while the air crackled with grunts, shouts, and the sharp thud of pads colliding. At the heart of the chaos was Y/N, the team’s elusive running back, weaving through a gauntlet of tackling dummies with the grace of a shonen protagonist dodging a villain’s strike. His legs blurred, his eyes gleamed with focus, and his movements screamed speed. 

“Y/N! Stop daydreaming and hit those dummies harder!” 

Hyem’s voice sliced through the noise, sharp as a blade. The demonic quarterback stood on the sidelines, his hair catching the light, twirling a rifle like it was a toy. A burst of gunfire—blanks, mercifully—punctuated his words, making the team flinch. “You wanna be benched for the next game, ya lousy punk?!”

“N-No way, Captain!” Y/N stammered, slamming into a dummy with enough force to make it groan. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but he flashed a cheeky grin. Surviving Hyem’s reign of terror required two rules: never show weakness, and never get caught breaking the rules. Y/N was a master at the first and an artist at the second.

His mind, though, wasn’t fully on football. Hidden in his gym bag, buried under a pile of sweaty towels, was his latest contraband: a stack of limited-edition Shonen Jump manga, banned on campus for “distracting students from academic excellence.” He’d smuggled them in during lunch, slipping through the crowded halls like a running back dodging tacklers, all while evading the student council’s patrols. Those rule-enforcers were relentless, led by the most terrifying of them all: Roseanne Park or Rosé for short, the student council president, known as the Iron Lady. Poised, sharp-tongued, with a glare that could make a delinquent confess on the spot, she was a legend. Rumor had it she’d once caught a kid with gum and made him write a 500-word essay on oral hygiene. Gum.

Y/N shuddered, adjusting his helmet. Rosé wouldn’t catch him. He was too fast, too clever. As practice wound down, Hyem barked an order for sprints, and Y/N took off, the wind whistling past his ears. His teammates lagged behind, panting, while he crossed the finish line, chest heaving, grinning like he’d just pulled off a heist. Which, in a way, he had.

-

The locker room reeked of sweat, cheap body spray, and the faint glow of victory. Y/N slumped onto a bench, peeling off his pads, his gym bag at his feet. The other Devil Bats were either showering or bickering over who’d landed the most tackles, leaving him a rare pocket of quiet. Perfect. Time to check the goods.

With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, he unzipped his bag. There they were: three pristine Shonen Jump issues, their covers bursting with colorful heroes and villains. His heart gave a little leap—these were the special editions with bonus art, the kind kids on X were begging to trade for. He’d risked detention for these, and it was worth every second. He could already picture himself sprawled in his dorm, flipping through epic battles while munching on smuggled Pocky. Life didn’t get sweeter.

“Nice work today, Y/N!” Aye, his loudmouth best friend, bounded over, his monkey-like grin wide enough to split his face. “You were zippin’ past those dummies like MAX SPEED, yo!” He mimed Y/N’s run, flailing his arms like a windmill.

“Keep it down, Aye,” Y/N hissed, shoving the manga deeper into his bag. “I’m trying to stay low-key here.”

“Low-key? You?” Aye’s cackle echoed off the lockers. “You’re about as subtle as Hyem’s gunfire, man!”

Y/N opened his mouth to retort, but a voice cut through the locker room like a katana through bamboo.

“Y/N.”

His heart stopped. That voice—crisp, commanding, with a faint Australian lilt—was unmistakable. He turned, slow as a horror movie victim, and there she was: Rosé Park, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her student council armband glinting like a badge of judgment. Her long, honey-blonde hair was tied back, and her dark eyes pinned Y/N like a butterfly to a board. Her uniform—blazer, skirt, tie—looked like it belonged on a general, not a high schooler.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, her tone calm but laced with the promise of trouble.

Y/N’s mouth went dry. His brain screamed, Run! but his body froze, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “N-Nothing, Prez!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “Just, uh, gym stuff! Sweaty towels! You don’t wanna see that!”

Rosé’s eyebrow arched, a single, devastating move that said she saw through his lie like it was tissue paper. She took a step forward, and the air seemed to chill. “Hand it over,” she said, extending a hand. “Now.”

-

Y/N didn’t think. He ran.

His legs sprang into action, bag slung over his shoulder, as he bolted out of the locker room. Manga pages fluttered behind him, spilling like incriminating confetti. Rosé’s voice rang out—“Y/N, stop!”—but he was already halfway down the hall, his football reflexes kicking into overdrive. This wasn’t just a chase; it was a game, and he was the running back, weaving through the defense.

The school’s halls were a labyrinth of lockers, posters, and wide-eyed students. Y/N vaulted over a stray backpack, slid under a teacher’s rolling cart, and juked past a cluster of freshmen like they were linebackers. His heart pounded, not just from the sprint but from the thrill. He was untouchable, unstoppable, the fastest kid at Deimon High—

“Y/N, you’re only making this worse!” Rosé’s voice was closer now, far too close. He risked a glance back and nearly tripped. She was running, her skirt swishing like a cape, her face a mix of determination and exasperation. How was she so fast?! She wasn’t even sweating, her steps precise, like she’d mapped out his every dodge.

Students lined the halls, cheering like they were at a sports match. “Go, Y/N!” a kid shouted. “Bust him, Prez!” another countered. Y/N gritted his teeth, pushing harder. No way was he getting caught. Not today.

He rounded a corner, the courtyard in sight. Freedom! He could lose her in the open, maybe hide in the gardening club’s shed. His legs burned, but he grinned, picturing the manga safe, Rosé left in the dust.

A stray Shonen Jump slipped from his bag, flapping to the ground. Rosé’s foot pinned it before he could blink.

“Got you,” she said, not even out of breath.

Y/N didn’t wait for the lecture. With a desperate lunge, he dove through a side door, tumbling into a storage closet. The door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness. He crouched among brooms and buckets, heart hammering, trying not to wheeze. The bag was still with him, thank the stars, but one manga was gone. A small price for freedom.

Outside, Rosé’s footsteps paused. Y/N held his breath, praying she’d move on. 

Her voice came through the door, low and almost… amused? “You can’t run forever, Y/N. Why do you always make this so difficult?” A pause, then, quieter, like she was speaking to herself: “He’s… kind of impressive, though. That speed.”

Y/N’s brain short-circuited. Impressive? Rosé Park, the Iron Lady, had just complimented him? His face burned, and he pressed his hands to his cheeks, trying to process. Was she toying with him? Or… did she actually notice him? Like, notice notice him? His heart did a weird flip, and for a moment, he forgot he was a fugitive.

Then his foot nudged a mop. It clattered to the floor with a deafening CRASH.

The door flew open, and there was Rosé, silhouetted against the hallway light like an avenging angel. Y/N yelped, scrambling back, but there was nowhere to go. She stepped inside, arms crossed, her expression a blend of annoyance and something softer, harder to read.

“Y/N,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re a menace.” She picked up the fallen manga, flipping through it with a frown. “This is what you risked detention for? A comic book?”

“It’s not just a comic book!” Y/N blurted, then clamped his mouth shut. Great, now he sounded like a nerd. “I mean… uh…”

Rosé’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “I should confiscate this and write you up.” She paused, her eyes meeting his. “But I’ll let you off. This time. Don’t test me again.”

Y/N nodded so fast he might’ve given himself whiplash. “Y-Yes, Prez! Won’t happen again! Promise!”

She rolled her eyes, tossing the manga back to him. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

- 

Y/N stumbled back to the field, legs wobbly, clutching his bag like it was his last shred of dignity. Practice was wrapping up, the team stretching under Hyem’s predatory gaze. He tried to blend in, but his brain was a whirlwind. Rosé had let him go. She’d called him impressive. And that almost-smile? It was seared into his memory like a manga panel.

“Oi, Y/N!” Hyem’s voice snapped him out of it. The quarterback leaned against a goalpost, flipping through a notebook labeled “Blackmail Material” in his jagged scrawl. “What’s with the dumb look? Got a crush on the student council prez or somethin’?”

Y/N’s face went nuclear. “W-What?! No! Shut up, Captain!” He flailed, which only made it worse.

Aye, stretching nearby, perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag. “YO! Y/N’s in loooove?!” He struck a dramatic pose, pointing at Y/N. “The speedy delinquent and the Iron Lady! MAX ROMANCE!”

“Knock it off!” Y/N hissed, tackling Aye into the grass. Aye cackled, flopping like a fish, while Hyem’s laugh echoed like a villain’s. The rest of the team started chanting “Y/N and Rosé!” until Y/N wanted to dig a hole and disappear.

As he trudged to the showers, manga safe but his pride in tatters, Y/N couldn’t shake Rosé’s words. Kind of impressive. He glanced at the Shonen Jump in his bag, its cover hero grinning defiantly. Maybe, just maybe, he could impress her again—without breaking the rules. Or at least, without getting caught.

That night, in his dorm, Y/N sprawled on his bed, staring at a Shonen Jump cover. Rosé’s warning echoed in his head, but it felt less like a threat and more like a challenge. He grinned, heart racing. Game on, Prez.

-

The Deimon High cafeteria buzzed with the midday chaos of hungry teens, a battlefield of clattering trays, shouted orders, and the faint smell of overcooked rice. Y/N slouched at a corner table, his gym bag tucked under his seat, still buzzing from his close call with Rosé Park a few days ago. The memory of her almost-smile—and that “kind of impressive” comment—had been looping in his head like a catchy anime opening. He hadn’t dared smuggle manga since, but the itch to break rules was like a mosquito bite he couldn’t stop scratching. And today, he had a new plan. A big one.

“Yo, Y/N, you sure about this?” Aye whispered, leaning across the table, his monkey-like grin equal parts excitement and nerves. His hair bobbed as he glanced around, like they were plotting a bank heist instead of a lunch prank. “If the Iron Lady catches us, we’re toast!”

“Relax, Aye,” Y/N said, flashing a cocky grin that didn’t quite mask his own jitters. “Rosé’s stuck in a student council meeting. I checked the schedule. We’re golden.” He patted the bag under the table, where a contraband hot plate and two packs of instant ramen—spicy shrimp flavor, the good stuff—lay hidden. The school’s “no outside food” rule was strict, but Y/N wasn’t about to survive on soggy cafeteria katsu forever. This was rebellion. This was freedom.

Aye’s eyes sparkled with admiration. “MAX GUTS, man! Cooking ramen right under their noses? You’re a legend!” He mimed slurping noodles, complete with exaggerated sound effects. “Slrrrp! This is gonna be the ultimate lunch revolution!”

Y/N chuckled, but his stomach twisted. Rosé’s warning still echoed: Don’t test me again. He shook it off, picturing her in some stuffy meeting, far from the cafeteria. No way she’d catch him this time. He was Y/N, the Devil Bats’ fastest running back, master of dodging both tacklers and trouble. Right?

Unbeknownst to him, a snitchy freshman had overheard their plan and slipped a note to the student council. And Rosé Park, never one to miss a beat, was already on her way.

-

The plan was simple: plug in the hot plate under the table, boil water, cook the ramen, and scarf it down before anyone noticed. Y/N had practiced the setup in his dorm, timing it like a football play. But, as anyone knows, no plan survives contact with the enemy—or a faulty hot plate.

He and Aye hunched over the table, shielding the hot plate with their trays. Y/N plugged it in, the faint hum blending with the cafeteria din. The water started to bubble, and the spicy shrimp aroma wafted up, making his mouth water. “Almost there,” he whispered, tossing in the noodles. Aye was practically vibrating, clutching a pair of chopsticks like they were a sacred relic.

Then the hot plate sparked. A tiny, angry pop of electricity, followed by a puff of smoke. Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh, crap—”

The hot plate shorted out with a loud BZZT, sending the pot of half-cooked ramen flying. Noodles splattered across the table, broth splashed onto Aye’s shirt, and the spicy scent exploded into the air. The cafeteria went silent for a split second, every head turning to their table. Then chaos erupted.

“FOOD FIGHT!” some genius yelled, and the room descended into madness. Rice balls soared like missiles, juice cartons burst midair, and a stray bread roll clocked a kid in the forehead. Y/N ducked a flying onigiri, grabbing his bag and hissing, “Aye, we gotta go!”

But before he could bolt, a voice cut through the pandemonium like a referee’s whistle. 

“Y/N!”

His heart plummeted. There, striding through the chaos like a shonen hero stepping onto a battlefield, was Rosé Park. Her student council armband gleamed, her honey-blonde hair swayed, and her dark eyes zeroed in on him with laser precision. She didn’t even flinch as a stray dumpling sailed past her head. “Really, Y/N?” she said, her Australian lilt sharp with exasperation. “Again?”

Y/N’s bravado melted like ice cream in a microwave. His face burned, and he stammered, “P-Prez! I-I can explain!” But his legs had other ideas. He snatched his bag and sprinted, weaving through the food-flinging mob, Rosé hot on his heels.

-

The cafeteria was a war zone, but Y/N was in his element—dodging, ducking, and diving like he was on the football field. He leaped over a toppled chair, slid past a kid wielding a tray of mashed potatoes, and nearly made it to the exit. Nearly.

The crowd surged, pushing him back, and he collided with something solid. Not a table. Not a wall. Rosé. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with a grip that was somehow both firm and gentle. “Not this time, Y/N,” she said, her voice low, her eyes glinting with a mix of annoyance and—amusement?

Y/N’s brain short-circuited. They were pressed close in the chaotic crowd, her face inches from his, her faint lavender scent cutting through the ramen fumes. His heart jackhammered, and his cheeks went nuclear. “I-I’m sorry, Prez!” he blurted, his voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. “It was just ramen! I swear!”

Rosé’s lips twitched, a smirk breaking through her stern facade. “You’re faster on the field than you are at escaping me,” she teased, her Aussie accent curling around the words. Y/N’s knees wobbled. Was she flirting? No, no way, she was the Iron Lady, she didn’t flirt, she—

“GET A ROOM, YA IDIOTS!” Hyem’s voice boomed from across the cafeteria. The quarterback stood on a table, cackling, a soda can in hand like a grenade. He lobbed it, and Y/N ducked, pulling Rosé down with him. The can sailed over their heads, exploding against a wall in a fizzy spray.

Rosé sighed, releasing his wrist. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, but there was a spark in her eyes, like she was enjoying the chaos just a little.

-

The food fight ended with a teacher’s megaphone and a lot of detention slips. Y/N, as the apparent instigator, got the worst of it: cleaning the entire cafeteria, alone, under Rosé’s supervision. He stood in the now-empty room, mop in hand, grumbling as he scrubbed broth stains off a table. His gym bag, miraculously noodle-free, sat nearby, a reminder of his failed rebellion.

Rosé leaned against a wall, arms crossed, her blazer slightly rumpled from the chaos. “You know, Y/N,” she said, her tone dry, “if you put half as much effort into following rules as you do breaking them, you’d be unstoppable.”

Y/N snorted, glancing at her. “Rules are boring, Prez. Where’s the fun in that?” He expected a lecture, but Rosé just shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed a rag and started wiping down a table nearby, her movements precise but relaxed.

He blinked. “You’re… helping? Isn’t that, like, beneath the Iron Lady?”

She shot him a look, half-annoyed, half-playful. “Someone has to make sure you don’t slack off. And don’t call me that.” But her cheeks pinked slightly, and Y/N’s stomach did a weird flip. They worked in silence for a bit, the only sounds the squeak of the mop and the distant hum of the school.

Then he heard it—Rosé, humming softly. It was faint, but unmistakable: the opening theme to Hunter x Hunter, one of his favorite anime. His jaw dropped. “No way,” he blurted. “You watch that?!”

Rosé froze, her rag mid-swipe, her face flushing. “What? I—Focus on cleaning!” she snapped, but her voice was flustered, and she turned away, scrubbing the table with unnecessary vigor.

Y/N grinned, his shyness melting into mischief. “Didn’t peg you for an anime fan, Prez. Got any other secrets? You cosplay on weekends or something?”

“Shut up, Y/N,” she growled, but there was no real heat in it. She flicked a bit of water at him, and he laughed, dodging like it was a tackle. For a moment, the cafeteria didn’t feel like a punishment—it felt like… something else.

-

By the time they finished, the cafeteria gleamed, and Y/N’s arms ached. He slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to bolt, when Rosé stopped him. “Not so fast,” she said, holding out a clipboard. “You’re assisting the student council at the next football game. Crowd control, setup, that sort of thing. Consider it part of your punishment.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “What?! The game? But I’m playing in it!” The thought of Rosé watching his every move—on and off the field—made his stomach lurch. Part panic, part… excitement?

Rosé’s eyes narrowed, but there was a teasing edge to her voice. “Then you’d better behave, or I’ll bench you myself.” She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “And Y/N? No more ramen stunts.”

He nodded dumbly, watching her go, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. As soon as she was out of sight, Aye pounced, materializing like a ninja. “YO! You and the Prez were totally vibin’ in there! MAX CHEMISTRY!”

“Shut up, Aye!” Y/N hissed, shoving him. But Hyem’s cackle echoed from the hall, where the quarterback lounged, flipping through his blackmail notebook. “Heh, looks like our speedy punk’s got a new play: wooing the Iron Lady. Need some pointers, kid?”

Y/N’s face burned as he stormed off, Aye’s laughter chasing him. But deep down, he couldn’t stop replaying Rosé’s hum, her smirk, the way she’d helped him clean. Maybe this game day duty wouldn’t be so bad.

That night, Y/N practiced late on the field, running drills under the floodlights. He fumbled a catch, groaning as Rosé’s face flashed in his mind. How was he supposed to focus with her watching him? He glanced at the stands, half-expecting to see her there, and his heart skipped. Game day was gonna be a whole new kind of challenge.

-

The Deimon High stadium buzzed with pre-game energy, a cauldron of cheering students, blaring horns, and the sharp scent of popcorn and grass. The Deimon Devil Bats were set to face the Ojo White Knights, a rival team with a defense like a steel wall. Y/N stood in the locker room, lacing his cleats, his heart pounding with the familiar thrill of game day. As the team’s star running back, he lived for these moments—dodging tacklers, sprinting for the end zone, the crowd roaring his name. But today, his mind was split. Rosé Park, the Iron Lady herself, would be watching from the stands, clipboard in hand, ready to enforce his “student council punishment” from the cafeteria fiasco.

He still couldn’t shake the memory of her humming Hunter x Hunter in the cafeteria, or the way her smirk had made his stomach flip. Since then, he’d been extra careful—no manga smuggling, no ramen stunts. But the itch to break rules was like a splinter under his skin, and Hyem, the devilish quarterback, knew exactly how to prod it.

“Oi, Y/N,” Hyem called, leaning against a locker, his grin sharp as a switchblade. He held up a small packet labeled “Itching Powder: Industrial Strength.” “Wanna give the White Knights a little… motivation? Slip this into their jerseys, and they’ll be scratching instead of tackling. Kekeke!” His laugh was pure chaos, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.

Y/N hesitated, glancing at the packet. It was a classic Hyem scheme—dirty, effective, and so tempting. “I dunno, Captain,” he muttered, rubbing his neck. “Rosé’s got me on a leash. If she catches me…”

Hyem’s grin widened, like a shark smelling blood. “What, scared of your girlfriend? Man up, punk. You’re a Devil Bat, not a choir boy.” He tossed the packet, and Y/N caught it reflexively, his pulse spiking.

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Y/N spluttered, his face heating up. But the packet felt like a dare, and Y/N’s rebellious streak roared to life. Just a quick prank, in and out. Rosé would be busy with crowd control, right? He stuffed the packet into his shorts, grinning. “Fine. But if I get caught, I’m blaming you.”

Hyem cackled, firing his rifle into the ceiling. “That’s the spirit! Now move, ya sneaky bastard!”

Y/N slipped out of the locker room, heart racing, and crept toward the White Knights’ changing area. He moved like a ninja, ducking behind water coolers and weaving through equipment bags, his football reflexes making him a ghost. The packet crinkled in his pocket, and he couldn’t help but giggle like a manga villain. This was gonna be legendary—

“Y/N.” Rosé’s voice hit him like a linebacker. She stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, her student council armband glinting like a warning sign. Her honey-blonde hair was tied back, and her dark eyes bored into him, sharp enough to cut glass. “What are you doing?”

Y/N froze, the packet burning a hole in his pocket. His cocky grin melted into a stammer. “P-Prez! I-I was just… uh… checking the… water pressure?” His voice cracked, and he cursed his traitor brain.

Rosé’s eyebrow arched, her signature move of doom. “With itching powder?” She nodded at his pocket, where the packet’s edge peeked out. Y/N’s stomach dropped. How did she always know?

-

Y/N’s mind raced, searching for an escape, but Rosé’s gaze pinned him like a butterfly. The hallway felt smaller, the air thicker, and his usual instinct to run fizzled under her scrutiny. He clutched the packet behind his back, his face burning. “Okay, fine, it’s itching powder,” he admitted, voice low. “But I haven’t done anything yet! I was just… thinking about it.”

Rosé stepped closer, her boots clicking on the tile. “Thinking about it?” she repeated, her Australian lilt sharp with disbelief. “You’re this close to suspension, Y/N. One more stunt, and you’re off the team. Is that what you want?”

The words hit like a punch. Y/N’s eyes widened, his bravado crumbling. Getting kicked off the Devil Bats? That was his life, his freedom, his everything. He pictured the field without him, Hyem’s gunfire replaced by disappointment, Aye’s cheers silenced. And Rosé, watching from the stands, not with that spark of amusement but with… nothing.

“N-No, Prez,” he stammered, his voice softer, raw. “I don’t want that. I swear, I’ll do better. Just… give me a chance. Let me play today. I’ll win it clean, no tricks.” His eyes met hers, pleading, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Rosé studied him, her expression unreadable. The hallway was silent, save for the distant roar of the crowd. Then, slowly, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m watching you, Y/N. One misstep, and you’re done.” She held out her hand. “The powder. Now.”

Y/N handed it over, his fingers brushing hers for a split second. His heart skipped, and he yanked his hand back, blushing like an idiot. Rosé pocketed the packet, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. “Get to the field,” she said, turning away. “And don’t make me regret this.”

Y/N nodded, bolting for the locker room, his pulse hammering. Rosé’s words echoed in his head, but so did her gaze—intense, but not cold. Was she rooting for him, just a little? The thought made his chest tight, and he shook it off, lacing up for the game. He had to focus. This was his shot to prove himself—to Hyem, to Rosé, to everyone.

-

The stadium was a coliseum of noise and light, the stands packed with screaming fans waving Deimon banners. The Devil Bats faced the White Knights in a clash of titans, the score tied at 14-14 in the final quarter. Y/N stood on the field, sweat soaking his jersey, his breath visible in the cool evening air. Every muscle burned, but his eyes blazed with determination. This was his moment.

Hyem barked the play, his grin feral. “Y/N, you’re up! Run the Ghost, and don’t screw it up!” The “Devil Bat Ghost” was Y/N’s signature move, a fake-out that left defenders grasping at air. Y/N nodded, adrenaline flooding his veins. He glanced at the stands, spotting Rosé near the front, her clipboard clutched tight, her eyes locked on him. His heart thudded, but he channeled it into focus.

The ball snapped, and Y/N exploded forward, the world slowing to a heartbeat. The White Knights’ linebackers charged, massive and unrelenting, but Y/N was a phantom. He spun left, then right, his feet barely touching the ground, leaving one defender sprawling. Another lunged, arms wide, but Y/N faked a cut, his body blurring in a perfect Devil Bat Ghost. The crowd gasped as he slipped through, a streak of red and black, the end zone in sight.

A final defender loomed, a mountain of muscle. Y/N gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of speed into his legs. He juked, twisted, and leaped, diving over the defender’s outstretched arms. The stadium erupted as he landed in the end zone, the ball clutched tight, the scoreboard flashing:

Deimon 20, Ojo 14.

Y/N rolled to his feet, panting, the crowd’s roar washing over him like a tidal wave. Aye tackled him in a bear hug, yelling, “MAX TOUCHDOWN!” Hyem cackled, firing his rifle into the air. But Y/N’s eyes flicked to the stands. Rosé was still there, her clipboard lowered, her lips parted slightly. Was that… awe? Her gaze met his, and for a heartbeat, the stadium faded, leaving just them.

-

The game ended with a narrow Deimon victory, the Devil Bats mobbed by cheering fans. Y/N stood on the field, sweaty and exhausted, but grinning like he’d conquered the world. His teammates slapped his back, Aye chanting “Y/N! Y/N!” like a hype man. But his attention drifted to the sidelines, where Rosé approached, her boots crunching on the grass.

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed, her expression a mix of sternness and something softer. “You kept your word,” she said, her voice cutting through the post-game chaos. “No tricks. And that run…” She paused, her eyes flicking over him, taking in his dirt-streaked jersey and wild grin. “Your speed’s incredible.”

Y/N’s face lit up, his exhaustion forgotten. Rosé Park, complimenting him again? His heart did a backflip, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “W-Wanna grab ramen sometime? Y’know, legally?” His voice cracked, and he winced, expecting her to shut him down.

Rosé blinked, caught off guard. Then, to his shock, she laughed—a real, warm laugh that made her eyes crinkle. “Only if you stop running from me,” she teased, her Aussie accent curling around the words like a melody. Y/N’s jaw dropped, his cheeks burning. Was she… flirting? For real?

Before he could respond, Aye’s voice boomed from behind. “YO! Y/N’S SCORING OFF THE FIELD TOO!” The wide receiver struck a dramatic pose, pointing at them, while Hyem cackled nearby, scribbling in his blackmail notebook. Y/N spun, mortified, shouting, “Shut up, Aye!” but Rosé just shook her head, her smile lingering.

“Go shower,” she said, turning to leave. “You smell like a locker room. And Y/N? Don’t think this gets you off probation.” But her tone was playful, and as she walked away, Y/N caught her glancing back, just for a second.

-

Y/N trudged to the locker room, still buzzing from the win and Rosé’s words. His teammates were in high spirits, reenacting his touchdown with exaggerated flair. But Hyem and Aye had other plans. They cornered him near the showers, Hyem’s grin downright evil.

“So, lover boy,” Hyem said, flipping open his notebook. “Need help sealing the deal with the Iron Lady? I’ve got ideas. Rig the scoreboard to flash ‘Y/N <3 Rosé,’ maybe some fireworks…” He trailed off, cackling as Y/N’s face turned beet red.

“NO! Leave her alone!” Y/N yelped, flailing. Aye piled on, slinging an arm around him. “C’mon, man, we’re your wingmen! MAX SUPPORT! Gotta make the Prez swoon!”

Y/N shoved them off, grabbing his towel and sprinting for the showers. “You’re both insane!” he shouted, but their laughter chased him. As he stood under the hot water, washing off the game’s grime, he couldn’t stop smiling. Rosé’s laugh, her challenge to stop running—it felt like a new play, one he was dying to run.

Outside, Aye and Hyem schemed, their whispers drifting through the locker room. “Give it time,” Hyem muttered, smirking. “That punk’s already hooked.”

Later that night, Y/N lay in his dorm, staring at the ceiling, the Shonen Jump from his first run-in with Rosé on his desk. Her words—incredible, stop running—played on repeat, mingling with the roar of the crowd. Probation or not, game day had changed something. He grinned, heart racing. The festival was next, and with Rosé watching, he’d have to play his best game yet—on and off the field.

-

The Deimon High school festival was a kaleidoscope of chaos and joy, the campus alive with flickering lanterns, sizzling yakisoba stalls, and the laughter of students weaving through the crowd. Y/N trudged along a bustling path, lugging a heavy box of paper cranes, his usual swagger dampened by the weight of his latest punishment. Rosé Park, the Iron Lady of the student council, had sentenced him to festival prep after his itching powder stunt at the game—a step up from the cafeteria cleanup, but still a blow to his Devil Bats pride. He was supposed to be Deimon’s star running back, not a delivery boy for decorations.

“Pick up the pace, Y/N!” Rosé’s voice sliced through the festival din, crisp yet tinged with that Australian lilt that sent a shiver down his spine. She stood near a takoyaki stall, clipboard in hand, directing volunteers like a general on a battlefield. Her honey-blonde hair was loose, catching the golden glow of the lanterns, and her casual sweater and jeans softened her usual Iron Lady aura. She looked… approachable. Almost too pretty to be real.

“Yeah, yeah, Prez,” Y/N grumbled, setting the box on a table with a huff. He wiped sweat from his brow, stealing a glance at her. Ever since the game against the White Knights, where he’d nailed the Devil Bat Ghost and blurted out that ramen invite, Rosé had been stuck in his head like a shoujo manga heroine. Her laugh on the field, her teasing “stop running,” the way she’d looked at him—it was messing with his focus. But he was still on probation, and she was still the rule-enforcing president. No room for slip-ups.

Rosé caught his stare and tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing playfully. “What’s that look? Plotting another prank?” Her tone was stern, but a smile tugged at her lips, and Y/N’s heart did a clumsy flip.

“N-Nope, all clear!” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just… admiring your clipboard skills, Prez.” He flashed a grin, hoping it hid his blush.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks pinked slightly, and she turned to adjust a lantern. “Flattery won’t get you out of work,” she muttered, but there was a warmth in her voice that made his grin widen.

They teamed up to hang a string of paper cranes, their shoulders brushing as they reached for the same hook. Y/N’s fingers fumbled, the string slipping, and Rosé sighed, taking it from him. “Like this,” she said, her hands deft as she tied a knot, her fingertips grazing his. The touch was brief, electric, and Y/N’s breath hitched, his face burning like he’d sprinted a full field.

“T-Thanks,” he mumbled, scratching his neck, praying she didn’t hear his heartbeat. She glanced at him, her eyes softening, and for a moment, the festival’s noise faded, leaving just them—cranes swaying, her smile sneaking through, his chest tight with something new.

-

As dusk settled, the festival glowed under a velvet sky, the stalls twinkling like a constellation of dreams. Y/N slumped on a bench, catching his breath, while Aye scarfed down a tower of takoyaki beside him. The wide receiver’s eyes sparkled with mischief, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yo, Y/N, wanna make this festival MAX EPIC? I got something big.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, wary but curious. “Aye, if this is another food fight, I’m out. Rosé’s got me on lockdown after the itching powder thing.” He could still hear her warning from game day, sharp but tinged with trust: One misstep, and you’re done.

Aye grinned, pulling a small, suspiciously heavy bag from his jacket. “Fireworks,” he said, like he was unveiling a sacred relic. “The real deal—banned for safety reasons. We set these off during the festival climax, and bam! We’re legends. The crowd’ll lose it!”

Y/N’s stomach knotted. Fireworks were a hard no in Rosé’s rulebook, and he’d sworn to behave after nearly losing his spot on the team. But the image of bright, booming lights, the crowd cheering like they did for his touchdowns—it tugged at his rebellious streak. His fingers twitched, tempted. “Aye, if Rosé catches me, I’m toast. Like, expelled toast.”

Aye scoffed, tossing a takoyaki and catching it midair. “She’s swamped running this circus! You’re the fastest guy at Deimon, man. In and out, MAX STEALTH! C’mon, you owe me for the ramen cover-up.”

Y/N glanced at Rosé across the festival, where she was helping a kid win a goldfish, her laugh soft and unguarded. His chest ached—she’d trusted him, believed in him. But Aye’s grin was infectious, and the fireworks promised glory. “Fine,” he muttered, snatching the bag. “But you’re dead if this backfires.”

He slipped into the shadows, heading for a quiet corner near the sports field. His heart raced, half-thrill, half-guilt, as he set up the fireworks, his hands steady despite his nerves. He pictured the crowd’s awe, the sky ablaze—then froze as a voice cut through the dark.

“Y/N, again?”

Rosé stood behind him, arms crossed, her eyes a storm of frustration and disbelief. The fuse sparked, and Y/N’s bravado shattered. “P-Prez! I-I wasn’t—okay, I was, but—” His voice cracked, and his instincts screamed run. He bolted, the bag bouncing against his hip.

-

The festival blurred as Y/N sprinted, lanterns flashing past, stalls a kaleidoscope of color. His legs pumped, weaving through the crowd like he was dodging tacklers, but Rosé was relentless, her steps quick and determined. “Y/N, stop!” she called, her voice carrying over the festival’s hum. It was their first chase all over again—him the elusive running back, her the unyielding pursuer—but this time, the weight of his choices pressed heavier.

He veered toward the sports field, his sanctuary, where the festival lights dimmed and the stars shone bright. His lungs burned, but his mind was a tempest. Why did he keep doing this? Breaking rules, running from her? He skidded to a stop by the goalpost, panting, and turned to face her. Rosé slowed, her chest heaving, her expression a mix of anger and something raw—hurt.

“Why?” she demanded, stepping closer, her voice trembling. “Why do you keep breaking rules, Y/N? I trusted you. After the game, I thought…” She trailed off, her eyes searching his, and the vulnerability in them hit like a tackle.

Y/N’s throat tightened. He dropped the bag, the fireworks clattering to the grass. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Breaking rules… it’s like running. It makes me feel free, like nothing can catch me. But you…” He met her gaze, his heart pounding like it did before a touchdown. “You make me wanna stop, Rosé. I don’t wanna run from you. I wanna stay. ‘Cause you see me—all of me.”

Rosé’s eyes widened, her stern facade crumbling. The festival’s distant music wove through the silence, and for a moment, they were just two teens under the stars, the world holding its breath. “Y/N,” she said softly, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell her lavender shampoo. “I’ve always seen you. Your speed, your heart. But I need you to trust me, too. No more hiding.”

His shyness surged, but he pushed through, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying, Rosé. I… I really like you. And I’m scared I’ll screw this up.” His face burned, but he held her gaze, his confession hanging like a shoujo manga panel, all sparkles and heartbeats.

Rosé’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re such an idiot,” she murmured, but her voice was warm, almost tender. She picked up a single firework, turning it over in her hands. “One,” she said, meeting his eyes, a shy smile breaking through. “We’ll set off one. Together. But that’s it.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped, then he grinned, his heart soaring like a touchdown run. “Deal.” They lit the fuse, stepping back as the firework rocketed skyward, bursting in a cascade of gold and blue. The light bathed them, and Rosé’s smile—rare, radiant—stole his breath. Their hands brushed as they watched, and he didn’t pull away, the warmth of her fingers anchoring him in place.

-

The festival hummed on, but Y/N and Rosé lingered near the sports field, reluctant to rejoin the chaos. They wandered to a quiet stall selling floating lanterns, the kind you lit and released to carry wishes skyward. Rosé paused, her fingers tracing a lantern’s delicate paper, her expression soft. “Want to try?” she asked, glancing at Y/N with a shy spark in her eyes.

Y/N’s heart skipped. “Uh, sure, Prez. But if I wish for no more probation, you gonna veto it?” He grinned, but his voice was softer, nervous, like he was stepping onto new turf.

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and handed him a lantern. “Write your wish first, rulebreaker. Then we’ll see.” Her tone was teasing, but her gaze held something deeper, like she was daring him to be honest.

They sat cross-legged on the grass, the lantern between them, a marker shared as they scribbled their wishes. Y/N hesitated, his pen hovering. He glanced at Rosé, her hair glowing under the festival lights, her focus on her own writing. His chest tightened—she was the reason he wanted to be better, to stop running. He wrote quickly, shielding it from her, his cheeks warm.

Rosé finished hers, her handwriting neat but guarded. She caught him peeking and flicked his forehead. “No cheating,” she said, but her smile was playful, and she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he fumbled the marker, earning another laugh.

They lit the lantern together, their fingers tangling briefly as they held it aloft. The flame flickered, casting a golden glow across their faces, and Y/N’s breath caught at how close they were, her eyes reflecting the light like stars. “Ready?” she whispered, and he nodded, too flustered to speak.

They released the lantern, watching it drift upward, joining a constellation of others in the sky. Y/N’s heart pounded, his wish—to be someone Rosé could rely on—floating with it. He glanced at her, catching a wistful look on her face. “What’d you wish for, Prez?” he asked, half-teasing, half-hoping.

Rosé smirked, nudging him. “None of your business, Y/N. But… maybe it’s not so different from yours.” Her voice was soft, her blush barely visible, and Y/N’s heart did a full-on Devil Bat Ghost, dodging all his doubts.

They sat there, shoulders touching, the festival’s hum a distant melody. For once, Y/N didn’t feel the urge to run—just to stay, right there, with her.

-

The festival wound down, the crowd thinning as the final (approved) fireworks lit the sky in bursts of red and silver. Y/N and Rosé sat on a grassy hill, soda cans in hand, their yukatas rumpled from the day’s chaos. The air was cool, sweet with the scent of grilled squid, and their shoulders brushed, a quiet intimacy settling between them.

“You’re still on probation,” Rosé said, her tone teasing as she sipped her drink. “Don’t think one firework and a lantern get you off the hook.”

Y/N laughed, leaning back on his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Prez. But I’m gonna try, y’know? Be less… chaotic.” He glanced at her, his voice softening. “For you.”

Rosé’s cheeks flushed, and she nudged his shoulder, her touch lingering. “Good. I’ll keep you in check.” Her smile was soft, her eyes catching the firework glow, and Y/N’s heart soared, like he’d just scored the winning touchdown.

Their moment was shattered by Hyem’s cackle. “Oi, lovebirds!” The quarterback stormed up, dragging a protesting Aye. “Cleanup duty, Y/N! No slacking!” Aye, waving a skewer, shouted, “MAX POWER COUPLE!” as the Devil Bats cheered below, waving sparklers and chanting, “Y/N and Rosé!”

Y/N groaned, burying his face in his hands, but Rosé laughed, standing and pulling him up. Her hand lingered in his, warm and steady, and she leaned in, whispering, “You’re not running this time, right?” Her breath tickled his ear, and he grinned, his face burning.

“Nope,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m staying, Prez.” They joined the cleanup, her laughter mingling with his, the festival’s glow wrapping them in promise.

-

Game day dawned bright, the stadium pulsing with anticipation. Y/N stood on the field, lacing his cleats, the familiar rush of adrenaline in his veins. The Devil Bats faced a new rival, and he was ready to dazzle, to run, to win. But today, his eyes weren’t just on the end zone.

He glanced at the stands, spotting Rosé in the front row, her student council armband swapped for a handmade sign: “Go Y/N!” in bold, glittery letters. She caught his gaze and waved, her smile bright and unguarded, a sparkler in the daylight. Y/N’s heart soared, and he winked at her, bold and playful. She rolled her eyes, but her blush betrayed her, and the crowd’s cheer felt like it was for them.

Hyem clapped his shoulder, smirking. “Focus, punk. Save the mushy stuff for after we crush ‘em.” Y/N laughed, pulling on his helmet. The whistle blew, and he took off, legs a blur, the field his canvas. He wasn’t running from anything—not rules, not Rosé, not himself. He was running toward her, toward trust, toward a future painted in lantern light and firework sparks.

The moment froze like a manga panel: Y/N sprinting, Rosé’s sign gleaming, their story just beginning under the stadium’s roar.

[maimoncat]

Another word that was used quite commonly in german when translating ogre stories was "Popanz", Boogeyman (at least during the 19th century). Ludwig Tieck used it for his adaptation of "Puss in boots"; Johann Andreas Christian Löhr did for his retellings of "Puss in boots" and "the little Thumbling", and both him and Büsching called their version of "the devil with the three golden hairs" that; Clemens Brentano, when writing his retelling of the Pentameron, "italienische Märchen", he used "Popanz" to translate the neapolitan "uerco"; even the Grimms in their notes to "the okerlo" use this word to explain their ogre. Speaking of that, Karoline Stahl, author of the tale that inspired "Snow White and Rose Red", sometimes adapted classic fairy tales, like l'Heritier, d'Aulnoy and 1001 nights, and one of these tales was "the orange-tree and the bee". In "der Pomeranzenbaum und die Biene" Stahl uses three different terms for translating "ogre": to speak of the whole family, she uses "Riesen", giants, to talk about the father and the sons, she uses "Popanz", and the mother is called "Unholde", literally "unholy", a word used for monsters or villains.

What makes an ogre? (6): Where are the Germans at?

I talked about ogres in French fairytales. But the most famous fairytales of all are actually the German fairytales - more specifically the Brothers Grimm fairytales. Given how iconic and popular ogres are, you’d expect them to also play a part in this other side of the fairytales… But no. Ogres do not exist in German fairytales. Ogres truly belong to French and Italian culture, and the Brothers Grimm wanted to have purely German/Germaic fairytales. So not only did the stories they collected did not have any ogre, but if they ever found an ogre tale they ended up removing or changing it. And yet… ogres are a fundamental part of fairytales, and so survived in the Brothers Grimm works - under a different, non-ogre form.

If we take a look at the traditional French ogre stories, and their German counterparts, the changes are very clear. The Sleeping Beauty of Perrault is cut into two, with the second part being turned into its own little story -  “The Evil Mother-in-Law” depending on the translations. A story that is basically the same as Perrault’s second half of the Sleeping Beauty one, but with some details changed. In Perrault’s story, when the king goes to war the mother-in-law takes Sleeping Beauty to a countryside house of hers, deep into the woods ; in the Grimm version, she locks her daughter in a “damp cellar” with no mention of her moving place. In Perrault’s story it is the old queen’s butler that has to cook/hide the victims, in the Grimms it is the cook of the queen. In Perrault’s story the children have names and are a boy/girl duo, not in the Grimm one where they are two unnamed sons. In the Perrault stories, the ogress asks for “Robert sauce”, while in the Grimm version there is a play on repetition (she wants a brown sauce for the first boy, a white sauce for the second son, etc…). The nature of the killed animals are changed too - and of course, more importantly, the old queen isn’t a ogress… But just a mean old mother-in-law, who in a cruelty one day suddenly comes up with the idea “What if I ate one of the children?”. She just does that out of a perverse curiosity, and upon liking the first child so much she decides “Let’s just have the second”. But beyond that she is just a regular human woman… just a psychopathic one. [Note: Don’t bother looking for this story in a traditional Grimm book, it was only present in their first edition and cut later]

In fact, one of the several replacements for ogres in the Grimm fairytales are evil step-mothers, and evil-mother in laws. While the whole “ogre” thing is removed, the Grimms still kept in their story the thematic of the “perverse mother” that eats children instead of loving them. Cannibalism notably slides into some of the most famous “evil stepmothers” Grimm tales: Little Snow-White, where the vain queen asks for some of Snow White’s organs to eat ; and the Juniper Tree, where the evil stepmother hides her murder by cooking the dead boy and serving it to his father. 

In the first edition of the Brothers Grimm book, we also had a German version of Perrault’s “Puss in Boots” story - but there the ogre had been changed into an “evil sorcerer”. [The story was cut from later editions when the brothers realized it was French in origin] Which brings me to a first conclusion: in half of the Grimm tales, the ogres have been replaced by fully supernatural beings. Gone the disturbing ambiguity of ogres being half into humanity and half into supernatural - in the Grimms they are either all one or all the other. 

The most famous case I can point out is “The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs”, where the devil in this story actually fills the traditional role of the ogre (the fact the devil has an old-woman companion that is kind to the hero and hides him, while the devil sniffs out “Christian flesh” and would eat the hero - all of that indicates a traditional ogre). In fact, you will find many English-speaking variations or translations of the Grimm tales where the devil is replaced by either a giant… or an ogre. (There’s a lot of “The ogre and the three golden hairs”).

Another famous supernatural replacement for ogres in the Grimm fairytale world is witches. This replacement became so popular and influential that nowadays, in the English-speaking world, whenever you have an evil woman in fairytales who wants to eat children, she is bound to be a witch, not an ogress. Again, we find here the Christianized lore typical of the Grimms - the same way the ogre was replaced by the Christian figure of the devil, here the ogress becomes the witches (that during witch hunts were indeed accused of eating human flesh, mostly either human corpses dug up from the cemeteries, or stolen live babies killed for sabbath feasts). 

The most popular of these “ogre-witches” is without a doubt the one from “Hansel and Gretel”. In fact, in France she is often called an “ogress” or a “witch-ogress” because of how it puzzles Frenchmen that this so-called “witch” fits perfectly the bill for a typical “ogress”. The poor eyesight but heightened sense of smell, an old woman trying to eat young children, an evil killer living in a wonderful welcoming home, the whole fattening up process and the “push into their own oven” ending… That’s all typical ogre things. 

What is even more fascinating is that, when you look at the original version of “Hansel and Gretel”, in the first edition of the Brothers Grimm’s folktales collection, she didn’t have several of those traits (for example the whole bit about her having “red eyes with poor eyesight but a strong sense of smell” is not present in the first version of the story, and was added at re-editions by the Grimms). 

(Mind you there are many “ogre-witches” throughout various cultures and I’ll talk about them at a later point in this series)

If the ogre isn’t replaced by a supernatural figure like a witch or the devil, he is rather replaced by a purely human being. As I said before, the liminality of the French ogre, halfway between the human and the fairy, is completely stripped down in the Grimms, for the stories to be divided between purely supernatural threats and wicked, cruel humans. I talked about the evil stepmothers before - and to that you can add “The Robber Bridegroom”, who are, on top of robbers, serial killers who eat the corpse of the young women they murder. [We find here again a clear “ogre routine” with the young girl being hidden by a helpful old woman, indicating possible “ogre roots” of this story]. All in all, there is no place in the Grimm fairytales world for the complexity of the ogres - they are either Christian supernatural threats, either “social deviants” who push their cruelty and vices to the point of cannibalism.

This notably reflects in the use of a specific word. “Menschenfresser”. “Oger” exists as the Germanic form of “ogre”, but in truth when the French ogre tales are translated/brought over to Germany, the word “menschenfresser” is mostly used to designate the ogre (for example the Little Thumbling translation I know of uses this term). And it is the word used in the Brothers Grimm tales every time they speak of cannibals or those that devour children and all the characters I talked about previously. Some have improperly translated this word as “ogre” in English - but that’s a huge re-interpretation. Because “Menschenfresser” merely means “devourer of men” or “man-eater”. It is the term you will find used a lot for predatory animals dangerous to human kind (like tigers), and it is also the term you find used for cannibals and various man-eating criminals. It is not a word that denotes a specific species or creature like “ogre”, but rather a word that covers everything and anyone that eats humans, be it an animal, a human, or a supernatural entity. 

Now you might have heard of “Okerlo” as a possible term for “ogre” in German, or a translation by the Brothers Grimm of the French word “ogre”. The truth is a bit more complex… Der Okerlo (The Okerlo/The Ogre) was one of those stories that were present in the first edition, and then cut off - because the Grimms discovered that it was actually a heavily simplified and shortened version of madame d’Aulnoy’s fairytale “The Orange-Tree and the Bee”. It is however the closest thing the Grimms had to the traditional depiction of an ogre (beyond the witch from Hansel and Gretel), and has some unique details to it.

In this story a queen places her baby daughter in a floating cradle that drifts into the sea (why? we do not know), and the baby ends up on an island inhabited by cannibals (again, the ogre becomes a simple cannibalistic human). There she is found by “the cannibal’s wife”, who takes a pity and liking to her, and decides to raise her - but she does so while hiding her from her husband, the “Old Okerlo”, because if ever found her he would eat her on the spot, “eat her, skin and bones”. As the little baby grows into a young maiden, she is to be married to the cannibal’s son “Young Okerlo”, even though she dislikes him and doesn’t want to. As she weeps by the beach, a handsome young prince drifts ashore - in one look they fall in love and exchange vows to marry. But the cannibal’s wife arrives, and upon finding this out, captures the prince, claiming he will be roasted for her son’s wedding. The maiden, the prince and the cannibal’s three children are sleeping in the same bedroom, and the maiden overhears Old Okerlo telling his wife he can’t wait for the wedding and wants to eat the prince now. So the maiden does the whole crown-swap thing, and when the cannibal wife comes into the dark bedroom, she kills one of her children. 

Realizing by morning they are done for, the maiden and the prince escape, but not before the girl steals three magical items belonging to the cannibals: the seven-league boots, a magical wand, and a cake with a bean in it that answers all the questions that are asked. The maiden uses the talking bean to know if the cannibals are following them - and the bean informs her several times that the old cannibal’s wife is hunting them down with a second pair of seven-league boots that the maiden “left behind”. Each time the maiden uses the magic wand to turn herself and her lover into various elements, so that the cannibal wife can’t catch her: first she is a swan and him a lake, and the cannibal wife can’t lure the swan to the shore. Then she turns both of them into clouds of dust, so that the cannibal can’t catch them. Finally she turns herself into a rosebush and the prince into a bee, so that the cannibal can’t recognize them. But as in d’Aulnoy’s tale, the wand becomes unreachable, the couple can’t regain their human form, and more adventures ensue.

[qdrntln4]

LILLY.

pairing: lando x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: mentions of a deaf daughter, y/n and lando's son being a menace to their dog 😭

wc: 560

notes: im the younger sister of a girl who was born blind and mentally impaired, so i know the struggles of managing a family when people from the outside pity you for something that you can't control. i hope that anyone who's in a similar situation finds comfort in this fic.

The fans were in despair. Their favourite couple, their favourite mum and dad had just found out that their daughter — their first baby — was deaf.

Lando and Y/n weren’t worried though.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Lando walked into his daughter’s room, leaning against the door frame. She was playing the piano like she always does. How amazed of his daughter he was; she couldn’t hear yet she still practiced like no tomorrow.

Lando turned the lights on and off a couple of times before Lilly turned around. she smiled at her father,

“Does this sound right?” Lilly spoke. She was always a good speaker. Even after she became deaf, she relied on her vocal chords to do the work for her. Lando always knew that she would be amazing.

Lando pulled his hands out of his pockets, signing to her,

‘It sounds amazing, beautiful. I think you need to go up one note at the end, though.’

Lilly nodded, turned around and played the same tune again, adding in her father’s advice. Once she had finished, she turned around seeking her dad’s approval. Lando gave her a thumbs up before closing her door to where it previously was.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Out in the living room, Ash was crawling around on his play mat. He was picking up his toys, throwing them around and giggling to himself.

Y/n sat on the couch with the television on. She had a magazine in her hand and rollers in her hair. She had another month off of work so she had every right to spoil herself while she could.

Daizee — their dachshund cross jack russell (…george? 😟-) — was also watching the television. She diverted her attention to Ash every once in a while, being the big sister of the house. Their golden retriever, Charlie, was lying down with Ash and letting the baby play with his ears.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

Lando sat down next to his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek before pulling her into his side.

“How’s Lils?” Y/n looked up from her magazine to look at her husband before placing the book down.

Lando nodded, tracing small patterns on her biceps, “She’s doing good, playing the piano last time I checked.” At that, Y/n nodded before turning her attention to the television.

Speak of the devil, Lilly emerged from her room with a skip. That’s what Y/n and Lando loved to see. Even after given the news by the doctor when she turned three, she never let her condition bring her down.

She stopped in front of her mum and dad before doing a little dance and running off to grab a snack from the kitchen. Typical Lilly.

When she returned and sat down on the long end of the couch, she looked over to her parents to see if they needed her attention. As if she knew, Y/n signed to her daughter,

‘How are you feeling today my sweet?’

Lilly nodded, smiling her famous bright smile that even the sea of papaya loved.

“Good!” She answered before turning to watch the show playing on the big screen.

Lando and Y/n shared a look. A look of knowing, of pride. That was their daughter. The fighter that they created.

…And on the floor was Ash, climbing all over Charlie. That poor dog.

┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .

a/n: thank you all so much for the love and support ive been recieving recently! i cant thank you all enough. here's the fic of the idea from my previous post, i hope it's up to your standards! this is also for @ladyladybuggg who wanted to read this, so i hope you enjoy my love!

[fairytalemovies]

[undercvrfan444]

“Yeah he loves me but he fucks me like he hates me guts!”

Based off of this! https://x.com/entirepornvids/status/1877827274822525189?s=46

Description! - Gojo can’t stand you! He’s always found you annoyingly attractive and can’t stand to see you prance around Jiujitsu High’s halls in your skimpy teaching outfit!

Satoru Gojo was never one to be quiet. He was unapologetically loud and arrogant no matter who he was around.

So the day you met him it baffled you when he refused to speak more than a few words to you. Even then when he spoke the words were so hateful it had your head spinning.

Throughout your entire time at Jiujitsu High you had heard of the strongest, so now that you returned to work there after attending school it was just expected you’d meet Gojo. Afterall, you had to work with him. When you’d been assigned a few kids to teach you were ecstatic! Finally you’d be able to get hands on with the future of the jiujitsu world and unfortunately you had to share it was some hard ass.

Your three students, Yuji Itadori, Nobara Kugisaki, and Megumi Fushigoro were definitely polar opposites that just happened to meld well together. A discombobulation of personalities in which a family was formed, however Gojo always seemed to leave you out of that so called family dynamic.

“I don’t understand what his problem is with you teach, he’s always nice to us.” Itadori sat across from you while the other two students sat on your side eating lunch. A soft sigh made its way through your glossed lip, feeling the smooth sensation always seemed to offer some comfort. “Honestly Yuji…I don’t know either.” Instead of dogging on Gojo though, you change the subject. A sweet smile is all you can offer the 3 signaling you don’t really have the room to reprimand higher authority.

Nobara on the other hand can’t let an old dog sleep. “Anytime I see you and him together you’re always respectful, like more so than I feel you should be. When you leave or go off to do something he’s completely opposite around us!” Her words were entirely meant innocently but they made you feel like shit.

Did you accidentally insult his clan without realizing it? What exactly was so vile about you that the world’s biggest big mouth is tight lipped around you?

“I’m not sure you guys should be talking about Gojo like this, what if he were here?”

The moment the words come out of your mouth it’s as though the air chilled. Three pairs of eyes leave your frame and look up behind you, Nobara smiles wide at you, giggling and wiling her mouth with a napkin. “Speak of the devil…”

You feel your spine go ridged as you ignore the man behind you, refusing to turn around. He slides next to you on the bench with a big smile on his face. “Who are we gossiping about?” The words are silky smooth, an edge to them that anyone could mistake for a hint of jealousy from being left out.

“You!” Yuji pipes up. “We were talking about why you-“

Before any words can vomit their way from Yuji’s mouth, Nobara slaps a firm hand over his lips. Megumi laughs a little as your eyes widen, scolding the pink haired boy for being such a snitch. The scene unfolding before Gojo makes him frown secrets don’t keep friends you know! He leaned over and pried Nobara’s hand off of Yuji’s mouth but it was no use; the stink eye Megumi and Nobara gave Yuji was enough to turn anyone to stone within seconds.

Overhead a bell rang for classes to begin. Lunch was over fortunately for you despite not eating much from talking.

You stood up from the table as everyone excused themselves to their respective classes. Gojo was surely left more confused now than when he’d walked up to the group discussion.

For the rest of the day, time seemed to slow down and drag on. Minutes felt like hours until finally the students had been released to go home. The sun provided golden rays on the empty desks of your class room. Truthfully this was one of your favorite times of the day because you could finally relax and let your mind run wild without worrying about someone else catching you off in space.

That is until a knock on the door frame of your room pulls you away from your thoughts. Strands of white catch your attention from the corner of your eye.

Swiveling around to face a very obviously annoyed Gojo wasn’t easy. A thick lump forms in your throat at the idea of him ripping you a new one for the things you said earlier.

“Gojo? Can I help you?” Simple, sweet.

Brief seconds pass with him staring at you from his position in the door.

“What were you and the kids talking about earlier?”

The question left your heart leaping from your chest. Saliva seemed to run dry in miliseconds making it hard to answer, your mouth slightly agape as you thought on what to say.

“Nothing, we were only chatting.”

“Don’t lie to me. Yuji hasn’t said anything to me all day which is not at all like him. Megumi keeps giving me sly remarks about shit and Nobara. She won’t stop ignoring me.”

Light pink blush settles on your cheeks thinking of the bunch. It was sweet how they took up for you despite not knowing what the outcome would be.

“If I tell you, promise me not to get mad.”

“Just tell me.”

“Not until you promise!”

A low groan emits from the white haired teacher. His eyebrows furrow before relaxing, a hand coming up to run over his face.

“I…Promise.”

gently sighing, you stand up. The feeling of being lower than him made you queasy.

“We..were talking about why you always..”

“Always..?”

“..you always seem to be so quiet when i’m around. Megumi had asked me if I’ve ever mouthed off to you or if we have previous history because you’re just so cold to me.”

Your words sounded like a kindergartner trying to talk about how they felt. It’s how you truly feel. A deafening silence blankets your two bodies as Gojo stares at you blankly, as if you’d just said the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

He steps a little closer to your desk. “What are you talking about?”

Hearing his words make your eyes almost bug out of your head. “Are you kidding me!? Ever since I started working with you i’ve never gotten more than a few words out of your lips. In fact, this conversation we’re having right now is the longest i’ve ever held your attention. You seem to shut down and stop talking the second i’m around, it makes me feel like i’ve done something wrong! I respect you so much Gojo and i’ve never understood why you treat me so terribly. You make me feel like you hate me.”

Small quivers overtake your lower lip, pink soft skin getting trapped between your teeth to stop the movements. It was embarrassing to be infront of Gojo crying like a baby. If he didn’t think of you that way before he certainly would now.

The blindfold covering Gojo’s eyes is slipped off silently. The white fabric falling from his softened features and being forgotten on the hardwood of your table.

Tears streamed out of your thick lashes. The idea of being so close to a man you never thought would breathe the same air as you for longer than he had to was nauseating. In a featherlight touch, thick fingers wrap around your face making you look up at him so he could wipe the crystal tears away.

“Stop that.” As if a ghost were touching you instead of the strongest sorcerer known to the world, two light pink lips kiss your eyelids.

The sudden change in attitude hit like whiplash. Gojo surely wasn’t cruel enough for this to be some big joke so why is he treating you like fine china? Could he be getting a laugh out of this deep down? Are there cameras outside ready to bust you out for being so foolish?

“I don’t hate you Y/n. I could never hate you. Forgive me for not being man enough to tell you how I feel before now but, I guess I didn’t know how upset my actions made you.” A few more soft pecks were laid on your face, inching closer to your wet trembling lips.

“Then why are you so distant? It breaks my heart to see you so close with the kids and then turn around to treat me like the redheaded stepchild.”

A loud laugh echoed in your ears at the last part of your sentence. Beautiful pearly white teeth flashing in your eyes.

“A redheaded stepchild?”

Nodding, you sniffle. “This isn’t funny!-“

“It’s a little funny” he retorts.

Anger replaces the once evident hurt. Were your feelings really so insignificant to him that he could find every loose thread in your resolve just to kick you down?

*Slap!*

A sharp echo rang throughout the room. Satoru’s pale skin now had a blooming red mark in the shape of your beautiful manicured hand. “Are you ready to apologize for being such a dick!?”

Quiet steps were all you could hear. Then your classroom door shutting. A lock turning in place. “Shut up.”

In a flash you were up against your desk, back arched so Satoru’s chest slammed into yours. Teeth clashed with teeth as he kissed you rough, unforgiving. Two large hands groped your ass through the skirt you wore it was something Satoru had hated about you. How beautifully your curves fill out the skirt making him want to rip it off and stuff his cock in you.

Strangled moans are drowned in Satoru’s mouth his tongue fighting against yours. “‘Toru, s-slow down!”

Oh how stupid were you? Your pleas fell silent on his ears. Instead his teeth sunk into yours neck, licking over the red teeth marks he left. One of his hands trailed down to rub a finger over the slick cotton panties you had on, arousal sticking to his fingers. “Mm so fucking filthy. Your pussy is begging for me to stuff her full huh?”

Moans fill your classroom. Porn stars had nothing on the sounds coming out of Satoru and you were the ones pulling them out.

“Y-yes, please. Please ‘toru fuck me!” It was embarrassing at just how easy you were! One feel of the strong presence digging into you and you were ready to give it up on your desk.

Not wasting any more time your panties were torn off, left somewhere behind the man below you. “Get on the desk.”

Satoru pushed your legs apart slowly. Antagonizingly slow. A shudder ripped through you at the mix of cold and hot air meeting your pussy. “God, just fucking look at her.” Heat rises to your cheeks when you feel two thick fingers prod your entrance, slowly spreading your folds deliberately apart. “How long have you been waiting for this, hmm?”

Slick arousal drops down every part of your lower body. Satoru’s slips onto the floor with his head squished nicely between your legs. His tongue licked a languid stripe through your cunt before dipping the tip of his tongue inside.

Your fingers race to find stability in silky white strands. “Waiting for me to devour you whole just to abuse this cunt the second I feel you cum on my tongue?” And fuck if the sound of Satoru talking dirty didn’t turn you on even more.

As if the man knew every inch of your body already, he slid his middle finger inside you. pistoning in and out of your sloppy hole until you’re feeling pressure build in your lower tummy. Thank God no one was in the building after hours or else it wouldn’t take a second thought to come check on you with how loud you were mewling and whining.

“s’ t-too much! M’gonna cum..M’gonna cum!” your words were breathy. Saliva had dried in your mouth the second your lips broke away from Satoru’s. Another finger stretched you open and together they curled, feeling the spongy area. “Aww I barely even started!”

Pretty pink lips suctioned over your clit. His fingers curled harder each time earning a high pitched squeal from you. Ever since Satoru had met you he knew this would be the way you ended up. Squirming on his fingers and begging to be fucked.

It was the way you looked at him.

His dick involuntarily got hard anytime you stared up at him with those big eyes. You always seemed to have something on the end of your tongue that just aggravated Satoru! He saw how your thighs pressed together when he was around, and you better believe he saw the way you snuck glances at his clothes dick anytime you could. So really could he blame you for being such a white over his mouth?

One small filck of his tongue on your swollen clit has you shaking on his mouth, hands pulling at those strands so hard you knew it had to hurt. Oh but he wasn’t finished there.

As soon as he pulled away from your pussy you were being flipped on your stomach. Cold hard wood pressed into your lower abdomen while you listened to the sound of a belt buckle clinking off. “Satoru..”

Lowly he hums in your ear, chills spilling through you. “What is it baby? I know my name sounds good but surely you’ve got something more to say.” The fat tip of Satoru’s cock brushes oh so faintly that it has you pushing your hips back to find any friction you could. You knew Satoru would be big but fuck! There’s no way that thing is gonna fit inside you without tearing you open!

“I..I thought you hated me!” You mumble into your arm as you hold yourself up against the desk. You feel the thick throb of Satoru’s cock against your ass, the hard veiny length just waiting for you to swallow it.

Without warning Satoru pushes the length in. A burning sensation engulfing your body, “Oh baby, I love you! But i’m just gonna fuck you like I hate your guts.”

[bradleysass]

Year - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 530

“What a year it has been!” James sighed dramatically, slumping onto the couch.

Regulus, who had been peacefully sipping his tea and pretending he didn’t live with an actual cartoon character, blinked at him. “It’s only March, Jamie.”

James groaned. “Exactly. Three months! Three months of chaos. Three months of stress. Three months of—”

“Three months of you making terrible life choices,” Regulus corrected.

James gasped, clutching his chest like Regulus had just stabbed him. “Me? Me? Excuse me, but I am a victim of circumstance!”

Regulus arched an unimpressed eyebrow. “You voluntarily signed up for a charity marathon after not running for six years.”

“It was for the kids.”

“You threw up behind a tree at mile four.”

“Again. For the kids.”

Regulus sighed. “You also tried to assemble IKEA furniture without reading the instructions and nearly cried when it collapsed on you.”

“That’s a normal human experience, Reg. No one actually reads the instructions. It’s about the journey.”

“It was a nightstand.”

“...A very complicated nightstand.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and took another sip of his tea. “Fine. What else, then? What has made these past three months feel like a year?”

James sat up, ready with a dramatic monologue. “Regulus. Love of my life. Keeper of my soul. We got a dog.”

Regulus scowled. “You got a dog. I distinctly remember telling you no.”

James waved a dismissive hand. “Details, details. Anyway, our wonderful child—”

“Your demon spawn.”

“—our beautiful child Cheddar has ruined our lives.”

Regulus snorted. “Oh, so now you admit it?”

James groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “He chewed my trainers. He pissed on my work laptop. He somehow—somehow—locked me out of our own flat last week.”

Regulus hummed. “That was a great day.”

“I had to bribe the neighbor’s kid with a tenner to break in through the window!”

Regulus smirked behind his teacup. “And yet, you still refuse to discipline him.”

James crossed his arms. “I can’t discipline something that looks at me with those big brown eyes. He’s just a baby.”

“He is the devil in a golden retriever’s body,” Regulus deadpanned.

James ignored him and continued. “Also! Also. There was the Great Pancake Fire of February.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “James, I swear to Merlin—”

“Who knew maple syrup was flammable? Not me! But apparently, the fire department did.”

Regulus exhaled slowly like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “James. It’s only March. I cannot stress this enough.”

James flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “That’s what makes it worse. If this is what three months look like, how will I survive the rest of the year?”

Regulus leaned back, utterly unimpressed. “At this rate? You won’t.”

James groaned again, draping an arm over his face. “At least make sure Cheddar gets my record collection when I die.”

“No. That dog does not need more ways to destroy this house.”

James peeked at him with a grin. “But you’d miss me, right?”

Regulus rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight back the small smirk playing on his lips. “Unfortunately.”

James grinned wider. “I’ll take it.”