#this book is taking the time to make sense of it

[froggibus]

— Don't Impress Me Much - DC Boys

Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Wally West

Genre: fluff

Summary: he's trying his best to win you over, the only problem? you're oblivious

late upload this week! i had a really busy time with work & then got busy preparing for canada day! <3 hope everyone has a great day! also this is like, day 1 of me trying to get better at writing slice of life, so bear with me here ^^

Dick Grayson:

From the outside, it doesn’t seem like Dick is trying very hard to win you over. He treats you with kindness, flirts until you’re a flustered mess and randomly brings you coffee at work. In your mind, these are all normal things for the man.

However, the amount of work that goes into his unabated flirting with you is what really shows his closest friends just how much he wants you. You throw Dick entirely off of his game, and the Titans and his brothers find it hilarious.

He blushes more around you, he has to force his hands to stop shaking when he hands you your coffee—he works twice as hard to get your attention than he ever has for anyone else. And the worst part? You don’t seem to notice.

Eventually, Dick comes to his senses and finally invites you out to a proper dinner, and you find yourself blinking slowly at him. His invitation comes as a major ‘oh’ moment for you and you realize: while Dick might be friendly with everyone, he only wants you.

Jason Todd:

Jason tries to win you over by mentioning the small details he remembers about you.

He doesn’t make a big show of it, there’s no boastful attitude behind it. It’s just him showing you he cares, remembering your favorite colour and that you love the rain and what your oddly specific coffee order is. 

It’s not something he goes out of his way to do for anyone else. He didn’t even do it intentionally at first, he just suddenly found himself bringing you coffee at work and listening to your favorite songs.

His family notices immediately but it takes you a little longer to catch on. Honestly, it takes Jason a little while to catch on too—he hasn’t felt this way in so long. 

Jason doesn’t waste time asking you out when he does sort through his feelings, though. Within a day he’s bringing you your favorite flowers and asking you out, and suddenly all those little details turned into something big.

Tim Drake:

When Tim is in love, he’ll do whatever he can to make your life easier, even if that means making his own harder.

Anything you need becomes his new project and honestly, he takes on more than he can handle. He’ll never tell you that, though. All you see is the wonderful things he does for you—the way he has Alfred teach him to sew to fix your favorite jeans, how he rewrites your notes for you when you’re researching something. 

In typical Tim fashion, he’ll lose sleep over it too. He just wants to help you, even if that means a couple nights of little to no sleep.

You notice he likes you before he can even confess to it. It’s when he hands you back your newly fixed jeans, embroidered with a red robin, that it finally clicks for you. Tim isn’t just doing this in a friendly way.

You let him confess on his own terms which happens after a particularly long all-nighter spent reading your favorite book. He’s half-delirious from the lack of sleep but it comes out sweet all the same.

Wally West:

Wally always shows off when you’re around. He wants you to see how helpful he is and how great he can provide for you, even if you don’t always notice. 

The thing he shows off the most is his speed. You love hearing his Flash stories and Wally takes full advantage. He’ll reenact entire fights for you, play clips of it on Youtube and even describe what was going through his head. 

He also pays every time you go out, no matter what it is. The only time he lets you pay is if you absolutely insist on it, but it’ll be a tough fight. You take him with you to the drugstore late at night to get Benadryl once and he insists on paying. 

To everyone around, it’s clear he’s crushing and wants to show off. You on the other hand are completely oblivious.

In the end, his showboating gets him nowhere and Wally is forced to tell you to your face. He almost laughs at how shocked you are—didn’t you notice how hard he was trying?

thanks for reading! have a fantastic day <3

masterlist | dc masterlist

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How much (little) are the AI companies making?

I'm in the home stretch of my 24-city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LONDON TODAY (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER TOMORROW (July 2).

If there's one area where tech has shown a consistent aptitude for innovation, it's in accounting tricks that make money-losing companies appear wildly profitable. And AI is the greatest innovator of all (when it comes to accounting gimmicks).

Since the dotcom era, tech companies have boasted about giving stuff away but "making it up in volume," inventing an ever-sweatier collection of shell-games that let them hide the business's true profit and loss.

The all-time world champeen of this kind of finance fraud is Masayoshi Son, the founder of Softbank, who acts as the bagman for the Saudi royals' personal investments. Remember last decade when the tech press was all abuzz about "unicorns" – startups that were worth $1b? That was Son: he would take a startup like Wework, declare its brand to be worth $1b, invest an infinitesimal fraction of $1b in the company based on that valuation (sometimes with a rube co-investor) and declare the valuation to be "market-based." A whole string of garbage companies achieved unicornhood by means of this unbelievably stupid trick:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/27/voluntary-carbon-market/#trust-me

Of course, every finance bro is familiar with Stein's Law: "anything that can't go on forever eventually stops." Sure, the Saudi royals could be tapped to piss away $31b on Uber, losing $0.41 on every dollar for 13 years, but eventually they're going to turn off the money spigot and attempt to flog their shares to retail and institutional suckers. To make that work, they have to invent new accounting tricks, like when Uber "sold" its failing overseas ride-hailing businesses to international rivals in exchange for stock, then declared that these companies' illiquid stock had skyrocketed in value, tipping Uber into the black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/05/a-lousy-taxi/#a-giant-asterisk

Even companies that are actually profitable (in the sense of bringing in more revenue than it costs to keep the business's lights on) love to juice their stats, and the worst offenders are the Big Tech companies, who reap a vast commercial reward from creating the illusion that they are continuing to grow, even after they've dominated their sector.

Take Google: once the company attained a 90% global search market-share, there were no more immediate prospects for growth. I mean, sure, they could raise a billion new humans to maturity and train them to be Google customers (e.g., the business plan for Google Classroom), but that takes more than a decade, and Google needed growth right away. So the company hatched a plan to make search worse, so that its existing users would have to search multiple times to get the information they sought, and each additional search would give Google another chance to show you an ad:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

But that was small potatoes. What Google – and the rest of the tech sector – needed was a massive growth story, a story about how their companies, worth trillions of dollars, could double or triple in size in the coming years. There's a kind of reflexive anti-capitalist critique that locates the drive to tell growth stories in ideology: "endless growth is the ideology of a tumor," right?

But spinning an endless growth story isn't merely ideological. It's a firmly materialistic undertaking. Companies that appear to be growing have market caps that are an order of magnitude larger than companies that are considered "mature" and at the end of their growth phase. For every dollar that Ford brings in, the market is willing to spend $8.60 on its stock. For every dollar Tesla brings in, the market is willing to spend $118 on its stock.

That means that when Tesla and Ford compete to buy something – like another company, or the labor of highly sought after technical specialists – Tesla has a nearly unbeatable advantage. Rather than raiding its precious cash reserves to fund its offer, Tesla can offer stock. Ford can only spend as many dollars as it brings in through sales, but Tesla can make more stock, on demand, simply by typing numbers into a spreadsheet.

So when Tesla bids against Ford, Ford has to use dollars, and Tesla can use shares. And even if the acquisition target – a key employee or a startup that's on the acquisitions market – wants dollars instead of shares, Tesla can stake its shares as collateral for loans at a rate that's 1,463% better than the rate Ford gets when it collateralizes a loan based on its own equity:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/07/rah-rah-rasputin/#credulous-dolts

In other words, if you can tell a convincing growth story, it's much easier to grow. The corollary, though, is that when a growth company stops growing, when it becomes "mature," it experiences a massive sell-off of its stock, as its share price plummets to a tenth or less of the old "growth" valuation. That's why the biggest tech companies in the world have spent the past decade – the decade after they monopolized their sectors and conquered the world – pumping a series of progressively stupider bubbles: metaverse, cryptocurrency, and now, AI.

Tech companies don't need these ventures to be successful – they just need them to seem to be plausibly successful for long enough to keep the share price high until the next growth story heaves over the horizon. So long as Mister Market thinks tech is a "growth" sector and not a "mature" sector, tech bosses will be able to continue to pay for things with stock rather than cash, and their own stockholdings will continue to be valued at sky-high rates.

That's why AI is being crammed into absofuckingloutely everything. it's why the button you used to tap to start a new chat summons up an AI that takes seven taps to banish again – it's so tech companies can tell Wall Street that people are "using AI" which means that their companies are still part of a growth industry and thus entitled to gigantic price-to-earnings ratios:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/05/02/kpis-off/#principal-agentic-ai-problem

The reality, of course, is that people hate AI. Telling people that your product is "AI enabled" makes less likely to use it:

https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/19368623.2024.2368040#d1e1096

People – who have had an infinitude of AI crammed into down their throats – are already sick of AI. Policymakers and financiers – credulous dolts who fall for tech marketing hype every! fucking! time – are convinced that AI Is The Future. This presents a dilemma for tech companies, who research the hell out of how people actually use their products and thus must be extremely aware of how hated AI is, but whose leadership is desperate to show investors that they are about to experience explosive growth through the miracle of AI.

The reality is that AI is a very bad business. It has dogshit unit economics. Unlike all the successful tech of the 21st century, each generation of AI is more expensive to make, not cheaper. And unlike the most profitable tech services of this century, AI gets more costly to operate the more users it has.

You can be forgiven for not knowing this, though. As Ed Zitron points out in a long, excellent article about the credulity and impuissance of the tech press, the actual numbers suuuuuck:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/make-fun-of-them/

Microsoft

Spending: $80b in 2025

Projecting: $13b in 2025

Actually: $10b comes from Openai giving back compute credits Microsoft gave to Openai, bringing the true total to $3b.

Meta

Spending: $72b in 2025

Receiving: At most $600m in gross revenue from selling "smart" Raybans, which might not actually be loss-leaders, meaning it's possible that they're making less than $0.00.

Amazon

Spending: $100b in 2025

Projecting: $5b in revenue in 2025

Google

Spending: $75b in 2025

Projecting: They won't say, possibly zero.

As Zitron points out: this industry is projecting $327b in spending this year, with $18b in revenue and zero profits. For comparison: smart watches are a $32b/year industry.

Now, what about Openai? Well, they're one of Masoyoshi Son's special children, of a piece with Wework and Uber. Openai is projecting $12.7b in revenue this year, with losses of $14b. Add in a bunch of also-rans like Perplexity and Surge, and the revenue rises to $32.3b. But…if you chuck them in, you also get total exenditure of $370.8b.

These are by no means the only funny numbers in the AI industry. Take "Stargate," a data-center initiative with a price tag of $500b. Actual funds committed? $40b.

These are terrible numbers, but also, these are some genuinely impressive accounting gimmicks. They are certain to keep the bubble pumping for months or perhaps years, convincing gullible bosses to fire talented employees and replace them with bumbling chatbots that will linger for years or decades, the asbestos in the walls of our high-tech civilization.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/30/accounting-gaffs/#artificial-income

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[amberstone-16]

Libraries too!

fuck just more things in general need to be open overnight

Every now and then, my work/travel schedule lines up, so it makes more sense to just explore an area for a few nighttime/ early morning hours instead of paying for a whole night's accommodation

But there's nothing to do!

This has happened a few times now, but Plymouth and London were the most notable examples.

Plymouth i only had to stay up to get a coach at midnight, and I was able to just sit in a Mcdonalds the entire time. can't really complain.

But London, oh London. I was basically homeless by choice for a full night and was planning on doing he same thing, sitting inside fast food restaurants and cafes for as long as I was allowed and going exploring the city the rest of the time, but that didn't work.

The only things open between 10pm and 7am are nightlife stuff like casinos, bars and clubs, but I don't drink or gamble and don't want to be pressured into it.

The fast food restaurants were to-go only overnight, so I couldn't sit in there

All the shops, libraries and museums were obviously all closed too

And to my surprise even all the fucking parks were bolted shut over night too

The parks!

i endend up sitting on a street bench reading fanfiction all night because what the hell else am I meant to do!

Cities will complain that nightlife is full of degenerates and bad behaviour, but won't provide an alternative for those who aren't interested.

let me finish my graveyard shift and take a stroll in the park or a museum, or an art gallery to unwind.

let me arrive in town on the 4am train and have a sitdown breakfast at a cafe or fast food place before my early shift.

Let me get my main weekly shop done at 2 am because that's the only time I can

Let me kill time at night at the cinema or cozying up with a book at the library when a night at a hostel is too expensive, unsafe or just unavailable.

Let me exist outside of my home between the hours of 10pm and 7am without taking part in 'nightlife' or being perceived as homeless or ill-intentioned.

[calebsdog]

Caleb hasn't been acting like himself lately. He's been quiet, acting like your shadow, lingering just a few steps behind but never making himself known. It didn't make sense.

Caleb was a bold, bright young boy. Raising his hand for every question in class, helping struggling elderly folks cross the street, and certainly never missing an opportunity to tease you.

His teasing has always driven you nuts. But now that you haven't felt his warm hand patting the top of your head, purposefully messing up your hair, you wish he would just snap out of whatever poor mood he's in and be normal again.

"Gran? I think Caleb is getting sick."

Josephine's reading glasses sit at the end of her nose, nearly falling off of her face. When she looks up from her book, she gives you that expression. She looks at you like she knows something you don't, like she pities you for your nativity. You hate when she makes that face.

"Don't worry, dear. Caleb isn't sick. He's just-" Gran's sentence cuts off prematurely. She struggles for the proper words, a decent explanation, before giving up. Shaking her head, she ends the conversation.

"I think it's best if you give Caleb some time to himself for a little while. I'm sure he'll be acting more like himself in no time. Just be patient."

Gran's advice makes no sense to you. Why would Caleb feel better if you leave him alone? And if he wasn't sick, what else could be wrong with him? Still, you try to heed her advice. She has more life experience than you. And, with the way she was speaking to you, it seemed like she knew what was wrong with Caleb better than you.

You manage to keep your distance from him for an entire day. It was at recess, not long after noon, while you were playing on the monkey bars with some other friends.

Huddled against the brick wall of the school building sits Caleb. He's half-hidden in the shadows, his knees tucked into his chest. Caleb plays with you every day at recess, even when his friends try to drag him to the playground's basketball court.

Today, he was watching you, never approaching. Looking at you like he was worried someone would dive out of the sky, snatching you up. Taking you away forever. Before you know it, you snap.

"Hey." Stomping away from the monkey bars, you march right over to Caleb's direction. He was starting to really get on your nerves! You were ignoring Gran's advice. But maybe, just this once, you knew better than the adults.

"..." Caleb doesn't blink as you corner him against the wall.

"I'm sorry. Did you get scared playing by yourself?" His eyes were dull. And you know it has nothing to do with the shade he was hiding himself in.

"I'm sorry. I keep failing you." Ashamed, the young boy curls up on himself. This time, your annoyed expression wasn't enough to bring an amused smile to his face. Why couldn't he just look at you?

Caleb's always been the one cheering you up when you weren't feeling like yourself. When you were trembling from the force of the thunderstorms outside, Caleb wraps you up in one of his jackets. When you were delirious with a fever, your limbs thrashing around mindlessly, Caleb lets you bite his hand to keep you from hurting yourself.

Caleb knows how to make you happy. But does anyone know how to make Caleb happy?

Think. What could you do to make Caleb feel like himself again? How do you know what makes a person happy when they're smiling all the time?

"Hmph!" Before you can second-guess yourself, your hands reach down, roughly snatching Caleb's wrist in your haste. Something had come to mind. You had no idea if it would work. But it was better than doing nothing like Gran told you would be best.

Taking Caleb's hands, you smash both of his palms against your face. The softness of your baby fat dents underneath the pressure. While Caleb was still in shock, you pry open his fingers. And maneuver them to pinch the chubby apples of your adorable cheeks.

Caleb has always enjoyed taking hold of your squishy face whenever he was teasing you. You always swat away his hands before he can enjoy the sensation too much.

"Caleb, I'll let you have a free pass to pinch my cheeks. But it's valid for today only! So, you better enjoy it, kay?"

For a while, Caleb doesn't move a muscle. His hands stay exactly as you had positioned them, his index and thumb lightly clasped around your cheek. He doesn't make his hold on your face tighter or looser.

"... Heh. I should have known. Of course you would find a way to make me feel better." Slowly, your offer starts to sink in. When he starts to pinch your cheeks, not enough to hurt, but just enough to shift your face around like clay, he starts to feel a little more like himself.

"You're so cute." A part of you, the part of you that always grumbles when Caleb plays with you like this, wants to avoid meeting Caleb's gaze. It was totally humiliating to be poked and prodded at like you were his little pet.

But... You have to know if you're managing to cheer Caleb up. Hesitantly, you peek up through your eyelashes, daring to catch a glimpse of his eyes.

Ah, it was just as you had hoped. The light that you have come to associate with Caleb has begun to wash away the dullness from before. Maybe you did know how to cheer Caleb up better than anyone else.

[strawberrynull]

can u do cockwarming w jake

엔하이픈 | Enhypen | Sim Jaeyun

──Pairing: bf!jake x reader

──Genre: smut

──Synopsis: Your boyfriend is busy with a video game tournament but you seem to be getting sick of waiting. You can tell how bad he needs you but he can’t get off the game until the tournament is over.

──Warnings: cursing, Jake is referred to as Jaeyun, Jae, and Yunnie, teasing, p in v, unprotected (wrap it), cockwarming obviously, mentions of rough sex

──A/N: I have so many Jake drafts from awhile ago. I plan on posting them all soon. Pls look forward to it

Masterlist

It was such a boring day for you. The whole apartment was silent besides the sound of rapid clicking from the bedroom and whatever was playing on the TV. You were staying at your boyfriends house with nothing to do but binge watch shows while you waited for him not to be busy.

A few days ago, your boyfriend, Jaeyun, announced that he was invited to participate in a tournament for his favorite shooting game. Now you were stuck on his couch with nothing to do but watch show after show. Of course you were happy for him. After all, he was personally invited to compete in his favorite game! But at the same time, you were upset a mere game had the ability of stealing your boyfriend away from you. He told you. That this tournament could take all day which pissed you off, although you could never admit to that Jaeyun. He was so excited to compete, you wouldn’t want to spoil that for him.

But now, you were bored out of your mind. You were so bored that you couldn’t even pay attention to what as playing on the tv anymore. You just sat there on the couch, spacing out until the sound of the tv was just static to you.

It had already been hours and in your trance of boredom came one thought. One single idea that made you feel a certain way, an unmistakable throb between your thighs. And that thought? Your boyfriend. Your sweet, caring, handsome… hot… sexy boyfriend…

But he was fucking busy.

You couldn’t bear being away from him. He was always just there with you, always by your side. One day without him was unbearable. You ran your hands down your face in frustration, staring up at the ceiling. If hell on earth was real, this was it. As dramatic as it sounded, this was pure torture. Your boyfriend was literally in the same house as you, only one wall away, but you couldn’t be with him. You couldn’t distract him or he would lose his place in this tournament.

Oh well

You stood from the couch abruptly, with a new sense of determination. The sound of your footsteps echoed through the quiet house as you padded down the hallway from the living room to Jaeyuns bedroom. You slowly opened the door, careful not to make much noise. It wasn’t of much use though. Your boyfriend noticed you entering the room immediately and flashed a quick smile that made your thighs clench in desperation. And he didn’t miss it. No. He definitely noticed the small action and swallowed hard.

Jaeyun is smart. Not just book smart, but socially smart. He noticed when your emotions changed and every shift in your demeanor. He could read you so easily like an open book. Right now, he could absolutely tell what you were feeling. With the idea now in his mind, he was feeling it too.

You plopped down dramatically onto his bed, throwing your arms out to the sides like a starfish. “Are you almost done Jae?” You asked in a bored tone that came out as more of a whine. All he did was chuckle softly which made you even more frustrated. His voice was like honey and it pissed you off but also made your thighs clench even more.

“Sorry baby, I’m only half way done.” He sighed sympathetically, sensing your frustration. You groaned and threw your arms over your face to which he frowned to himself. The sound of him still clicking away at the keyboard made you all the more upset. The pent up boredom and irritation didn’t solve the ache between your legs either. Your thighs clenched tighter, only making it worse. Jaeyun glanced over at you for only a moment but your reaction stuck with him. He chewed at his lip and felt his pants start to tighten.

“Fuck. J-just come over here.” His voice cut through the silence, causing your head to perk up. You didn’t hesitate to jump to your feet and step over to his desk. He reached out an arm and pushed his chair back just slightly, inviting you to sit. “Come. Sit with me.” He whispered, huskier than intended. You hesitated before swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him in his chair.

As soon as you sat down, you felt the unmistakable hardness beneath you. “Jae-‘

“I know,” he interrupted. “I wish this would go quicker too.” He whispered and placed a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“It’s been hours…” you groaned, forehead now resting on his shoulder. “This is torture.”

He chuckled at that and rubbed your back reassuringly a few times before his hand went back to his mouse. The room became silent beside the sound of clicking for a few moments. Then he spoke again. “I need you just as bad as you need me, baby. I promise you, as soon as I’m done, you’ll have me all to yourself again.” His first sentence made your legs tighten around his waist. And boy did he notice. The tent in his pants grew, becoming even more noticeable, almost like the universe was teasing you. Like a carrot tied to a stick, the universe was dangling it right in front of you but you couldn’t have it. But you needed it so bad.

Another hour or two passed and the tournament still wasn’t over. Staying still was becoming a struggle. Anytime you would move even an inch, Jaeyun would hiss and grab your hip to still you. At this point, it was almost impossible not to move. You just needed to feel something.

You whined against his shoulder, trying your hardest not to move. “Yunnie can I just-“

“Please…” he interrupted with a breathy whisper. “please just sit on it” Your eyes immediately widened and you picked your head up to meet his gaze. His face was flushed and eyes glassy with desire as he looked at you with barely contained desperation. “Please?” He breathed out one more time. You nodded once before rushing to remove your pants. Jaeyun quickly fumbled with his belt and yanked down the zipper of his jeans, freeing his aching cock.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna distract you…” you mumbled and bit your lip.

“Just do it… but… sit still.” He whispered, pleading with his eyes. With his confirmation, you didn’t hesitate to line yourself up and sink down. You hissed in unison, finally easing the ache you were both feeling for hours. Once you were fully seated, your boyfriend kissed your neck once, then twice before going back to his game. “You better stay still. You’re my good luck charm for the rest of the tournament.” You nodded and wrapped your arms around his neck. Just merely having him inside of you was enough to hold you off until he was done with this stupid competition.

As your boyfriend went on with his game, you tried to occupy yourself with anything. Literally anything that will pass the time. You had been kissing his neck for a short while before being scolded for distracting him. You only chuckled at that but knew not to keep doing it. Instead, you opted for playing with his hair. It wasn’t distracting for him and it kept you occupied. Though, not even that could keep you happy for long. You tried playing with the string of his hoodie or the hem of your own shirt just to pass time. All you could really do was wait patiently.

And stay very still.

After a while though, waiting became boring again. Your hips moved and he inhaled sharply before his hand comes flying to your waist, stopping any further movement.

“Just stay still. I’m almost done.” Jaeyun groaned huskily. You could clearly tell how much he was holding back. He needed it just as much as you did and the wait was painful. Not just for you but for him too.

Suddenly, Jaeyun gasped. “Oh my god… this is the last game.” He announced. You immediately picked your head up and stared at him with shock. “Fuck yes.” He cheered, preparing himself for the final stretch of the tournament.

“You got this, Jae. I believe in you baby.” You kissed his cheek for good luck before the last round begun. Now he was really focused, tapping aggressively at the keyboard like it was life or death.

You could see him defeat opponents from the opposing team over your shoulder. It was truly impressive. “Yessss there’s one person left on the enemy team.” He rambled as his excitement grew. “My team is actually so goated.” You chucked at his burst of energy and excitement. Then you felt his hips buck once. You. Almost thought it was on accident. Then he did it again. Now it was no longer unintentional.

“Jae…” you warned him.

“I don’t care. My teams got this.” He replied with confidence. “I just… need to feel a little bit.” This time his voice came out a little shaky. You could tell his team would win either way so you gave in. All you gave was a small roll of your hips but just that had him hissing. He bit his lip and shifted a few times under you, now only half focused on the last few seconds of the game.

“Come on Yunnie, you got this” you whispered breathily in his ear, making him buck up into you again.

Then he threw his hands up, startling you and making you jump slightly. “We won!” He exclaimed. Your jaw dropped and he looked at you with those signature puppy eyes. He was smiling from ear to ear, the same smile you fell so deeply in love with. Ina split second his demeanor changed. It was like a light switched flipped. He quickly lifted you off of him, making you whine. Then he stood and shoved you harshly against the edge of the desk, swiping the keyboard a mouse to the side. Jaeyun gripped your chin, earning a gasp from you. “The rest of tonight is all about you, pretty girl.” He rasped out before slamming into you. He quickly kissed your lips, swallowing the sharp moan that came from you.

And fuck, was it a long night…

A/N (again): This was supposed to be posted yesterday but it was genuinely an awful fucking day. I couldn’t bring myself to write at all, let alone post. Sorry its delayed and a bit rushed but i hope u like it <3

[prettydaisygirl]

Hi beautiful <33

I love your writing, especially James Bombero's. I need that man to be real.

Some fluff, maybe suggestive if you want (?) where the Pregnant reader is very happy to see James training and exercising and maybe because she is a little insecure about her body, he shows her that no matter the weight, he can carry her.

hi nonnie! Thank you so much for this request, I need to write something with them and their baby because I can't get enough of this. Hope you enjoy <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who feels insecure about her body ✿ 710 words

cw: pregnant!fem!reader, body insecurity, James being hot but also gross, suggestive but no actual smut

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You bite your lip, shifting on the couch again. It’s been difficult to get comfortable recently, what with your body adjusting for new growth and the swell of your belly. That’s not why you’re squirming though, not really. That’s just your excuse.

The real reason is across the room, wearing a headband and shining with sweat.

James is doing bicep curls with weights you’re sure you’d never be able to lift. His small grunts with each rep have you hot and bothered no matter how hard you try to focus on your novel. Your eyes trace the same sentence four times before you give up, looking up to admire him again.

His muscles shift under the thin fabric of his sleeveless shirt. You find yourself staring, the book in your hand falling into your lap. James shakes his hair off his forehead again, beads of sweat dripping off his chocolate-colored curls. Your body heats, an ache between your legs that only worsens as you continue to watch him move.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve let James touch you. You don’t feel right in your body.

You’re happy. Incredibly, wonderfully, amazingly happy to be carrying his baby, it’s not that. Every time you look in the mirror, you don’t feel like yourself. The thought of him touching you, seeing you like this, makes your skin crawl. You know James would love you no matter what you looked like, but you’re having trouble loving yourself enough to let him touch you.

The heat in your gut mixes with the icy coldness of insecurity. Your face crumbles and you look back at your book, nausea rising up your throat despite the fact that you’ve long surpassed your morning sickness phase. 

Of course, it’s at this moment that James chooses to look at you. He takes out an earbud, a frown on his face. “Are you alright, love?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” You say, though the words are hollow and your voice wavers enough for him to notice. “I just… you look really good right now.”

“Why do you sound disappointed by that?” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe off his sweat as he steps closer to you. “Normally you’d say ‘oh wow Jamie, you are so hot with such big muscles, I love you so much!’” James does a very poor impersonation of you, but it’s enough to have one corner of your mouth tilting up into a smile.

“I would never say that.” You say back in a low voice, rolling your eyes at him. The tight feeling in your gut doesn’t go away, though, and your hands instinctively find your bump. Despite it being the main source of the insecurity, feeling the skin there also brings you a sense of comfort. It’s an internal battle that just leaves you feeling like there are bugs below your skin, like you’re an imposter. “I’m just… afraid to let you touch me right now. 

James’ face contorts like this is the most confusing thing he’s ever heard, and then he looks almost offended. “Do you think so little of me? Angel, you’re carrying my child, I would never-”

“No, it’s not you, it’s… I don’t like how I look right now.”

A thick silence fills the room, lingering long enough that you interrupt it with a sharp gasp in surprise as James slides an arm under your legs, the other behind your back, and lifts you into his hold gently. He just chuckles.

“James!” You wrap your arms around his back to stop yourself from falling. 

“You know I love you no matter what you look like, right?” James’ voice is soft. 

“Yes.” You say, just as quiet. “I know.”

“And you just told me that I look good.” Not a question, but you respond the same.

“Yes, I know.” With a smile this time.

“And I’m really turned on right now, so can I please carry you upstairs and make love to you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to get shy or embarrassed. “I’ll worship you until you forget all about your insecurities, baby.”

Your cheeks heat, and you bury yourself into his chest. He smells like sweat and man, and you crinkle your nose. 

“Only if you shower first.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[tohruies]

AAAAAAA MAOMEOW I M SO SORRY FOR BEING A MILLION YEARS LATE TO THIS;;;; i have been excited to annotate this fic for weeks now i am finally sitting down to do it!!!!!!

my body is ready let's go let's go (୨ˊ ³ `)ᐣ✎ ﹏

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes...

right from the get go wahhh wahhH mao!!!!!!!!!! ueuue i am always rendered so speechless by how versatile your prose is and you use it so effectively to tell your stories.... the writing throughout this fic is so devastatingly poetic and grounded and it makes my heart hurt in the best of ways;;; i feel like i should be sacrificing a goat just to read your writing sobbles......

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

this part and the entire sequence that follows!!!! i m going to pour pomegranate juice on my own grave. jdskfdnxz i just loved the way you introduced mydei in general... how he enters like a devouring sun but then??? subverts every expectation LOL i am ready to hate him alongside the reader!!!!!!!!!!! >:C but then he offers her the rest of his juice and says to pour some out AAAAA THE SILENT IMPLICATION OF THAT..... this gesture towards bodily autonomy where it was originally built to entirely erase it... i hope i am making sense WAH I JUST LOVE IT SO MUCH;;; this way you have characterised him.... i am beginning to see the light 🫣

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.” // The prince remains composed despite your goading.

OH I DIG THE POWER DYNAMICS HERE;;;;;; how mydei owns reader by law of conquest but every time he tries to assert himself, she defies him and he just. lets her. JSHDKJANZ like the way she makes fun of him in his own language and then brings up his daddy issues and he just takes it;;; wahhh i really like how electric (?) this reader is... she is definitely a force of nature to be reckoned with!!!! sobsob i love her;;;;;

you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

AAAAAAAA she isn't afraid of death :c she's afraid of being caged!!!!!!! and now she's in chains..... what does this mean for her fate!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

mao i am so sorry i was so engrossed in reading that i forgot to copy and paste a lot of my favourite lines here SOBBLES BOBBLES BUT!!!!! i hope you don't mind me just yapping for a while...

first!! the world building is incredible!!!!!!!! the way you write kemnos is so rich and frightening in a way with how imperial it sounds!!! :o and the contrast between the like... militaristic grandeur of it vs the reader's inner world is so;;;; wah;; i especially loved the you are part of the opulence part--it's such a poignant line to me.... luxury is not a kindness but just ornamented imprisonment... oihidsjd;;;;;

and the scene where she asks for books like she'd rather read a romance novel than another solider memoir!!!!! lol and mydei just blinks.... he sounds genuinely confused that no one's let her walk around even though he gave the order and you can tell the exact moment he realises that the world doesn't work the way he thought it did.... ;u; the way he doesn't know how to love or protect someone without control!!!! wahhh i just think it is so fascinating how he doesn't know how to give affection without authority sobsob BUT I KNOW HE WILL LEARN!!!!!!!! I HAVE MUCH FAITH IN YOU PRINCE MYDEIMOS ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

the part where she gets to go on a walk (the bickering between her and mydei about how she is being walked like a dog;;;; this woman jksdjknx i like her so much;;;) and the entire sequence that follows!!!!!!!! i think that might be one of my fave scenes from this chapter wah!! the contrast between kremnos and her memories or aurelia make my heart ache so nad :c the war-hungry setting vs the warmth and lushness and vibrancy of her old home;;;; i can feel the absence of music... and fruit trees...... wahhh the little kids who used to beg her to fix their toys;;;;;; AND THEN WHEN SHE GOES BACK TO HER QUARTERS!!!!!!!! AAAA THE AURELIAN PLAY AND CUISINE AND THE LYRE..... it is so evident that mydei's listening and trying to comfort her--but reader's reluctance to trust him is so true and raw to her trauma wah....... it must be so easy to feel that kindness and construe it for manipulation;; especially from your captor JAKDASZNJ sobsob i empathise with her a lot and i think you wrote her confusion and resentment so wonderfully mao;;; <3333333

AND WHEN HE LEAVEEEEEEESAJFHKSADJHF THAT PART NEARLY MADE ME CRY MAO;;;; i was so scared for the reader and so sick thinking about the implications of what would come if he did indeed die.... and this pain of her hating him!! but also needing him!!! and then resenting that need LOL AND HATING HERSELF!!!!!!! for even wanting that illusion of safety!!!!

his shoulders relaxing when he comes back and sees that she's okay!!!!!!!! 🥺 it's such a moment of subtlety but it absolutely wrecked me wahhh.....

okay asdfghjkl this shared dinner scene really did make me sob /pos AAAAA MAO I AM SO MOVED..... by this section;;; the revelation that he's been cooking dinner for weeks!!!!!! since he noticed she wasn't eating... HE HIMSELF ASKING THE AURELIAN WOMAN FOR TIPS AND TASTING NOTES WHAT IF I KILL MYSELFKJHFADSJKAAJK HE IS SUCH A CARETAKER........ myan... duck smoking cig gif.....

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

(sowwies i am back to pasting the lines here WAH my annotations/notes looked so messy otherwise;;;) the way reader is so stunned!!!! and then the it's easier to cook for two KYAAAAAA MYDEI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he isn't trying to earn her wah.... he is just!!! doing it!!!!!! with no thanks or expectation other than simply wanting her to eat;;;

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

TAT ????????? has this man known rejection his whole life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! it is like!!! he is always the outsider..... even when he tries to be kind;;;;; even when he saves lives even when he feeds people;;;; it almost feels like grief that's been softened into habit???? the way he is so kind almost as if it's instinct now ;u;

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

this insult hurled at him right after he made her the milopita NOOOOOOO;;;; she is evidently trying to test him!!! bait the monster.... prove that her hatred is indeed justified... and it is like!!!!!! she is just waiting for mydei to break character and become what she's feared all this time ohhh :c

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

this part that follows!!!! when he does "break character" it is only him snapping at her for trying to get her to understand his intentions... and it is like!!! she wants him to admit to being a monster so she can keep hating him and he wants her to believe that he isn't one--not because he needs her love but because he needs to believe it himselfffjdhksbhnx;;;;;;

“Because I wanted a home.”

MAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly. // His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

he is such a soggy fella LOL!!!!!!! and then when she teases him for being bad at manipulation.... >u< flirting with your captor miss priestess...... i see........ /lh

AND THIS PROPHECY AT THE END AJDHKJANK????????????????????????????????????? hello what is this psychic slap /pos...

“Does that mean you’ll come to trust me, then?” // “No.”

༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽ mao i don;t feel so good

/silly asdfghjkl HEHE IT IS ALWAYS SUCH A DELIGHT TO READ YOUR FICS MAO and shamefully i am so late to this;; sobsob but im so happy to have savoured it slowly hehe....

i love how the reader and mydei are both destroyed by their fates and war and trying to survive by whatever means they can!! how she clings to hatred and he clings to hope;;;; perhaps i may be tempted to redownload hsr again.... after your mydei here has solidified him as Mydei of the Year to me!!!!!!!!! lol :3

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.)

12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

Author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol.

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hieria of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, ��You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Mydei is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

[justslightlymental]

"All of them Goddamn" Saja Boys x Reader Part 2

ill be so honest guys I feel like I butchered the start but oh well! I don't know for sure how long in the actual movie it took for them to defeat them yada yada. But in this AU i'll just say it took like a few months. Anyway, this doesn't have smut in it, IM SORRY BRO OKAY. im lowkey thinking of making a part 3 cuz this shit ended weird ok. ALSO reader is pregnant, if u dont like that LEAVE. its not my fault bro had unsafe smeggs in part 1

also yes im working on my other requests about them, those will be full on smut trust :33333 -

IT had been weeks since our last encounter. And oh boy… I’ve had these terrible headaches, these terrible stomach aches. The many times I’ve had to dip out of rehearsals just to empty my stomach. My energy levels have gone down the drain. I thought about reasons for a very long time, I was perfectly fine before the “Saja Boys” fiasco at the bathhouse, and a week or so after I was fine. But the more I thought about that night the more I realised how irresponsible and lust driven all of us were. Literally all of them splattered my insides white and NONE of us had any kind of protection, oh my fucking god. “What if I'm pregnant. What if im carrying the child of a fucking demon.” I spoke to myself quietly, sitting in my bed, stressing the fuck out. It all made sense, and I honestly wish it didn’t. How am I supposed to bring this up to THEM? How am I supposed to explain my predicament to my bandmates?? To our manager?? I can’t just fucking go up to them like ‘Oh yeah.. By the way, I'M pregnant and the father must be one of the Saja boys. Hell no. We had enough trouble overall with losing our fans day by day to them, and figuring out a song to completely wipe the demons out and strengthen the Honmoon up for good. Wait… If we defeat the saja boys and actually succeed, what about this possible child I might be carrying?? I mean maybe I’m not pregnant- But with everything happening there is a 98% chance I am. If we kill them- my child- or well their child too will forever be fatherless OH GOD what if the baby dies too?? I have to take a test, like badly. “Hey, I'm going out!” I said to the girls after emerging from my room, dressed very casually. “Alright, be safe okay?” Rumi said back, before turning back to her movie.

“Oh! Can you bring back chicken noodles?? I’ve been craving them!” Zoey yelled out from the kitchen. “Will do, bye bye!” “Byeeee!” Mira said, not looking away from her book.

The evening breeze was chilly, the hoodie I wore could only do so much. Feeling the cold sweeping through the tiniest openings. I walked faster, wanting to get to the sweet warmth of the pharmacy, which shouldn’t be too far now. As I finally reached the store, immediately feeling relieved and speed walking to the intimacy section, looking through all the different tests. I kept my hood up, trying to stay as hidden as possible not wanting any scandals to happen.

”Would you like some help?” A kind pharmacist said from next to me, a smile on her face. ”Uhmm… Well, anything that's trustworthy..?” I answered awkwardly.

We had a lovely conversation, she was really easy to talk to. The average auntie, well at least she looked the age… Thankfully she did not recognize me, internally sighing in relief. As I finished shopping and walked out. I was immediately met with the cold and once again began my walk back home.

Though as I was walking it felt like I was being watched, the hairs on the back of my neck rising like I was spiderman. I tried to walk faster, taking different routes but in the end a sudden smoke appeared out of nowhere, scaring the ever living shit out of me. Currently I was in an alley too so his shit truly was not ideal.

”Well well well, look who it is.” A deep voice called out and I immediately recognized it.

”Jinu??!” I said shocked, clutching the bag into my chest.

”And don’t forget about us!” Another voice said and four more men appeared right next to Jinu.

Oh for fucks sake.

”I'm not in the mood.” I scoffed. 

Okay well between you and me I was very much in the mood but I also did not want them knowing about my… predicament.

”C'mon doll we all know that’s a lie.” Abby said, walking closer to me, throwing his arm around my shoulders.

”No really, please.. Just let me go.” I sighed, my emotions in overdrive. “What’s the matter?” Mystery asked, seemingly the only one with the social skills to actually pick up on my mood. “It’s nothing, just a bad day.” I quickly said, wanting to get out of this situation before my ‘possible’ secret gets revealed. “Why do you smell so good right now?” Romance spoke up, suddenly appearing right beside me, literally inhaling my scent. “Now that you mention I smell it too.” Baby said, eyeing me up and down. Oh shit, I literally forgot they are demons. Does this basically confirm my suspicions and fears? Can they smell the change in my hormones or some shit? That's lowkey creepy, but whatever. “Just let me go.” I said once again, walking past them. Obviously they wouldn’t let me go that easily, hearing their footsteps behind me. I was seriously fed up. “You’re hiding something aren’t you? Maybe in that bag of yours?” Jinu caught up with me, tilting his head in a mocking way. “Did you pick up some toys to use incase we all met up again?” Abby joked, others giggling with him.

I chose to ignore them, as much as I honestly wanted to get down on the floor and get absolutely ravished by all of them. Getting home and doing this test and then crying my eyes out was much more favorable.  Though I don’t think they took me ignoring them very well, the next thing I knew they had stopped in their tracks, making me turn around, their faces rid of any humor or smiles. “Fine if you’re going to act like a brat. Don’t bother crawling back to us begging for more.” Jinu scoffed, all of them agreeing with him. “The entitlement is crazy!! See if i fucking care!” I yelled out, baffled at how these men… No these DEMONS were acting. No other words were exchanged as I turned on my heel and practically ran off, holding in the tears. This is how everything was supposed to go. Obviously they wouldn’t hold any emotional attachment to me, what was I expecting? A nice dinner date in the city's most luxurious 5 star restaurant?? They are demons for fucks sake, their whole thing is to just lure people in and then eat their souls. But why did it hurt so much? It’s not like they actually took advantage of me or anything, I gave them my full consent and was reckless. And now I'm paying the price for one night of pleasure. I thought, staring at the 3 positive tests in my hand. Makeup already ruined, eyeliner mushed around my cheeks, tears still flowing down freely. My emotions were all over the place, It wasn’t on my plans to become a young mother to a fucking half demon baby. Yet despite all of that I couldn’t help but already feel attached. This child was innocent, who am I to blame it for being conceived by my own foolish desires and actions. I had decided, no matter how foolish or bad, I was keeping this baby and that’s final. The next few weeks were awful, between the writing, composing of songs and rehearsals not to mention rivaling against Saja boys. AND struggling with the amazing side effects of pregnancy, thankfully I wasn’t showing yet, so I could still use our performance outfits no matter how flashy or tight they were. Things had been going south though. The Honmoon was weakening due to our lack of progress, demons appearing left and right. Fans leaving and going for Saja boys. They were practically everywhere, we were being overthrown quickly.

“Alright girls! I know everythings all ‘saja’ ‘saja’. But we are going to turn it into ‘Huntrix!’ ‘Huntrix!’ alright?” Bobby said with a smile placing a bunch of posters in front of us at our table. “There’s a bunch of fans outside who literally SLEPT on the sidewalk just to see you. “Happy fans… Happy Honmoon!” We all looked at each other and clicked our pens together, sitting at our fan event table. And so the fans bursted in and so did 5 random… sleeping bag things..? “And who do I owe this to?” Rumi asked with a smile, going to pick up a poster to sign it. “To your biggest fans…” The male said, they all revealed themselves as Saja boys. Oh for FUCKS sake. All of the attendees went crazy yelling out their band name. “Oh Saja boys It’s an honor! Table please!” Bobby said, as they brought a table down for the boys. “Joint meeting??” Half of the people lined up for us moved to the boys table. We looked at each other baffled, Rumi staying silent for a moment before standing up and announcing the boys would be seated with us and the people immediately lined back up. “WHAT?!” All of us whisper yelled.

“We need all the fans we can get…” Rumi said, sitting back down in her seat. I was now forced to sit between Baby and Jinu. Neither of them didn’t seem to pay attention to me, but I could feel glances my way ever so often. Forced to listen to them shamelessly flirting with my bandmates, forced to sit in absolute misery and worst of all.. Forced to suffer my raging hormones, oh god they smelled so good. The fan event started off good, signing posters and albums, having short chats with the fans, doing cute stuff yada yada. I was doing a pretty good job with ignoring the boys, no matter how much I wanted to oogle at them. Jinu made it very clear they don’t want anything to do with me anymore. “Hello! I hope you’re doing alright!” I smiled sweetly at the next fan in front of me, a guy my age I assumed. “Oh my god!! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you!” He beamed with happiness, taking my hands in his. Oookayy.. could’ve asked for permission first but i’ll let it slide… Happy fans.. Happy Honmoon I reminded myself. “I can’t believe I'm meeting you! Thank you for supporting us!” I smiled back, a little forced. “I’ve been a fan since the first day, you’re my favorite! I love you so much!” He continued, moving closer to me. “I appreciate that!” I cringed internally at how close he was getting. “Would you like me to sign anything?” The fanboy gasped letting go of my hands to dig into his bag, probably for an album. I couldn’t help but notice from the corner of my eye how Jinu had turned his head towards us both, watching the interaction clearly not amused. It was then when I felt a hand land on my thigh, inching ever so closer to my core. My eyes widened for a moment before I calmed myself down, acting normal for the fan. “Please sign my album!” He asked, handing it to me and so I did.

“You’re so amazing!!! Pleaseee marry me!” The guy said, lowkey freaking me out now. This also caught the attention of my bandmates but also all of the Saja Boys. And if looks could kill this fellow would be buried deep within the earth's core. I forced an awkward smile, trying not to yell at this guy, not wanting to scare any of the other fans who might I add also started watching the interaction. “Hahaha- Thank you- umm I’m sorry but-” Before I could continue a hand slammed in front of me, making me flinch. “I think it’s time you move on.” It was Jinu and he was pissed, in fact they all were pissed I could feel the atmosphere changing. Everyone was dead quiet, the guy looked like he would piss his pants at any moment, before quickly snatching the poster and fleeing the whole event. It was pretty fucking awkward after that but it wasn’t long until things seemed to return to normal. “Thank you…” I muttered to Jinu, not sparing a glance. He didn’t reply but he didn’t need to, another squeeze to my thigh was all I needed. Maybe everything was not lost between us after all, maybe he did care, maybe they all did. They just didn’t know how to express themselves… I don’t know, maybe I’m just delusional holding onto the smallest thread of hope. One thing is for sure though, I need to let them know.  After the fan event fiasco I was sitting in my dressing room, just staring into the mirror. The frown on my face was evident as a hand rested on my stomach. The thoughts in my head racing, I was so conflicted. Everytime I saw one of the guys I felt weak in my legs, my heart thumped against my chest, and I just felt… weird. Was I really falling in love?

And how would that end huh…

I was suddenly pulled away by my thoughts due to my door opening, in walked all of them. Without an invitation of course!! We just stared at each other without saying a word, the air heavy around us. I don’t know for how long we just stood there in silence, but it felt like our eyes were having the conversation for us entirely.

“Why did you come here.” I asked bluntly.

“To check up on you, are we not allowed to care?” Jinu asked with a frown, hands folded in front of his chest. I let out an amused scoff, looking away from them, gathering my words. “That’s rich coming from you. From all of you.” I said a hint of venom in my tone. “From what I gathered last time we happened to bump into each other you all were only after ONE thing. Sex. It’s very funny suddenly seeing you ‘care’, or being interested in how I'm doing. Hey it’s okay though! It was a really nice one night stand, I can't believe I expected more.” It felt relieving to finally get my feelings out, really it did. “What? Got nothing to say? Because I was right?” I asked, staring at their faces, all of them seemed to avoid eye contact, nervous almost. “It’s.. not that… I just- We’ll we just… The truth is-” Jinu tried but couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. “We all like you!” Baby Saja yelled out. “We didn’t know how to tell you, or how to find you..” Romance continued, scratching the back of his head. “I guess the moment we saw you again.. Asking for that was like.. a way to try and forget..” Abby said, his face red. “We thought you would never like us back.. Since you know… we are demons.” Mystery quietly said Honestly their confession shocked me, you mean there’s actually hope?? They actually have feelings?? No fucking way. It almost brought me to tears, fucking hormones. “I- I’m shocked… Truth is after our ‘thing’ I couldn’t stop thinking about you all…” I mumbled, all of their heads snapped towards me. “It was torture trying to sleep that night…” I giggled quietly, remembering. “You drive us crazy… And today seeing that boy touch you… It made us mad, it's weird.. It feels like an instinct, to protect you from everything and anything…” Jinu said, others agreeing. “I feel like I need to be close to you… at all times, something is pulling me in.” Baby said, walking closer to me. All of them followed, I backed towards the counter where all my makeup was laid. I stared up at them, all of a sudden remembering the last time and immediately felt like my panties had just been dipped into water.  “I want to be close to you all too…” I said, eyes never leaving theirs. Suddenly nothing else mattered, all I wanted was to have a taste of them again, to feel them touch me, mark me, claim me. Jinu’s hands landed on my shoulders, he leaned in slowly, our lips connecting in a sweet kiss. It wasn’t messy like before, but instead a passionate one. As we separated he looked me deep in the eyes, his hand caressing my cheek. “I’m sorry about that day.” He said. “It’s okay…” None of us shared another word, but that was okay. Though I still felt terrible, as they all got close to me. I was keeping this secret from them, but I was afraid, so afraid. What would they think? What would everyone think? I didn’t want this moment to end in more unnecessary fighting and drama, I just wanted everyone to be happy. If it meant keeping and going through this by myself I would do it. 

Romance pressed his lips against my neck, his teeth just slightly gracing my skin. Baby on my other side, his hand caressing my arm, leaning against me, enjoying the warmth of my skin. Abby took Jinu’s place in front of me, kissing me deeply, pressing himself up against me. Softly moaning into his kiss, playfully fighting his tongue with my own. Mystery had taken Romance's side and was now running his fingers through my hair, kissing my cheek and neck. After a little bit more making out with them and touching each other up we separated, even if we didn’t want to. But time was not on our side, soon the girls would come looking for me and we would be busted big time. “We’ll see each other more right?” I asked hopefully, the fact is I felt myself not wanting to leave their side for even a moment. “Yes, definitely. It hurts us to be away from you darling.” Jinu said. “Let us mark you… be ours forever..” Abby asked, almost desperate. “Please, I need everyone to know you are mine and theirs.” Mystery said, his voice whiny. The rest agreed, and how could I say no to them? Even if my mind tried telling me no. For deep down in my heart I was afraid of all these feelings, what happens if we truly seal the Honmoon up for good? My heart would be broken beyond repair. “Yes.” In a flash their human forms disappeared, replaced by their demon counterparts. I used to loathe them, to hate them but now I feel like I preferred seeing their true selves. I felt even more connected to them. They placed their hands on my chest one by one, each time a mark flashed over my chest, a purple hue traveling along my veins down my arms before disappearing. Each time I felt a surge of emotions, feelings like a piece of their lost souls merged with mine. I'm sure they felt more alive, I could see this light in their eyes I had never seen before. “You are ours now and we.. are yours.” - YEA ILL MAKE A PART 3 MAYBE YEAH (i will)

[hhhwnr]

ꨄA little at a time — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader genre: comfort word count: 1,2k

summary: You didn’t expect much from Penelope’s mystery helper. But somehow, by the time he left, the apartment didn’t feel so empty anymore.

author’s note: I had so much fun writing this. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

When you moved into your new apartment, Penelope—being the chaotic good older sister that she was—offered to help in the form of borrowed manpower.

“I have someone in mind,” she’d said, voice tight with careful meaning. “He’s gentle. Brilliant. Recently out of prison. Falsely accused. Long story. Don’t ask too many questions—just… let him help. He needs to be around good people. Bright people. People like you.”

Not exactly comforting.

You agreed, of course, but not without imagining the worst: some towering, tattooed ex-con with a thousand-yard stare and a criminal record to match. You pictured someone who grunted instead of spoke, maybe with a teardrop inked under one eye and a permanent scowl.

So when you opened the door and saw him—soft curls, too-big purple cardigan, messenger bag slung carefully over one shoulder—you blinked, unsure if you had the right guy. The man at your doorstep looked like he belonged in a campus library, not a prison yard.

“Hello,” he said, voice low but warm. “I’m Spencer.”

This is Spencer?

The man Penelope told you about like she was passing off a live grenade? This man, who looked more like a bookshop regular than someone who’d spent time behind bars? You didn’t know exactly what you expected—someone sharper, more hardened, maybe taller—but this wasn’t it. He didn’t radiate danger. He didn’t radiate much at all, actually. His presence was quiet, like he was asking permission just by standing there. There was a gentleness in the way he held himself, in the way his eyes flicked past you to the chaos of boxes behind you, and the way he adjusted the strap of his bag like he was bracing for something.

And suddenly, you felt a little ashamed of the image you’d painted in your head. Whatever Spencer had been through, it hadn’t left him mean or jagged. It had left him soft. And that somehow made it worse.

You cleared your throat. “Hey,” you said, a bit too quickly. “Come in. It’s, uh… mostly boxes still, but—welcome to the chaos.”

You showed him around briefly, not that there was much to show. A kitchen that still smelled like cardboard and cleaning spray. A living room mostly made up of towers of boxes. The bedroom, still mattress-on-the-floor casual. He followed you without question, nodding when you pointed to where things should go, his hands steady and quiet as he got to work.

Eventually, the two of you settled in front of the bookshelf, a couple of open boxes at your feet. The task was simple: unpack, organize, shelve. It was the kind of thing you could do with music in the background or a friend on the phone—but Spencer didn’t reach for music, and you had the sense that he probably wasn’t much of a phone person either. So the silence settled. Not awkward, just… quiet. You didn’t mind quiet. But you did love to talk.

Penelope had warned you. He’s not much of a talker lately, she’d said gently, like she was handing you something fragile. Don’t take it personally. Just be… soft.

You could do soft.

So you reached for a familiar comfort—books. You turned to say something, maybe ask his opinion on how to sort them, maybe just make a light comment about alphabetizing versus genre—

—but Spencer beat you to it.

He held up a slim, worn notebook with stars drawn in the corner, and a hand-scrawled label that made your heart jump: TARDIS Journal – Volume II.

“I didn’t expect to see this,” he said, tilting it slightly in the light, almost smiling.

Your mouth fell open just slightly. “You know Doctor Who?”

He looked up, meeting your eyes for the first time in a while. “I used to record episodes on VHS. Before streaming,” he added, almost shyly, as if it was a confession.

You laughed, heart warming instantly. “Same. Ten is my favorite.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Understandable. But I’ve always thought Eleven had the better monologues.”

You grinned. “You’re not wrong.”

And just like that, the silence cracked open—not completely, not all at once, but enough for a little light to seep in. You didn’t go deep into timelines or trivia. It didn’t become a fandom debate. Just two people who’d both found comfort in the same blue police box once upon a time, unpacking a life together one book at a time.

It was easy, after that. The conversation wasn’t constant, but it came in little waves—soft commentary about your book collection, a few shared memories about favorite episodes, a quote here or there that made you both smile. There was a quiet understanding between you, something unspoken but easy.

Eventually, you offered tea.

“I have like… three kinds,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, technically four, but one expired two years ago, so I don’t count that.”

Spencer smiled. “Anything’s fine.”

You made two mugs of chamomile and brought them to the couch. He sat carefully, like the furniture might break under him if he wasn’t careful, but he accepted the mug with both hands and thanked you so quietly you barely heard it.

The room dimmed as the sun ducked lower, shadows stretching across the floor. You didn’t talk much after that—just sat together, drinking warm tea from chipped ceramic. The hum of city traffic outside the window filled the silence, and at some point, your head tilted back against the cushion.

It wasn’t intentional. You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But the unpacking had drained you, and the tea was warm, and Spencer’s presence—oddly enough—was comforting in the quietest way. You didn’t even notice your eyelids drooping until they gave up entirely.

Spencer noticed.

He didn’t move right away, just watched your breathing settle into something slow and peaceful. He took one last sip of his tea, careful not to make a sound, and stood up as quietly as possible.

You were curled slightly toward the armrest, arms wrapped loosely around a throw pillow. Your socked feet were tucked under you, and a tiny crease had formed between your brows. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for the purple cardigan he’d taken off earlier and gently draped it over your shoulders.

“Sleep,” he whispered, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders like he was afraid to wake you.

Before leaving, he scribbled a note on a sticky pad from your kitchen drawer, folding it once and propping it against your mug.

I have Doctor Who specials if you’re interested.

—Spencer :)

(XXX-XXX-XXXX)

He didn’t knock anything over on his way out. He didn’t make a sound. The only trace of him left behind was the smell of his tea and the cardigan warming your shoulders.

But in the quiet of the elevator, heading down alone, Spencer felt something shift.

Not big. Not sudden. Just… a little less heavy.

It had been a long time since helping someone made him feel useful instead of watched, welcome instead of tolerated. You hadn’t asked about the headlines, or the hearings, or what it was like inside. You just handed him books and tea and asked if he liked Ten or Eleven better.

For the first time in too long, he didn’t feel like a shadow of himself. Just a man who wore too-big cardigans and helped people unpack their books.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d start feeling human again. A little at a time.

Thank you for reading ! ♥︎

[sirenontheloose]

(HI SAME ANON WHO REQUESTED THE STRANDED IN AN ISLAND FIC)

ah i forgot to add the part where reader is weirdly knowledgeable when it comes to survival stuff because she watches survival documentaries to fall asleep

Hey anon, tysm for requesting! I just realized I've never written an OT6 fic before, so this was...not an easy thing to do, but I do hope you enjoy reading this!

Not the Beach Trip We Booked

Usually, management would plan something fun after promotions. A short trip. A chill shoot. Maybe even a beach vacation. But apparently, that wasn’t the case for KATSEYE.

They thought it was a beach vacation.

Well, Megan did. She was the first to hop off the boat barefoot, arms wide like she was about to film a skincare commercial. The others followed behind with much less enthusiasm, squinting into the sun as they stepped onto the sand with one duffel bag each and zero explanation.

The boat didn’t even wait.

They had barely stepped off before it began to drift, slow at first, then alarmingly fast. Megan was still waving when she noticed.

"Wait. Are they... leaving?"

The motor hummed faintly as it pulled farther from the shore, growing smaller by the second. What had been a thirty-minute ride over, filled with boredom, heat, and a painfully slow current, had turned into a blink-and-it’s-gone retreat.

"That boat was crawling on the way here," Dani said, shading her eyes. "Why is it Usain Bolt now?"

Sophia turned toward the trees, frowning like she could force the situation to make sense. "It’s fine. They’ll come back, right?"

"They better," Yoonchae muttered. "I left my favorite hat on the boat."

Ten minutes later, there were no stylists. No cameras they could see. No buffet table. Just jungle to one side and sea to the other.

"Where’s the crew?" Lara asked, turning in a slow circle.

"I thought this was a photoshoot," Dani added, clutching her bag like it owed her answers.

Yoonchae walked up to Y/N, who stood quietly near the edge of the trees, eyes scanning the distance. "You think they dropped us off at the wrong place?"

"I think this is the shoot," Y/N said simply.

Sophia raised a brow. "No way. This is a prank. It has to be."

It wasn’t.

KATSEYE’s management, in response to months of fans begging for more variety content, had greenlit a special. Twenty-four hours on a remote island. No phones. No visible crew. Only hidden cameras placed strategically around the area, and staff under strict instructions not to intervene unless there was an actual emergency.

The girls, of course, didn’t know any of that. All they saw was the beach and bugs.

Two hours in, Megan started to suspect something was wrong. By the third hour, she and Yoonchae decided to fake a minor emergency, something small enough to force staff to reveal themselves. Megan screamed something about a bug. Yoonchae added a dramatic gasp about it being poisonous.

No one came.

Well, no one but Y/N.

She walked over calmly, crouched beside where Megan and Yoonchae had spread out a towel earlier, and leaned in to look at the alleged threat. Then, with the ease of someone cleaning up a spilled drink, she scooped it onto a leaf.

"It’s harmless. Pretty common in warm climates. Don’t worry, it won’t bite unless you annoy it."

Everyone stared.

"You just know that?" Manon asked.

Y/N stood, brushed sand off her knees, and looked completely unbothered. "I fall asleep to survival documentaries."

The silence that followed was long and judgmental.

"That’s concerning," Dani said.

"No, seriously. That’s impressive," Lara said, eyes wide with genuine amazement. "You just scooped that thing up like it was nothing. I trust you with my life now."

Y/N gave a small shrug, then laughed. Lara trusting her with her life was kind of funny, but sweet too.

Sophia looked around. "Okay. What else do you know?"

"Not much, but I’m going to take a look around... in case we can find something to use until they decide it’s time to come and get us."

Y/N turned and walked toward the tree line.

"Wait," Megan called. "Where are you going?"

"To find fresh water. You guys should start thinking about where to sleep tonight."

The group blinked at each other.

Yoonchae mumbled, "I think we’re in trouble."

Y/N disappeared into the trees like she knew exactly what she was doing. No hesitation. No "what if there are snakes?" Just calm, quiet confidence and a half-full water bottle swinging from her wrist.

The rest of the group stood frozen for a beat, watching her go.

"She really just left," Manon said.

"Like it’s not weird we got dropped off in the middle of nowhere with zero context," Megan added.

Sophia clapped her hands together, trying to re-center the group. "Okay. Shelter. We’re not going to just stand here. Let’s at least get something up before it gets dark."

"Is that what’s happening?" Dani asked. "We’re just supposed to figure this out? Alone? On a beach? Like a girl group version of Survivor?"

"Technically we’re still together," Manon replied. "So not alone alone."

"Do you want to sleep on the sand or under something that blocks the wind?" Megan interrupted, already scanning the area for driftwood. "Let’s get to it. Someone find leaves. Big ones."

"I can do vines," Lara offered.

Sophia stood with her hands on her hips, clearly trying to channel her leader's energy, though her tone was more uncertain than usual. "Let’s just build something basic. Like a triangle or whatever."

"Wow," Yoonchae said, perched on a flat rock, observing everything with mild judgment. "Inspiring leadership."

They tried. And failed. Spectacularly.

Dani kept calling out instructions that no one followed. Manon was attempting to weave leaves together even though no one asked her to. Sophia was mostly holding things and then letting them fall. Megan was genuinely trying but growing visibly annoyed at how little progress was being made. Lara vanished for a bit and returned with two large leaves and a lot of optimism.

"This is the worst episode of anything ever," Manon muttered, looking at the crooked mess in front of them.

"It’s... something," Sophia said.

"It’s a pile of sticks held together by friendship and delusion," Dani replied.

"You’re not even helping!" Manon snapped.

"I am helping. I’m pointing out flaws so we don’t get crushed at night."

"Oh, you’re welcome to sleep under your own roof then."

"I will."

"Good. It’ll fall on you."

"Then I’ll sue the tree."

"Girls," Megan groaned, rubbing her temples. "Focus. We’re clearly stuck here for longer than a snack break, and we need something up before night hits. At this rate we’re going to have to spoon for warmth."

That’s when Y/N returned.

Her sleeves were pushed up. Her hands full broad leaves, dry bark, perfectly straight sticks. There was dirt on her knees and sand stuck to her shoes, but she looked completely unbothered.

She paused in front of their so-called shelter, probably stunned by how well-built it was.

"...what is this?"

"It was supposed to be a shelter," Sophia mumbled.

"Until certain people decided to fight instead of build," Dani added.

"Say it again and I’ll seal your lips with coconut sap," Manon shot back.

Y/N crouched beside the leaning frame and poked one of the main sticks. It wobbled instantly and a leaf dropped.

She tilted her head. "You guys tried. That counts."

"She’s judging us kindly and I don’t know if that’s worse," Megan muttered.

Without another word, Y/N stepped a few feet away and started working. Calm. Quiet. Focused. She anchored the corners of a basic structure with sticks, layered palm leaves at an angle, tied everything with vines that actually held. It wasn’t fancy, but it looked like something you could lie under and not worry about dying.

The rest of them just watched.

"She’s just... doing it," Lara said, slightly breathless.

"With no tutorials and floor plan too," Manon added.

"How do you even know how to do this?" Sophia asked.

Y/N straightened up, brushing sand off her hands. "I told you, survival documentary."

They all stared.

"This is crazy," Dani said.

"It’s relaxing," Y/N replied simply. "And now it’s proven useful, so."

There was a long beat of silence as everyone just looked at her.

"So... should we start following her around?" Megan asked.

"I already am," Lara said, dragging her duffel over to Y/N’s shelter without hesitation.

Sophia crossed her arms. "No claiming shelters. We don’t even know how long we’re going to be here."

"Long enough to need shelter," Yoonchae said quietly.

Dani gave a sharp sigh. "Okay. Fine. New plan. We just listen to Y/N now. She’s the leader."

"She quiet quit her way into the leadership role," Manon muttered.

Y/N looked toward the trees again. "I’m going to check if there’s anything useful further in. Maybe a better spot for water."

"You’re just going to walk off again?" Sophia asked.

Y/N gave a half-smile. "Unless you want to keep building furniture out of sticks and regret."

Nobody stopped her.

As she walked off again, the group stood in silence.

"I feel safe and useless all at once," Dani said.

"Same," Megan agreed.

About thirty minutes later, just as the group was arguing over whether bananas could be grilled, Y/N returned again. This time with actual food. A couple of wild fruits. Edible greens. Even a small fish, cleaned and ready.

Everyone gawked.

"No way," Megan said.

"She caught a fish?"

"How?"

Y/N dropped her haul onto the flat rock near the firepit-in-progress. "Don’t ask. Just eat later."

Lara stared like she was witnessing magic. "Okay, I’m fully convinced. You’re not real."

Y/N laughed. "I’m just efficient."

"She says it like that’s a normal thing to be," Dani muttered.

Sophia sighed. "Okay. You win. You’re in charge."

"I thought we agreed on that an hour ago," Manon said.

Megan clapped her hands. "Alright. Who’s learning how to gut a fish?"

No one raised their hand.

"Fine," Megan said. "Y/N, teach me."

Y/N just smiled, pulled her hair back into a loose bun again, and crouched down to start prepping the food.

And somehow, despite being stranded, with no real plan, and no clue what time staff would come back... it didn’t feel that bad anymore.

[h0useslut]

the silver lining’s i’ll be there with you ˙⋆✮

part one | series masterlist | masterlist

pairing : aaron hotchner x fem!bookstore owner!reader

w/c : 2,2k

warnings : age gap, anxiety attack, emotional distress, physical touch for comfort, soft!aaron, mutual pining, light drinking (wine), kissing

summary : a thunderstorm, a breakdown, and aaron hotchner’s arms around her. later, at readers bookshop anniversary, he’ll show up late - holding a first edition of her favourite book and a kiss she didn’t dare hope for

The lights had gone out.

You were in your bookstore with Aaron. Alone. And the lights had gone out amidst a thunderstorm.

It felt foolish now, being afraid of thunderstorms. But you couldn’t help it.

“Hey, Y/N…It’s okay. Everything is fine” He said softly, sensing your distress.

But little did he know, your lips were trembling. Your eyes were clouded with tears, and each lightning strike made you involuntarily flinch.

“It’s going to be okay. Can you take a step towards me?” He coaxed, wanting to help you out.

You mustered up a small nod, and then cursed quietly, realising he couldn’t see you. Stupid, stupid.

You took a cautious step, but in the process, a few books fell behind you. The cry that you’d tried so hard not to let out, came out raw and barely audible.

But he’d caught it.

“Sweetheart, shh. It’s okay. Okay, okay I’m coming to you, alright?”

You heard him move, shoes against the wooden floor making your breath hitch.

“I’m right here” He reminded you. “Don’t be afraid, I’ve got you” he said softly, just a few feet away from you now.

His arms wrapped around you, hesitantly. Only when you leaned into his embrace did he pull you closer.

Your tears fell faster than you could sniffle them in. And you couldn’t stop them. It was like you were little again, curled up on under the covers to shield yourself.

Holding you felt natural to him, as if you were a puzzle piece missing from his life. You fit so perfectly. His hand came to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

Aaron’s chest was warm, steady. An anchor holding you down when everything else was falling apart.

“I’m so- so sorry” You whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t know why- Don't know why I am like this”

“No, no shh,” He murmured. “You don’t have to explain. You’re allowed to be scared”

That was what unraveled you. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t ask why. He just held you, let you break. Even though he didn’t know you well - at least not yet - he made you feel safe enough to fall apart.

More tears fell down your eyes, body trembling in his hold. You hadn’t meant to cry like that in front of him. Like you were some petulant child scared of thunder.

Aaron never pulled away. He held you closer, not shushing you. Not telling you it’ll pass. He simply held you, reminding you every now and then that he was there and that he had you.

At some point, the lights flickered on. The thunderstorm had faded into distant rumbles, but you hadn’t even noticed.

Still tucked into his arms - Aaron whispered to you,

“It’s okay, look. The lights are back on”

You pulled away, blinking back tears as you took in the soft lights illuminating throughout the room.

His hands came to rest on your arms, noticing you were still shaking.

“Come on, let’s sit down. You’re shaking” Aaron said, like it physically pained him.

You barely registered the fact that he had helped you sit down on one of the bean bags, pulling you under his chin. His scent filled your nostrils, grounding you.

You curled up at his side instinctively, legs over his lap, one arm draped across his chest like you were afraid he’d vanish.

Then quietly, almost like he didn’t want to break the spell - he picked up your worn-out copy of Pride and Prejudice that you’d dropped earlier.

“Pride and Prejudice” He said out loud. Aaron had seen you one too many times reading that book, and if you weren’t reading it, it was behind the counter.

“Oh, the pages are falling out,” He said softly, the small rumble of his chest making you feel calmer.

“Yeah, it’s… I’ve had it since I was 16” You admitted.

“That’s not too long” He teased.

You chuckled, a wet and breathy sound coming out. And then you felt it.

A soft kiss to your forehead, followed by the soft turning of pages.

Aaron’s voice came next, his voice a low and soothing murmur in your ear.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged…” he began, “that a single man in possession of good fortune must be in want of a wife”

And just like that, with your heartbeat slowing and his voice filling the space around you, both the storm outside and inside you finally began to settle.

When you woke up, you were surprised to find him still holding you, his big hand stroking your hair gently. He hadn’t let go.

“You fell asleep, sweetheart” Oh, there he goes with the petname again. Making you melt.

“I didn’t want to wake you”

You smiled, eyes still puffy from all the crying you’d done earlier. “Thank you for staying… for being here”

“I’ll always be here”

True to his word, he was there. In every sense of his words. He came frequently, most times alone. Bringing coffee, pastries, and even lunch.

He never stayed too long or asked too much. But he always noticed. When you were overwhelmed, needed warmth, or when your hands trembled a little more than usual.

He remembered things. Your coffee order, the way you lit up a few candles and put on soft music before closing. How you giggled whenever he pulled you in his arms and swayed to the faint sound of Strangers in the Night by Frank Sinatra.

He never made a show of it. But his presence wove into your days, until you weren’t sure how you ever did them without him.

And now, a few months later, you stood in front of the shop mirror - adjusting the little ribbon on the back of your dress (or at least trying to) for the millionth time, heart hammering in your chest with something you didn’t quite know how to name.

Five years. Your cozy, lovely, and warm bookstore had made it five years. And tonight, everyone you loved was coming to celebrate it.

Well, almost everyone.

You didn’t expect him to show up - mostly because you knew how hectic his job was. You might’ve nervously rambled about the party and how you didn’t want him to feel pressured to come.

Not really good at playing it cool.

Because when you had said,

“It’s okay- It’s okay if you’re busy Aaron”

You didn’t know if you meant it. A part of you would be crushed if he didn’t come.

So you kept busy.

Rearranging the snack table, dimming the lights again and again, until you found yourself surrounded by friends, a few indie authors, and some frequent customers.

Everyone but him.

The shop looked beautiful. Warm and inviting. Fairy lights glowed along the shelves, people were laughing in the poetry section, and the smell of cinnamon pastries lingered in the air.

You smiled. You were proud. Hell, you should be proud.

But as more time passed and as people clinked glasses, making toasts to you, hugging you and congratulating you on your business - you kept thinking about him.

Aaron.

Tall, and charming Aaron Hotchner. Who once held you through a storm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Pouring yourself another glass of wine, you barely heard the doorbell chime. Late. Subtle. Like it didn’t want to interrupt.

Why did you miss the door every single time he showed up?

But you turned - and there he was.

Wearing a dark suit, no tie, two top buttons loose from his white shirt. He carried something in his hand, small and carefully wrapped in a burgundy tape. You didn’t know whether to cry, run to him, or pretend that your heart wasn’t breaking open like a chapter you’d dog-eared one too many times.

The urge to run to him and kiss him was too strong, you might admit. And on top of that, white wine hits you like chemicals.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Hi,” He said quietly, like this wasn’t a room full of people. Like it was still just the two of you in the bookstore, with no one to bother you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

So he took a step closer, holding out the small package. “I know I’m late” he murmured, tone apologetic. “I hadn’t forgotten about it. And I brought you something”

Looking down at the burgundy wrapped gift, - a book clearly. Your fingers unwrapped it carefully.

Pride and Prejudice.

He’d bought you a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Not just any copy.

A first edition.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flew to his.

Aaron only shrugged, a gesture that seemed so boyish coming from a man like him. “It’s not… not in the perfect condition, but I remembered you had yours since you were sixteen”

Tears pooled in your eyes.

Not because of the book. (well because of that too)

Because of him.

This.

“Aaron- This is-“ You sniffled, lips already trembling.

He saw the way your hands shook, and before you could speak again, Aaron reached out and pulled you into his chest.

You melted into him instantly.

His arms wrapped around you with practiced ease, like he’d done this a thousand times in dreams he’d never dare to mention. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, the thunder of his heartbeat making you feel dizzy.

And then, like a secret only the two of you would ever know, he pressed a kiss just above your ear, soft as a feather.

“You look beautiful”

Your eyes fluttered shut, chest aching in the best kind of way.

Throughout the entire night, you kept staring at each other from across the room. Whether it was him admiring you as you chatted with friends, or you catching him thumbing through shelves as if he didn’t already own a hundred books. The glances lingered. You were in your element, glowing in the soft light of your bookstore, and he couldn’t look away.

And when the last guest filtered out and the front door clicked shut, the room felt still again. You were left standing across from him, just the two of you. Once more.

“So…” You trailed off shyly.

His eyebrows raised, and he looked at you with genuine curiosity.

You paced around the room, dimming the lights, picking up a bottle of wine and the forgotten box of pizza.

Placing everything on the floor, you took your heels off and gestured for him to come and sit with you.

“I think you would’ve left early. Or not show up at all” You admitted, glasses clinking as you poured.

Aaron gave a small shake of his head. “No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t miss this”

The answer, simple as it was - it made your cheeks heat again. You slid down further next to him, knees pulled to your chest.

“I still can’t believe you bought me that first edition,” you said, voice hushed now. “No one has ever… Done that”

“Y/N…” He whispered.

“No, I’m serious. No one has ever done something like that for me”

The room was silent for a moment. Not awkward. Just soft. Heavy with something unspoken.

“You deserved to be thought of”

You sipped on your wine, licking your lips afterwards. “You always say things like that when I’m least prepared”

Aaron smiled, that small and rare expression he wore when he was truly at ease. “Should I stop then?”

You looked at him, gaze steady now. “No. No, don’t stop”

And then silence again. This time, charged.

He was closer now - physically, emotionally, undeniably. And when your eyes met again, you weren’t so shy anymore.

“I was hoping you’d come,” you murmured. “Even though I told you that it would be fine if you didn’t”

Aaron’s voice was quieter this time. “I didn’t want to miss it. I didn’t want to miss you.”

You looked down at your lap, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Aaron, you’re making it really hard not to fall in love with you, you know”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in - noses brushing, his forehead resting against yours.

“Then don’t fight it, sweetheart”

That was all it took.

Your breath hitched, and before you knew it his lips were on yours. Warm, soft. Maybe a little reserved at first. Just like him, you thought.

You could get lost in his touch. In the way his hand found your waist, tugging you impossibly closer to him. Like he’d been waiting to do that for a long, long time.

“Aaron…” You whimpered between wet kisses, his name a prayer on your lips.

His hands gripped your waist, your hips - tugging and pulling you flush against him, mouth warm and insistent on yours like he couldn’t get enough.

To his horror, you pulled back all at once.

You were breathless, flushed. Pupils blown wide and the straps of your dress almost slipping from your shoulders.

Without a word, you stood.

He blinked up at you, confused. Until he saw you crossing the room, turning the lock with a soft click.

Then you turned back around, the dim light catching your face as you sat down at his level again.

Nothing else was said.

Not yet.

taglist : @novausstuff @iyskgd

[the-enkindled]

the way right wing grifters hold the witcher as this aggresively antiwoke "masculine" media makes me lose my SHIT. the novels are incredibly open, especially for its time, and theres so much talk about politics, and also god forbid, identity politics!! aaah!

geralt is literally othered in many ways, hes this gross, gangly thing who people are revolted by and religious zealots scoff at as a monster. (hm!) he's incredibly masculine in the sense he fights monsters, yes, but his best friend is a flamboyant feminine man who he spends all his time philosophizing with. he's not this stoic "i feel nothing graaah!" guy, he pretends he is neutral in conflicts despite being sooo biased in so many ways. he pretends he doesnt feel then proceeds to feel so much.

characters like Milva and angouleme are female characters who are "strong" and "independant" the worst things that a right wing grifter can have in a media!! characters like yennefer are incredibly cruel and "bitchy" women (the trope of jealous, mean girlfriends that right wing grifters love) who are humanized and treated like people - yen is bitchy because she needs to be. thats the world she lives in as a female sorceress. ciri is literally the most important person in the world in the witcher so why is it a big deal shes the protagainst of tw4 when shes literally the chosen one-type character?!

elihal is a crossdresser. ciri is bisexual. geralt's best friend is gender non conforming. triss is at least bicurious, and phillipa is a fucking lesbian. queer/gnc people have existed in the witcher for the longest damn time, female characters have always been important, why is the witcher what right wing dudebro gamers latch onto. do they see geralt, big hulking man who claims "he doesnt feel emotion" and take him at his word. did they not play the games or read any of the books. how do you come out of the witcher 3 and still think its completely apolitical.

(not saying the witcher is wholly unproblematic and the peak of representation just saying its far from apolitical)

(also iirc Andrzej Sapkowski makes a joke or something about the law and justice party in poland being bad, which is a conservative party... i cannot add more to this but it is from a Wera analysis video about the newest book)

[buckysprettybaby]

Hii! Can you please write a poly!mauraders × reader ff? 🫶💫

hello lovely!! thank you for your request! i wasn’t sure what direction you wanted me to take it because you didn’t ask for a plot/trope but i hope you like this <3

more than roommates

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader, platonic!lily x reader

word count: 1.4k words

warnings: roommates!au, mild language, miscommunication trope, reader is oblivious, use of pet names (dove, sunshine, love, darling), no use of y/n, idiots in love, roommates to lovers.

summary: you thought you were just roommates, but the marauders were convinced you were all dating, so what happens when they overhear you saying you’re single?

a/n: i originally was gonna write something different but decided to save that for another fic, wrote this on my phone so excuse any mistakes.

requests are open

You wake up to the smell of pancakes and James humming off-key in the kitchen. It’s not unusual.

Neither is finding Sirius in your bed because he “fell asleep watching that documentary you like.” Or the way Remus has already ironed your shirt for work and left a note on top of it — You have a meeting today. Don’t be late. x

They’ve been together for years — in that soft, easy way that doesn’t need explaining. Kisses in the hallway. Shared clothes. Warm limbs tangled on the sofa.

And somehow, you’ve ended up folded into the edges of all that softness. It’s like living with three boyfriends you don’t technically have. Which is fine. Really.

Except for the part where you’re completely in love with all of them. And you’re fairly certain they’re not in love with you… right?

You’re sitting by the fireplace later that afternoon, a warm mug cradled between your hands. Lily stops by for a quick chat, and somehow the conversation turns to relationships. “Oh, I’m still very single,” you say offhandedly.

Behind you, a glass shatters. The room goes dead quiet. You and Lily turn around. James is frozen mid-bend, hand halfway to the shards. Sirius looks like he’s just been hit by a Bludger. And Remus — Remus has gone completely still, his book forgotten, eyes locked on you.

You look at them in confusion. “Are you okay, Jamie?”

“I’m fine, angel,” he says, but it comes out strained.

Lily stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “I think I’m going to head out,” she says with a knowing smirk. “Looks like you’ve got some things to talk about.”

The door clicks softly as Lily leaves and you all just stare at each other for a few minutes. Sirius breaks the silence. “Single, huh?” He tries to come across as lighthearted but there’s a bite to it.

The tension is thick, as Sirius stares at you. You laugh awkwardly. “What? I mean, yeah? I’m not seeing anyone.” But Sirius doesn’t smile. He just raises a brow.

“Could’ve fooled us, darling,” Remus murmurs. “Thought you were.”

Confusion lingers on your face, your eyebrows furrowing as you try make sense of his words. “What are you talking about Remus?” you ask, taking a step back.

“You really didn’t know?” This time James speaks, his voice soft as if not to startle you.

You blink. “Know what?”

The boys all look at each other, realising what’s going on. “Sunshine,” James asks, eyes searching, “what do we mean to you?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you hesitate. “You’re my friends, of course. We’re roommates.”

“Roommates?” Sirius scoffs, and he sounds almost offended by your words. “You can’t be serious, love.” But the look on your face tells him everything he needs to know.

“Oh shit,” he almost whispers. “You’re not joking.”

James steps closer, voice warm and sure.

“We’ve always thought of ourselves as your boyfriends, sunshine. Not just friends or roommates.”

“Boyfriends?” you half shout.

The look on your face is priceless, and if it were any other situation, James would’ve probably laughed. Instead, he just smiles softly, his eyes full of gentle patience.

“Well, yeah,” he says quietly. “We’ve been more than just friends for a long time. We thought you knew.”

“But you guys are already together,” you say, voice quieter now, confused. “I thought we were just friends.”

Remus steps closer, his expression soft but serious. “There’s nothing just friends about us, dove. I mean, come on — Sirius spends most nights in your bed, James cooks for you like it’s his love language, and I know your entire routine by heart.” He tilts his head. “That doesn’t exactly scream casual friendship, does it?”

You look at him, blinking. “I just thought you were being nice,” you mumble, a small huff escaping your lips.

Sirius lets out a sharp laugh. “Nice? I literally punched a guy for flirting with you, love.”

You blink at him. “Yeah, well… he was getting handsy anyway.”

Sirius grins, completely unbothered. “Exactly. And you think that was just me being friendly?”

You’re still trying to wrap your head around it — the teasing, the confessions, the way your whole world seems to have shifted in a matter of minutes.

Then James steps forward, slowly, giving you space to pull away — but you don’t.

His fingers brush yours, tentative at first, and then he gently laces them together.

“We didn’t mean to confuse you, sunshine,” he says softly. “We just… we already felt like yours. I guess we thought you felt like ours, too.”

“I didn’t know,” you say quietly.

James’s grip on your hand tightens, just slightly — grounding, not demanding.

“I know,” he says, just as softly. “But you do now.”

Behind him, Remus gives you a look that feels like warmth itself. “We’re not asking you to decide anything right this second,” he says. “We just… needed you to know.”

“I like you guys too,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I never said anything because I thought… you were already happy together.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not heavy — just full.

Then Remus moves first, stepping forward like the words physically pulled him closer. “We are happy,” he says gently. “But we’ve been happiest with you in it.”

Sirius huffs a soft laugh, something almost like relief in his eyes. “Bloody hell, we thought you were happy just keeping it how it was.”

James lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “We’ve all been in love with you, sunshine. Just waiting for you to catch up.”

“What happens now?” you ask, looking at them — still a little dazed, like you’re waiting to wake up.

Sirius grins, but there’s something softer behind it now. “Well, I guess I can finally do this.”

He steps in, gently tugging you away from James. One arm wraps around your waist, the other tilts your chin up with surprising care.

“Been dying to,” he murmurs, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips — slow, sure, and somehow both familiar and entirely new.

He gets carried away, the kiss deepening, his fingers curling in the fabric at your waist like he’s been waiting years for this.

You barely have time to catch your breath before James calls out, “Oi, save some for the rest of us!”

Sirius pulls back with a grin, his breath warm against your lips. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “Got a bit excited.”

James steps in, turning your head toward him, capturing your lips in a kiss. His lips are soft against yours, and they move in a way that’s different — reverent, like he’s trying to tell you something without words.

It’s gentle, but there’s passion beneath it, steady and warm like the sun after a long winter.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes search yours, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Told you we were yours, sunshine.”

Behind him, Remus chuckles softly. “You lot are going to smother her before I even get a turn.”

He holds his arms out for you, and this time, you don’t hesitate.

The moment you’re close enough, he pulls you into his chest, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

And just like that — like it was always meant to happen — the final piece clicks into place.

Just as you settle into the warmth of their arms, Sirius leans in close, his voice dropping into that low, teasing tone.

“Well, now that you’re officially ours,” he murmurs, a sly grin tugging at his lips, “I plan on making sure you never want to leave the bed again.”

You laugh, cheeks flushing, a spark lighting up your eyes.

James clears his throat loudly. “Sirius, could you not?”

Remus shoots him a sharp look. “Behave, Padfoot. She might not be ready for all that just yet.”

Sirius just smirks wider, eyes twinkling. “No promises, Moony.”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the smile tugging at your mouth, but Sirius’s words have already sent a flush creeping up your cheeks.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” you say softly, leaning into the warmth surrounding you.

James chuckles, pulling you gently closer. “Don’t worry, sunshine — we’re all here. Together.”

Remus nods, his eyes full of quiet promise. And for the first time in a long while, you believe it.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

© buckysprettybaby; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[yourislandgirl]

woooo part 1 reactions !!!! (spoilers ahead)

from the very start the description of jakehoon in their careers is SO IMMERSIVE — i FEEL sunghoon’s exhaustion, i can FEEL the heat and tension of a kitchen environment, it’s incredible how you do that, and jake?? THE ANXIETY OF HIS SITUATION? in just a few sentences i felt so lost just like he would feel??

incredible. truly.

also i just had to comment abt how sunghoon saying “i’m throwing myself into the wok” is so on brand T^T

the entire essence of them building a place together, trying to make something work when the world basically shoved them off the deep end, it’s so beautiful??

also i WHEEZED while reading abt jake lecturing teenagers who “ruin the ambience” while holding a broom with a NAPKIN TIED TO HIS HEAD AHSHAHSHD

i LOVE the way you write in snippets and fragments of scenes and imagery — you stitch together a patchwork tapestry to show progression in time and it’s so unbelievably immersive

i always use that word when i talk abt your writing bcs it’s true — you are an immersive writer and i can never get enough

AND YNS ENTRY WAS SO CUTE AGGGHHH THE SUNSHINEY GIRL WHOS CONFIDENT I LOVE HER ALREADY

also also the way you immediately establish the difference in jake and sunghoon’s interest in her — jake’s curious, wants to know more, keeps asking questions, steals glances at her, while sunghoon observes quietly, keeps the knowledge he’s learnt to himself, keeps his curiosity under wraps but doesn’t stop paying attention — PERFECT

like even the way they approach her when they take her order — jake with confidence, sunghoon with subtly — you characterise them SO PERFECTLY IM OBSESSED THIS WHOLE FIC IS PLAYING OUT LIKE A LIVE ACTION MOVIE WITH GHIBLI PRODUCTION AND COLOUR GRADING (if that makes sense)

their friendship with the grandmas is SO PEAK the way jake and sunghoon just get dragged into the mahjong game FINALLY i can only imagine how long those women have been waiting

also MR LIU IS SO FUNNY SIR I DIDNT NOT REALISE I NEEDED A CHARACTER LIKE YOU UNTIL YOU CAME T^T his playful vendetta against jake has me in tears it’s so funny

THE INDIVIDUAL NON-DATES WERE CUTE

Jake taking the lead and initiating was so him, and YN YOURE SO REAL FOR CALLING SUNGHOON WHEN YOURE SCARED GIRL ID DO THAT TOO

man like at that point i was bracing myself for the eventual love triangle angst bcs the vibes were so NICE???

the guys’ conversation abt yn, finally talking abt it, it was so gentle and also a little nerve wracking?? but their assured camaraderie is just so indescribably sweet, just like yn said “weirdly wholesome”

also THE CLEMENTINE BIT MADE ME LAUGH

don’t make fun of me but sunghoon saying “we’ll go slow. i’ll talk you through it?” AAAGGGGHHH .. im fine

yn’s inability to play poker mirroring jake with mahjong is SO CUTE also sunghoon just being good at everything?? authornim you write him so well im flustered

AND HIS HOARD OF BOOKS

THE WAY TO MY HEART

AGGGGHHHH SUNGHOON SHOW ME YOUR BOOK COLLECTION PLS PLS 😫😫

AND THE ALMOST KISS???

jake fixing plates with gold is such a jake thing to do but the way the moment lingers so beautifully just made the entire scene so much better like not only are the events that unfold so very jake coded but the way he goes abt moving past the potential kiss and like you just KNOW it’s bcs he loves sunghoon and doesn’t wanna hurt him unintentionally even tho they promised nothing could change their friendship

AND HE CALLS HER DARLING AAAGGHHJ

that’s my go to pet name w my friends bcs just KNOW it hits diff w an australian accent (to my moots, call me self absorbed but i fear you’d all fall for me if i sent you voice notes calling you darling)

AND AND AND SUNGHOONS CONFESSION????!???

i’m like . i’m still reeling — it’s so GENTLE it’s so VULNERABLE it’s spontaneous and raw and drenched in thunder and the buzz of neon lights i LOVED IT

AND THEN JAKES CONFESSION???????

the rambling the authenticity the way he can’t keep the words from spilling out and he just took one look at her in a moment of brightness and knew that it would be impossible to hold it back IM OBSESSED

part one was INCREDIBLE and i’m literally on the edge of my seat for part two my god

The Diner, The Cat and The Girl That Played Mahjong

aka, the mahjong agenda

Pairing: [Diner owners!Sunghoon and Jake x mahjong player!student!fem!reader]!Hong Kong

TW/N | 26k- love triangle, strangers to lovers, age gap, forbidden love, found family, very wholesome | I loved writing this fic but it’s also that I had no clue how to write the fic. I’ve never done love triangles before and the choices I made in the relationships here kinda made it harder I think. I hope you enjoy reading it, even if the dots don’t seem to connect or the lines don’t seem to tie. It’s just very wholesome | nainai means grandma in Cantonese | inspired by many things- Wong kar wai, Murakami, Student of the year (movie), Challengers (movie) and a lot more but I can’t seem to remember. Enjoy!

Summary: Sunghoon and Jake found each other when they needed support the most. And they made a great pair, though the logistics didn’t make sense to most people. They opened a diner together, they lived together, did everything together. Nothing could tear them apart. Until Y/N came in with her shy smiles, impressive mahjong skills and a mundane presence that seemed to settle into the diner and both of their lives.

or, who gets the girl?

i. the diner

The first time Sunghoon and Jake met, they were both working in the same building- different jobs, though. It was a rooftop job site in Mong Kok, one of the densest, loudest neighborhoods in Hong Kong. 

Sunghoon had picked up short-term kitchen work at a failing fusion joint that fancied itself avant-garde. It was the kind of place that plated rice like art but paid in delays and insults. The head chef yelled in English, called coriander “cilantro,” and acted like he’d invented fire. The sous-chef spent more time arranging microgreens with tweezers than actually cooking anything.

Sunghoon kept his head down, worked the grill, and bit his tongue when the manager called him “too local.”

He wondered, more often than he cared to admit, if this was the cost he paid for not going to college. For choosing wok burns and minimum wage over lecture halls and hollow degrees. For giving up his shot in education so his younger sister could have one.

That decision- noble, maybe, but tiring- haunted him most on nights like these, when his body ached but nothing he made had any soul in it. He was good at what he did. He knew he was good. His hands were precise, his instincts sharp. He could tell when oil was hot enough just by the sound of the sizzle.

But here? His cooking was being used for waste. For showy dishes with smoked foam and edible flowers. For tourists who’d never eaten from a street cart and called every bite authentic. For critics who photographed his food but never looked at him.

Sometimes, during a slow shift, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in the steel counter- face greasy, eyes dull, hands shaking from caffeine and repetition. He’d wonder if he’d traded away joy for survival. If all his skill was being drained, dish by dish, into a sink that led nowhere.

Jake was working construction, helping renovate the building- he needed cash after dropping out, and no one cared about degrees when you could lift drywall.

He hadn’t planned for any of this. Two years ago, he was studying mechanical engineering with decent grades and big-city dreams, the kind of kid who loved fixing things just to see how they worked. He thought he’d end up designing bridges or subway systems, maybe send money back home to help his parents retire early.

But all that cracked the day his father made a single bad business move- trusting an old friend with their family’s savings. One betrayal later, their small chain of hardware stores went under. Debts piled up like receipts from a fire sale, bank accounts froze; overnight, everything changed.

His parents went back to Korea, swallowed in legal paperwork and shame, fighting to keep even one apartment. Jake stayed in Hong Kong, partly because the university wouldn’t refund his tuition, but mostly because someone had to make money. Someone had to survive.

So he started doing construction jobs. 

It consisted of waking up at five, nails chipped, palms blistered, sweat soaking through borrowed uniforms. He learned quickly that no one asked where you came from when you could haul tiles and shut up. There was no space for dreams on scaffolding- just weight, gravity, and the sound of men yelling over jackhammers.

One afternoon, the kitchen’s exhaust system broke down again. Jake was half inside the duct, arms covered in grease, shirtless from the heat and frustration. The fan blade inside rattled like it was dying, and he’d already cut his knuckles trying to fix it.

That’s when Sunghoon stormed out the back door, apron stained, hair sticking to his forehead, and murder in his eyes. He looked like he’d just gone twelve rounds with a broken hand mixer.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands and muttered, “If one more so-called chef tells me foam is food, I’m throwing myself into the wok.”

Jake didn’t even look up. He passed him a warm can of lemon tea and said casually, “You know, you could just cook noodles. No one judges noodles.”

They sat on overturned milk crates in the alley behind the kitchen, the kind that left marks on your thighs. The air was thick with fryer grease and summer heat. A couple of stray cats wandered nearby, and someone upstairs was blasting old Cantopop through a broken speaker.

They sat in silence for a while, too tired to pretend they weren’t burnt out. Eventually, they talked- not about the jobs they hated or the people who’d looked down on them, but about how expensive it was to have dreams. And how eggs and rice were cheaper- that maybe cooking didn’t need to impress anyone to matter.

By the end of the week, they’d both quit.

Jake texted his foreman that he wasn’t coming back. Sunghoon left a sticky note on the fridge at his job that just said, “I’m done. Good luck.”

They spent the next few days wandering through Sham Shui Po, poking their heads into run-down shopfronts and empty spaces no one wanted. It was the kind of place where the paint peeled, the tiles cracked, and the rent was low for a reason.

Jake found the place first- a dusty corner unit between a pawn shop and a gaming café. The windows were covered in grime, the sign was unreadable, and a rusty ceiling fan hung like a death trap.

Sunghoon stood in the doorway, took one long look around, and said, “I’ll cook. You fix things. If it fails, we blame capitalism.”

And that’s how the diner started. 

They named it Tin Cup Diner because it was the first thing they could think of and the only thing that looked good as a neon green sign Jake found secondhand for forty bucks. The sign flickered slightly at the “n” in “Tin” and buzzed audibly at night, but they decided it gave the place character.

They argued over the menu like it was life or death.

Jake wanted to add pineapple buns and French toast stuffed with peanut butter. Sunghoon refused to deep-fry anything “that sweet and disrespectful.” Sunghoon pushed for simple rice plates, noodle soups, and stir-fried greens. Jake said no one would come unless they threw in some eggs and a novelty sandwich.

They settled on a chaotic fusion- stuff your grandma might make if she owned a TV and once had brunch in London. You could get congee with spam fries. Or pork chop rice with a side of coleslaw. Every now and then, someone ordered the tuna melt out of curiosity and ended up coming back.

The furniture came from junk shops, roadside pickups, and the occasional mercy donation. Nothing matched. One table leg was shorter than the others so they folded an old receipt booklet under it. Most of the chairs wobbled. The counter was built from salvaged wood Jake found during a renovation gig- he sanded it down at 2am while Sunghoon painted a crooked chalkboard menu on the wall behind him.

It took about a month.

A month of greasy hands, cheap instant coffee, half-finished conversations, small cuts, bigger dreams. Of cursing at leaky pipes, peeling faded posters off the walls, and scraping chewing gum from under old booths. Of Sunghoon burning three rice pots trying to calibrate the kitchen stove, and Jake accidentally electrocuting himself when rewiring the lights.

But eventually, it looked… kind of presentable. The kind of place you walked into and thought, “yeah, I could eat here if I’m broke or heartbroken.”

And on opening day, they only had six customers- three were their neighbors, two were lost, and one just wanted to use the bathroom. But one of the grandmas from across the street left them with a generous tip. “Tastes just like the old days,” she said. And that was enough.

Overtime, their customer pool expanded. First, the owner of the pawnshop beside them started coming over for lunch more often. “It’s good food,” he’d told them while drinking their chicken congee, “and it’s cheap.” And Sunghoon and Jake remember beaming at each other with pride, one holding a twisted washcloth and the other slapping a notepad onto his palm. 

The next group of regular customers were the teenagers that often stopped by after blowing their money on the gaming café. They were always loud groups of high schoolers in their inappropriate clothing and unfortunate friendship dynamics. There were many accounts of Jake finding himself chasing away some kids who had pulled out alcohol or cigarettes or started making out right there in the centre of the diner, disrupting the carefully curated ambiance of the place. It was a scene to rubber neck on, truly- Jake with a broomstick, apron around his waist, napkin tied to his head, yelling profanities at a ragtag group of teenagers. 

He absolutely loathed teenagers after enough instances. Sunghoon liked to make fun of him for it, making sure it was always him serving the teenagers instead of Sunghoon going in himself.

Then, there was the group of construction workers that always seated themselves late into the night. Eventually, Jake and Sunghoon started working late shifts just to cater to these groups of men that were in desperate need of nourishment and a roof to be under. They always brought a cloud of cigarette smoke and cement dust whenever they came, exhaustion weighing down their posture, arms and eyes heavy. 

They once stopped Jake to ask what he was before the diner- like they could sense he was once a fellow construction worker; like there was some sort of unrecognisable brotherhood Jake held in him. That night, while sharing stories of how they each got into construction work- something none of them wanted to do but were pushed into through the unfair course of life- Sunghoon offered them free food at the sight of Jake's welled eyes as he narrated his past.

Out of all the customers, though, Sunghoon’s favourite were the group of grandmas that came from time to time. He thought they were mellow, the perfect kind of customers that brought the laughter and peace that he chased when opening the diner. They spoke in deep accents that made it hard for Sunghoon and Jake to understand their Cantonese and they usually always ordered the same thing- spam and egg sandwiches, macaroni in broth with ham and milk tea that came in the fancy “Black & White” mugs- the kind with the cow printed on one side with a red border as the base. 

Life, owning and running a diner, was good.

There were no spreadsheets, no performance reviews, no hollowed-out fine dining talk about “notes” or “palates” or “culinary storytelling.” There was just food- food that people actually enjoyed.

Jake liked that he didn’t have to explain himself anymore. He fixed what was broken, took orders, made dumb jokes, and whacked teenagers with a broom if he had to. His apron was always stained, and his hands always smelled faintly like soy sauce, but he hadn’t felt this steady in years.

Sunghoon liked that he could hear laughter through the kitchen walls. The clang of ceramic, the low radio hum, the grandma chatter about gold rates and old TVB actors. No backstabbing sous-chefs, no white tablecloth pressure, no lectures about plating. It was always just warmth, a stability in life he hadn’t experienced in a while.

Slowly, they had become an integral part of the neighborhood.

They were essential like the ten-year-old stationery shop tucked under a crumbling awning that schoolkids depended on for last-minute notebooks and cheap pens. Like the fruit stall with sun-faded umbrellas and a weathered old man who always had a loyal flock of aunties by 7am, arguing over lychees and paying in loose change.

Tin Cup Diner became that kind of place. The kind that didn’t need a signboard update because everyone already knew where it was.

Their stretch of Sham Shui Po was a road of second chances and low expectations. Laundry dripped from windows overhead, buses screeched past puddles, and neon signs buzzed in the fog like city fireflies. The air smelled of five different kinds of street food depending on where you stood- fresh waffles, frying oil, cheap skewers, and once in a while, the sweet, almost floral scent of steamed buns from the lady two shops down.

People knew them there.

Jake and Sunghoon- the inseparable duo, the walking contradiction. The sunshine-and-stone pairing that somehow worked.

Jake, ever the extrovert, called out greetings to everyone who walked past. His voice cut through the street noise, full of boyish charm. He carried bags for grandmas, flirted harmlessly with girls who giggled at his apron, and once even got roped into babysitting when a customer had an emergency.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, preferred silence. He nodded at familiar faces, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes down but ears alert. He was awkward in a way that people forgave- because his food was good, and his heart showed in the small things. A discount here, an extra egg there.

He also had a soft spot for things that didn’t ask much of him. Like the ginger cat he found one night nestled between the tires of two bicycles, its fur patchy and its body trembling from the cold.

He crouched down, cautious and quiet, and placed a piece of leftover tuna on the sidewalk. He didn’t touch it, didn’t coax it- just left the food and walked away.

The cat showed up the next day.

And the day after.

Soon, she became a fixture outside the diner- curled up near the back door, blinking slowly at the kitchen heat. Sunghoon never named her, never talked to her, but he always set out milk in a mismatched saucer and small scraps of fish or ham. Jake teased him for being a cat dad. Sunghoon just rolled his eyes and wiped his hands on his apron.

Sometimes, if you passed Tin Cup at closing time, you’d see the two of them- Jake wiping tables while talking too much, and Sunghoon crouched near the alley, one hand resting beside a tiny orange cat, the city humming quietly around them.

Days bled into weeks, and weeks folded into months, until routine settled around them like steam off a rice bowl. They liked living this way- cramping themselves into the small kitchen of the diner, speaking to their customers like family, feeling like they were needed and important. And everynight, after locking up, they liked walking the street that led back to their apartment. It was a familiar drill- Sunghoon would feed the cat, Jake would play a game of hopscotch with the group of children near an old playground, they would both stare at the moon and trees and wonder what luck brought them the mundane life they’d both wished for. 

Their apartment was located above an old man’s cobbler shop. It was just far enough from the main road that the city noise turned into a dull, sleepy hum by midnight. The place was barely 400 square feet, and it looked like it hadn’t been touched since the early 90s. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, stained with old humidity and city air. One window didn’t open, and the other never fully closed, so they stuck a towel in the crack to keep the mosquitoes out. The fridge door creaked every time it opened, and they had to kick the bottom of it to make it close again.

Their beds were on opposite sides of the bedroom- Jake’s messy, covered in clean clothes he never folded, and Sunghoon’s rigidly neat, tucked tight like a hospital cot. They had one tiny table between them, always cluttered with receipts, unopened mail, spare change, and the occasional half-finished drink.

But the washroom? Spotless- recently tiled, water pressure strong enough to knock the stress out of your shoulders. Jake had fixed it himself. “If the world ends,” he liked to say, “I want to die with clean hair.”

They kept a small goldfish tank on the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. The built-in lights flickered unpredictably, casting a ghostly glow over the water whenever they sparked to life. Inside, four goldfish swam in lazy circles- there were always four. If one died, they’d replace it without much ceremony. They’d done it so many times they’d lost count. Neither of them knew exactly what kept killing the fish- bad water? Old wiring? Goldfish karma? But the cycle continued- four goldfish, always four, like a strange little ritual they never talked about but always maintained.

ii. 

“Same order?” Sunghoon called from the kitchen.

“Same order,” a grandma answered from her table.

The group of grandmas were back again. It was their third, probably fourth visit of the week. They were a group of ladies that had known each other since high school and were fortunate enough to not have their life uprooted with immigration or job opportunities their husbands wanted to explore. And even now, years- perhaps decades- later, they still spent all their time together. Their meetups started at one of their houses, then they moved on to the park. But they stopped going there because the walk was too long. Then, eventually, after jumping between locations, they found Tin Cups Diner- where the owners loved them and doted on their wants and needs. 

Recently, they’d formed a habit of playing Mahjong while sitting on the cramped table. Sunghoon and Jake were surprised this didn’t start sooner- it was quite a stereotype; grandmas and mahjong. It was a tale as old as time. And Sunghoon and Jake didn’t mind it at all. Their laughter and occasional bickering was lively, reminding them of their old houses that they lived in with their respectful families. It was good company. Sometimes, Jake would intrude to break up their arguments like a charming son-in-law. 

They adored Jake- always pinched his cheeks and asked him if he had a girlfriend yet. There was the occasional “my granddaughter is single, if you’re interested” but Jake assured them that their precious granddaughters would probably not want to date a broke diner owner. They adored Sunghoon too, but they learned to show it differently. Sunghoon didn’t like to be touched but he liked to be smiled at and he liked when they complimented his food. The grandmas grew a habit of tipping them extra, especially on days Sunghoon laughed back at their jokes.

“How many rounds do you think they’ve played?” Jake sauntered into the kitchen, crumpled bills and loose change in his hands from serving the other customers. They peered at the grandmas’ table through the window. “And who’s the new girl?”

The past couple of days, Sunghoon and Jake observed that there was a girl much younger than them that had joined the grandmas in playing Mahjong. They weren’t sure how it started- perhaps they were distracted when she got invited to their little clique. But from what they could gather, from the occasional praise or groan, she was good at the game- had tips and tricks up her sleeve she wasn’t willing to share.

Sunghoon ignored Jake, eyes focused on the boiling pot in front of him. The grandmas wanted macaroni in broth again, as usual. And they also ordered stir fried udon with beef- no one had ordered that in a while but it had been a recurring order the past few days. Probably because of the new girl, whose name they learnt was Y/N through passing conversation. 

“Do you think she’s one of their granddaughters or something?” Jake continued. His eyes were fixed on the girl- her confident smile that always showed her teeth, the crinkle in her eyes when she was close to winning a game, her manicured nails that were always in a deep white and green pattern that mimicked the mahjong tiles and her trendy outfits that never ceased to gain compliments from the grandmas. 

Which was saying a lot because these grandmas hated the younger generation and their revealing clothing and bright jewellery.

Y/N was modest- in the way she played, in the way she dressed and in the way she ate.

“God knows,” Sunghoon shook his head and tucked away the strands of hair that fell in front of his eyes. The steam from the macaroni glossed his skin as he plated the food. “Go serve them. Tell them their udon will come in a bit.”

Struggling to balance five plates of their macaroni in broth with both arms, Jake reached the table of grandmas with his usual smile that had them swooning. “There he is!” One of them cheered, the one wearing the plastic green sun hat even though she was sitting indoors. When asked about it, she’d always tell them to stop questioning her fashion choices. 

“Hope you enjoy the food today,” Jake grinned at them, eyes briefly flashing towards Y/N. He caught her smile, the way she warmly looked at all the grandmas while they cooed at Jake. 

“When do we not?” Another grandma said, reaching to pinch Jake’s cheek- only slightly, barely, like he was her grandson. “Thank you sweetheart.”

“Why don’t you play mahjong with us today, dear?” One of the grandmas looked up at Jake with anticipation. 

Their attention, however, was pulled towards the kitchen window where Sunghoon stretched his arm out with the plate of udon. “Again with the mahjong, nainai?” Sunghoon chuckled at her, brows holding his annoyance. He was terrible at hiding his emotions- most of it sat on his face, right there on his brows and lips.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” another grandma insisted. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to play.”

“Y/N can teach you!” A grandma hollered with excitement, eyes glowing as if she’d made a new revelation. The rest of the grandmas nodded with enthusiasm. 

Y/N, on the other hand, laughed awkwardly and shook her head, her gaze stuck somewhere in between Sunghoon and Jake. “I don’t play that well,” her voice came out a whisper.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, honey,” the grandma sitting beside her nudged her arm with hers. “You’re phenomenal.”

Sunghoon, who was leaning out the window, hand hanging off the railing, watched as Jake placed the plate of udon in front of her Y/N. She smiled at him thankfully, the corner of her eyes crinkling, fingers instinctively reaching for a pair of chopsticks.

“You guys already have enough players,” Jake cracked them his signature grin- the one that had girls swooning and boys feeling insecure of their own smiles. “The six of you make a great group.”

His response was met with a string of groans and “alright, alright, get back to working” and a lot of hands teasingly waving at him to leave. As Jake walked away, Y/N took a bite of her udon and her expression changed into a sense of bliss, from satisfaction that the dish gave. Sunghoon saw it- that look of utter appreciation for his cooking- and let it burn into his memory. Just as he did with most customers he caught enjoying his food. Sunghoon liked knowing his customers were satisfied with what they were paying for- that his skill was recognised. 

“How many games do you think she won this time?” Jake was back in the kitchen again, eyes still on the girl that was playing mahjong with the grandmas. Sunghoon glanced at him from the corner of his eyes- he saw his toothy grin, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. 

“Every game,” Sunghoon mumbled- he was keeping count. It was hard not to when the grandmas whined and crooned after every game and patted Y/N on the back with pride.

iii. 

A few days later, on an early afternoon where the diner was unfamiliarly empty, the grandmas were back again to wile away time with mahjong. Along with them, they brought their mahjong sidekick- the best player on the block, a girl who later revealed that she was formerly a mahjong prodigy and used to play at the national level.

Now, she was just a student at the local college, studying economics with a minor in sociology. She was going to graduate in a year. And in her free time, instead of being holed up in her room studying, she’d much rather sit with the grandmas and play mahjong. 

“Aren’t there only supposed to be four players in mahjong?” Jake approached them with his arms full of their orders, a quirk in his brow as he looked at the group of six.

“We take turns playing,” the grandma wearing the plastic green sun hat answered, her hands clasped in her lap. She clearly wasn’t playing in this round- and neither was Y/N. She was helping the grandma beside her- subtly cheating, but not really.

Jake placed Y/N’s udon in front of her and she gave him that smile again- polite, grateful and happy. “Enjoy,” he said to her, voice tuned and chirpy that seemed to make her fluster. But as quickly as she had reacted, the faster she moved on to eating her order. And she was back in her world again- savouring her food, eyes locking onto the mahjong tiles, laughing with the grandmas.

“She’s cute, no?” Jake sauntered into the kitchen with a lightness in his step, wiping his hands with a washcloth and leaning his back against the counter. Beside him, Sunghoon was pre-frying fish balls for the day, his lips pursed and eyes lowered as usual.

“She’s a college student,” Sunghoon said- like it was the most obvious fact in the world, a fact Jake was already aware of. 

“What's your point?” Jake was teasing him now, his lip pulled between his teeth and eyebrows wiggling. “You find her cute too, don’t you?” He was poking Sunghon’s side now, laughing as he got a reaction out of him.

Sunghoon groaned, only passing Jake a smile that he couldn’t hold back- partly because he could never hold his smile back around Jake and partly because the moment felt juvenile, like they were young and in high school again. “Grow up,” Sunghoon chuckled and pushed him away, his arm stretching into Jake’s shoulder.

“You know I joke,” Jake laughed too, making his way out of the kitchen to watch the grandmas play mahjong- to watch Y/N play mahjong. 

He leaned against the wall separating the diner from the kitchen, his tongue poking his cheek, meddling with his own fingers at the sight of the girl. But, honestly speaking, Jake wasn’t the stud people sought him out to be. He was outgoing, extroverted, big-mouthed (a quality Sunghoon both loved and despised) and liked to flirt with the young, attractive girls he met in the market. But that was where his reputation ended- his kindness always preceded him.

So, Jake didn’t have any intention of doing anything about Y/N. She was cute and she seemed to make his dear old customers happy. 

Behind him, Sunghoon stepped out of the kitchen, his hands running through his hair to get the sweat and steam out. No matter how much time he spent styling his hair in the morning, it would always be a greasy mess by the end of the day.

“Are you guys gossiping about the gold dealer’s wife again?” Sunghoon smirked when the grandmas turned to him with looks of feigned guilt. 

“I’m telling you, she’s cheating on her husband!” One the grandmas hollered in defense. 

“I saw her walk out of his brother’s apartment with my own eyes,” another grandma insisted, literally stomping her foot down and hitting the edge of the table with her fists to make a point.

As the mahjong pieces in front of them rattled in the ruckus, Y/N let out a soft giggle at their conversion. “Careful,” her high pitched laugh went lost amongst the argument- but they heard it.

“They’re family, it could mean anything,” Sunghoon went on, crossing his arms across his chest.

“She walked out with messy hair, Sunghoon!”

“Adultery is a grave accusation, nainai,” Jake chimed in- obviously a joke, obviously to tease. He cracked his knuckles against his palms, shifting his weight onto one foot, crossing his leg.

“Oh, I’ll listen to you when you play Mahjong with us,” one of the grandmas teased, waving Jake off with that twinkle of mischief she always carried.

A chorus of claps and cackles followed- Jake sighed dramatically, Sunghoon groaned under his breath, and Y/N gave an awkward laugh, unsure whether to join in or retreat.

“Not this again,” Sunghoon muttered, rolling his eyes.

“I swear it’s a daily ritual now,” Jake added, gesturing helplessly at the table like it betrayed him. “The Mahjong Agenda.”

“What is it with you two?” One grandma cried out, genuinely baffled. “Why do you hate it so much?”

“We don’t hate it,” Jake replied, hands raised in defense. “It’s just… a lot. Too many rules. Such long games. My brain’s already full running this place.”

Then, quietly- almost like she didn’t mean to speak at all- Y/N cleared her throat. “It doesn’t take that long if you know the game,” she offered, her voice soft, almost like she was testing her place in the whole dynamic.

The grandmas hummed in agreement, nodding like they’d been saying the same thing for years.

Sunghoon looked at her then, eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. Jake’s smirk stretched wider. “Well,” he said, “we don’t actually know the game, do we?”

The pause that followed held something- barely there, but noticed. A shift in attention, a thread pulled tighter.

Then, just as quickly, a grandma slapped the table. “Then learn!”

The clamor picked up again- more groans, more mock complaints, more laughter that filled the small diner like sunlight. Sunghoon shook his head and ducked back into the kitchen. Jake chuckled and grabbed the designated chipped mug of milk, stepping outside to feed the orange cat waiting in front of the diner.

That night, while they were locking up the diner after last call- Jake pulling the shutter down, Sunghoon crouching to pet the cat one last time for the day- Sunghoon started pondering. The street lights around them were starting to flicker shut and street vendors were on their way home- just like the two owners of Tin Cup Diner. 

“Maybe we should get into mahjong.” Sunghoon said as they started walking.

Jake almost stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned his head towards Sunghoon, his eyes wide and confused. “Who are you and what did you do to my friend?”

Sunghoon fell into a soft string of laughter as Jake tackled his arm around his shoulders. The pair swayed as they walked, letting the quiet street be filled by their childish bonding.

“Why so sudden?” Jake rubbed his fist into Sunghoon’s hair as he tried pushing him off his back, eyes squinting as he failed to hide his cackling. “It’s because of the girl, isn’t it? Y/N?”

“Fuck off, no,” Sunghoon successfully shrugged Jake off him, fixing his jacket. They fell into a steady step again. “I just thought… since they’ve been insisting for so long. Could be fun?”

Jake scoffed and kicked a pebble on the street. “Since when did you care about fun?”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sunghoon nudged Jake with his arm. 

“Fine,” Jake rolled his eyes. “I’ll learn when I’m not lazy,” the pair grinned at each other and let silence engulf them through the rest of their walk.

iv. 

When Y/N came to the diner, alone and with a book tucked under her arm, Sunghoon and Jake exchanged confused looks. The grandmas weren’t coming in that day, that was for sure. And Y/N had been slowly eating her udon and reading her book- something on economics, as Jake caught a glimpse of, while serving her food. The customers walking in and out with the occasional whiff of cigarette didn’t bother her- she continued to read, eat and listen to music through wired earphones and a small MP3 player.

The windows of the diner started to fog and a slight rain drizzled outside. Many customers started running in with puddles dragging behind them. All Sunghoon could think about was how they would struggle to clean that up later.

“Weird that she’s come here alone, no?” Jake leaned into Sunghoon’s side as he asked the question, eyes trained on Y/N and her unfazed frame.

The pair were staring at her from the kitchen- she was two tables away from their eyeshot. “Just be glad we have business,” Sunghoon whispered back to Jake, turning to continue making wonton soup. “She’s done eating, Jake.”

“Right,” Jake cleared his throat and moved out of the kitchen.

Jake approached her with his usual confidence, a pep in his step and arm already stretched towards her empty place. Y/N felt his presence before he even reached her but she chose to ignore him, gaze still on her book. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there in that position. Outside, the sky was getting darker and the neon shop signs were getting brighter.

“Odd place to sit and read, don’t you think?” Jake hovered near her before taking her emptied plate.

His words startled her, but she only blinked before craning her body to face him. “I quite like it here actually,” she smiled at him- polite, curt, a little shy. 

“The clatter doesn't bother you?” He raised his brows.

She gave him a soft shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not really. It’s kind of… comforting.”

Jake tried not to smile- his lips pressed together, tongue clicking lightly against the roof of his mouth. Out of instinct, he flicked his eyes toward the kitchen window, hoping to catch Sunghoon’s reaction- but he was too busy tossing rice in the wok, face glazed with steam.

“Well,” Jake turned back to her, “can I get you anything else?”

She glanced at her phone, then back at him. “My dad’s picking me up soon. But… a milk tea sounds nice in the meantime?”

There was something in her tone- soft but sure, her wide eyes catching the warm overhead light, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Jake stared for a beat longer than he meant to.

“Milk tea, coming right up,” he finally said, his gaze lingering a moment too long before he turned away, even though she was already back to her book.

Jake slipped into the kitchen, still grinning to himself as he filled the kettle. The place smelled like soy and garlic and something slightly burnt- probably the fish balls. He reached for the tea leaves when Sunghoon, without looking up from his pan, muttered, “We’re out of eggs.”

Jake groaned loudly, clanging the kettle a little harder than necessary. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Sunghoon said, flipping rice with practiced ease.

“Why didn’t we buy them this morning?”

“Because someone wanted to sleep in,” Sunghoon deadpanned.

Jake groaned again- longer, more dramatic this time- and stomped toward the door, grabbing his wallet off the hook. “Fine. Eggs. Got it.”

He was halfway out when he suddenly remembered. “Also! We need a new goldfish!” He yelled over his shoulder. “One of them kicked it last night!”

Sunghoon sighed but nodded, still not turning around. “Yeah, yeah. Just go.”

Jake waved him off and disappeared through the door with the jingle of the diner bell, taking one last glance of Y/N.

A moment later, Sunghoon wiped his hands on a towel, picked up the chipped red-and-white porcelain cup with the cartoon cow and carefully placed it on a tray. He walked out into the quiet clatter of forks and shuffling bodies, eyes scanning the room until he spotted her again. She was still reading, still tucked into her chair like it was comfortable.

Without a word, he gently set the cup in front of her.

She looked up and smiled, that soft kind of gratefulness that didn’t need extra words. “Thank you,” she said.

Sunghoon stood there for a beat, staring at the back of her head as she returned to her book. He debated with himself for a moment, jaw tight, before finally opening his mouth. 

“So…” he started, already regretting it. “Mahjong?”

He cringed internally. His lack of people skills humiliated him more often than not, and this time was no exception. He crossed his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to slap a hand over his face as she turned to look at him again.

“What about Mahjong?” She asked, smiling- shy, polite, unsure of what he meant.

“Oh, um,” he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “You’re really good at it.”

He wanted to throw himself off the roof for saying something so plain.

“Thank you,” she replied, voice still soft and a little hesitant, barely audible. But Sunghoon heard it clearly.

“The nainais love playing with you,” he added, trying again.

She chuckled, the sound light as she fidgeted with the edges of her book. “I love playing with them too.”

Sunghoon nodded, heart thudding louder than he’d like to admit. “I was thinking maybe I should start playing,” he said. “Since they insist so much.”

That earned him a brighter smile-genuine and almost surprised. “They’ll be so excited to hear that,” she said, eyes warm.

With that, Sunghoon gave her a small nod- tried for a smile, though it came out a little crooked- and turned to head back to the kitchen. The familiar clang of cutlery and low hum of chatter greeted him as a few customers called out their orders. He slipped into the rhythm easily, hands moving on instinct as he took their requests, his mind only half in it as he waited for Jake to return with the eggs.

v. 

The grandmas had just finished their lunch- macaroni in broth, as always- and were setting up the mahjong tiles on their favorite table. The diner's usual clatter had dulled into a comforting quiet. Jake was wiping down tables, Sunghoon was prepping ingredients for the dinner crowd, and Y/N, elbows on the table, was watching the grandmas argue over who mixed the tiles wrong.

“You always flip too fast, Mei Lin,” one said, tapping the table.

“And you always complain, so maybe it balances out,” another shot back.

Y/N smiled into her sleeve.

From the kitchen window, Sunghoon’s eyes flickered to them again and again. The chatter, the rhythmic clack of tiles, the easy comfort between Y/N and the old women- something about it kept pulling his attention.

Finally, after drying his hands on a towel, he walked over. He didn’t sit- just crossed his arms and stood behind them, quiet, trying to peek over the top of their heads. No one minded- he was part of the furniture here, just like the smell of soy sauce and the cat waiting by the door.

He lingered for a moment. Then, almost too softly, he said, “…What do the symbols mean?”

One of the grandmas blinked up at him like she hadn’t realized he was standing there. Another simply grinned- slow and mischievous, the way a cat does when it knows it’s already won.

“Well, well, well,” said one of them, elbowing Y/N playfully. “Someone finally asked.”

Y/N looked up, her expression touched with a kind of surprised warmth. She hadn’t expected him to actually come over. Tilting her head, she studied him- tall and awkward, arms still crossed like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Which ones?” She asked gently.

Sunghoon shrugged, looking at the tiles like they’d just started speaking in code. “All of them?”

From across the diner, Jake’s voice rang out, dry and amused. “He doesn’t even know the difference between bamboo and buns.”

“They’re dots, not buns,” Y/N laughed, the sound small but clear. She scooted to the side and patted the empty seat next to her. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Sunghoon hesitated- just for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose, muttered something under his breath, and sat down. He was a little stiff, a little too careful. It was like he wasn’t sure how to exist in a chair that wasn’t in the kitchen.

Immediately, two grandmas shuffled closer, surrounding him on either side. One pushed a pile of tiles toward him, the other clapped his back in pride- Sunghoon cracked her a helpless grin. He looked cornered, like a kid roped into a family dinner with relatives he hadn’t seen in ten years.

The grandmas- delighted beyond measure- turned their sights on Jake.

“You too!” One shouted, pointing a finger directly at him. “If Sunghoon’s playing, you are too.”

Jake sighed, slinging the towel over his shoulder with dramatic flair. “You people are relentless.”

But he paused. His eyes flicked to Sunghoon, caught mid-instruction, nodding solemnly like he was absorbing ancient wisdom. Then Jake looked at the grandmas- hopeful, eager, waiting.

And finally, he looked at Y/N. She was watching him- not pressuring him, just waiting, a small smile playing on her lips, fingers brushing over the edge of a tile like she was testing the waters.

Jake let out a long breath, one hand on his hip. “Fine,” he muttered, walking over. “You people act like we don’t have a whole diner to run.”

The table erupted in cheers before he even pulled out a chair.

Jake pulled out a chair with exaggerated reluctance, plopping down beside a triumphant-looking grandma who immediately pulled his face closer to her to kiss his cheek. “God bless,” she said and Jake giggled at her.

“Shuffle those tiles, boy,” another ordered, and Jake obediently reached for the pile, side-eyeing Y/N.

“You planned this,” he whispered.

She grinned, not denying it. “Welcome to the table.”

Sunghoon shifted to make room, now sitting between Y/N and another grandma who was already assigning him a wind tile. “You missed the whole tutorial,” he told Jake, but there was no smugness in his voice- just quiet amusement.

Jake leaned closer to Y/N. “So, are you gonna save me from complete humiliation or just let me die out here?”

Y/N, still smiling, tapped two tiles. “These are dots. Think of them as buns, since you insist. And that- ” she pointed to another, “-is bamboo. Try not to mix them up this time.”

Jake pretended to take notes on his hand with an invisible pen. “Dots are buns. Got it. Is there a tile for coffee? Because that’s what I’m playing for.”

“No,” one of the grandmas declared. “You’re playing for dignity.”

Y/N laughed, and even Sunghoon let out a low chuckle.

As the round began, the grandmas shouted instructions over each other. Jake was immediately lost, discarding a tile that made two of them gasp dramatically. Sunghoon picked it up cautiously, frowning at his hand like it was a puzzle missing pieces.

Somehow, Y/N stayed calm- her voice soft but sure as she walked them both through their first real game. Her presence made the table feel less chaotic and more like a circle- one that had room for all of them. There was the occasional cheer or groan of a play gone right- or very, very wrong.

Neither Sunghoon or Jake won a game that day- the pair, in fact, had left the game in between to tend to their customers. As they fell into the bustling rhythm of their diner, serving plates of food and cleaning down dirty counters, the grandmas complained in low groans. Y/N continued playing with her usual silence and a laugh thrown in from time to time.

One of the grandmas insisted on a rematch- she just wanted Jake and Sunghoon to play. And neither of them said no.

vi. 

The next afternoon, the mahjong table was already waiting when Jake and Sunghoon walked out of the kitchen. The grandmas had their lunch pre-cooked this time, and Y/N was already seated, shuffling the tiles absentmindedly with one hand while sipping soup with the other.

“She’s been waiting for you two,” a grandma whispered loudly, elbowing another.

Jake gave a mock bow. “Apologies, honored ones. We had... actual jobs.”

One of the grandmas slapped her tile down with finality. “Alright,” she declared, chin high, eyes glinting. “Just the boys this time. I want to see if either of them actually learned anything.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “What- no, no, I haven’t even processed the rules.”

“You’re just scared,” another grandma teased.

“Terrified,” he confirmed. “Utterly and completely terrified.”

Sunghoon tried to get up, mumbling something about prep work, but was immediately pulled back down by a surprisingly strong wrinkled hand.

“You sit,” she ordered. “You owe us after years of avoiding this table.”

Y/N just smiled into her sleeve, watching as the grandmas quickly reset the tiles, their movements quick and practiced. Sunghoon looked resigned. Jake looked betrayed.

The game started with less chaos than last time. Jake remembered a few rules, mostly. Sunghoon took it more seriously than necessary. And Y/N, still not playing, quietly pointed to the right moves without drawing too much attention to herself.

“Okay,” Jake said, squinting at his tiles. “I have three bamboo sticks. And three more. That’s… something?”

“You’re getting there,” Y/N encouraged.

“Don’t gas him up,” Sunghoon muttered. “He still discards every dragon tile like it’s cursed.”

“It feels cursed,” Jake insisted.

“You two bicker like an old married couple,” a grandma commented.

“No,” Y/N smiled, “they bicker like brothers.”

The next fifteen minutes were loud, messy, and full of good-natured mockery. Jake made illegal moves twice, Sunghoon forgot which wind he was, and both of them accused the grandmas of stacking the deck.

But something shifted too.

Sunghoon started leaning into the chaos, rolling his eyes but not pulling away when a grandma ruffled his hair- something he usually flinched at. Jake laughed like he hadn’t in weeks- head thrown back, palms smacking the table when he finally made a decent play.

Y/N watched from the side, sipping her milk tea, legs curled up beneath her, a smile tugging at her lips that she didn’t bother hiding. She’d help them sometimes, other times would simply stare back at their confused expressions with a teasing grin.

When the game finally ended- Sunghoon won, obviously- the grandmas stood triumphantly, stretching their backs.

“We knew you had it in you, Sunghoon,” one of them encouraged.

Jake’s shoulders visibly sagged, his lip jutting forward in a pout. It was such an involuntary reaction, Y/N couldn’t help but stare at the innocence behind it. “You didn’t think you had it in me?”

“You’re getting there,” another grandma assured. 

“That’s so mean! I’m nicer to you lot than he is!”

“Oh, don’t say things like that!”

The grandmas left with promises of bringing home made dessert the next day- their special treat for their favourite diner owners. For finally succumbing to their requests and also making them feel like they were loved again. These grandmas, from what Sunghoon and Jake had learnt from rubbernecking, always complained about feeling neglected by their children and grandchildren. Perhaps they displaced that emptiness onto Y/N, Sunghoon and Jake.

Y/N didn’t leave right away.

She stayed at the table, legs tucked neatly under the chair, her half-empty cup of milk tea in front of her. She scrolled through her phone absentmindedly, the gentle clatter of the diner folding around her like background noise she’d grown to like. Jake and Sunghoon had returned to their usual rhythm- Jake wiping down counters, Sunghoon chopping vegetables in the back- but for a brief moment, neither of them noticed that she hadn’t left with the grandmas.

Until Sunghoon glanced through the kitchen window.

“Jake,” he called out, eyes narrowing.

Jake had just finished taking an order. He tucked his notepad away and leaned into the pass-through. “What?”

Sunghoon jerked his chin toward the dining area. “Why’s she still here?”

They both stared.

Y/N sat with one elbow on the table, phone in hand, tea in the other. She didn’t look out of place- just… still.

Jake shrugged. “I dunno. Let me go ask.”

Before Sunghoon could say anything- probably to stop him- Jake had already tossed the towel over his shoulder and stepped out of the kitchen. Sunghoon sighed. In moments like these, he loathed Jake’s confidence, the way he never hesitated, never second-guessed himself to the point of paralysis.

Jake approached her with easy steps.

“Everything okay?” He asked, his voice gentler than usual.

Y/N looked up, blinking out of her thoughts. “Oh- yeah.” She smiled, polite but sincere. “I’m just waiting for my dad to pick me up. If that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Jake said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You looked a little lonely. Just wanted to see if you needed company.”

She laughed softly and shook her head. “No, I’m okay, really. But… could I order a tuna melt?” She looked up at him, her voice more sure now. “I’ve been meaning to try it.”

Jake lit up like she’d complimented his accomplishments. “One tuna melt, coming up.”

He turned back toward the kitchen, only to find Sunghoon already halfway through assembling the sandwich. Jake smirked, but didn’t say anything. He’d learned a long time ago not to poke the bear.

He wanted to stay, maybe keep the conversation going, but another customer had walked in and flagged him down. With a silent sigh, Jake turned on his heel and went to take the order, throwing one last glance back toward Y/N as she settled into her seat again, warm tea in hand, waiting- not just for her father now, maybe, but for the comfort of the sandwich being made in a kitchen she’d grown used to.

Sunghoon wiped his hands on a dish towel before picking up the plate from the counter. The tuna melt, golden and crisp, sat beside a pile of thick-cut fries and a small cup of house-made pickles. He tried not to look too eager as he walked it over.

“Here you go,” he said, placing it down in front of her.

Y/N perked up immediately. “Oh- thank you.” Her voice was warm now, a little less shy than before. She took in the sandwich like it was an offering, her eyes lighting up at the smell.

Sunghoon didn’t leave right away. He hovered awkwardly, hands shoved in his apron pockets, and after a pause, he asked, “Do you have your own mahjong set?”

She blinked up at him. “Hmm?”

“You always play with the nainais’ sets. Was just wondering.”

She tilted her head, thinking. “I do. But it’s kind of old. I’ve been meaning to get a new one, actually. Something I can customize, maybe.”

Sunghoon nodded, lips pressing into something almost like a smile. “I know a guy in the market. He does hand-carved pieces.”

Her eyes widened just slightly. “That sounds… kind of cool.”

“It is,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen before returning to meet her gaze. “Jake and I could take you sometime, if you want.”

He didn’t say it casually, and he wasn’t suave about it. His voice was even and sincere, but there was the usual hesitation underneath, like he was still learning how to offer connection instead of deflecting it.

Y/N looked down for a second, then up at him again- reading his expression, measuring the offer for what it was: a genuine one.

“I’d like that,” she said finally, and smiled. Not polite. Not shy. Just soft.

And Sunghoon, for once, didn’t overthink it. He just nodded, slow and certain. “Cool. We’ll figure out a day.”

He turned to leave, and behind him, Y/N reached for the sandwich- realizing, as she took her first bite, that it was still warm, still perfect, like maybe, somehow, she was meant to stay a little longer.

That night, Sunghoon and Jake had locked up early. The diner had been quiet, and they figured it was as good a time as any to finally replace the fourth goldfish. One had died a few days ago, and the tank looked oddly lopsided without it. Not that they were heading to a proper pet shop- just to the old man on a bicycle who sold goldfish dangling from sticks, each one bobbing in its own water-filled plastic pouch, swaying like strange fruit.

While Jake fished out cash from his back pocket, Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I told Y/N we’d take her to that custom mahjong place.”

Jake froze mid-motion, the folded bills pausing between his fingers and the vendor’s outstretched hand. The vendor blinked at him, mildly annoyed, and snatched the money anyway. Jake nearly fumbled the bag with the new goldfish.

“You, what?” He said, staring at Sunghoon.

“It came up when I brought her the tuna melt,” Sunghoon said, casually- but not too casually. “Just… in passing.”

Jake started walking again, the bag swinging from his fingers. He smirked, glancing over. “Passing conversation, huh?”

“Yeah. Passing conversation,” Sunghoon repeated, quieter this time. Like he was trying to convince himself more than Jake.

Jake didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just let the silence stretch between them as the glow of the street lights flickered on. He could hear the gentle slosh of water and the occasional squeak of the goldfish bag in his hand.

Jake shot a sidelong glance at Sunghoon, who kept his eyes fixed stubbornly on the road ahead.

“So,” Jake started, voice carefully casual, “you gave her a sandwich and a field trip?”

Sunghoon didn’t look at him. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Jake snorted. “I’m not being dramatic. I just didn’t know tuna melts came with custom mahjong tours now.”

Sunghoon sighed through his nose. “It wasn’t a big deal. We were talking. She said she wanted to buy a new set. I said I knew a guy. It’s not-”

“A date?” Jake cut in, biting down a grin.

Sunghoon glared at him, then immediately looked away again. “It’s not,” he muttered. But his ears were pink.

Jake laughed under his breath, nudging Sunghoon with his elbow. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’m not lying,” Sunghoon insisted, voice rising slightly. “I’m-” He paused. “It wasn’t planned, okay?”

Jake let the silence sit between them for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Alright.” They walked on a few more steps before Jake added, teasing but not unkind, “You just accidentally offered to take a girl you barely know to a shop you’ve never even taken me to.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes. “We didn’t start playing mahjong until literally yesterday.”

The goldfish made a sudden turn in the bag, catching their attention. Both of them looked down at it, watching the flash of orange dart through the water like it had somewhere important to be.

Jake adjusted his grip on the plastic loop. “So, when are we going?”

“Whenever she’s free, I guess.” Sunghoon shrugged.

Jake hummed. “You gonna ask her?”

“I figured… we’d ask her. Together.”

Jake blinked at him. For once, no joke came out of his mouth. He just nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

vii. 

Y/N replayed the way Sunghoon and Jake had approached her about the mahjong shop over and over again until the day actually arrived.

The memory still made her giggle, her stomach fluttering in that light, ridiculous way that meant she was more nervous than she wanted to admit.

It was the way Sunghoon trailed a few steps behind Jake, hands in his pockets, gaze darting everywhere except her face- like the whole plan hadn’t been his idea in the first place. Jake had done the talking, naturally, with that easy, familiar confidence of his. "When are you free?" he had asked, flashing that bright, lopsided grin like this was just another errand, nothing special at all. Meanwhile, Sunghoon stood behind him and nodded- once, twice- as though trying to keep it cool, but looking exactly like a guilty accomplice.

She remembered how Jake waited for her answer without pressure, and how Sunghoon pretended not to care but had looked up just enough to meet her eyes when they finalised a plan.

They hadn’t even left yet, and somehow she was already looking forward to the afternoon like it was something that would matter.

The pair had asked her to meet them at the mouth of the old street market, just past the temple gate where the pavement turned to uneven stone and the smell of incense mingled with fried dough and fresh produce.

It wasn’t far from the diner, but it felt like stepping into another world- louder, warmer, slower somehow. Jake had said the mahjong stall was tucked somewhere in the back alleys, “next to the guy who sells antique radios and possibly illegal fireworks.” Sunghoon had just rolled his eyes at the description, muttering that he’d find it faster without Jake’s help.

Y/N arrived five minutes early, but they were already there- Jake leaned against a lamppost scrolling through his phone, Sunghoon sipping from a bottle of barley tea. Jake spotted her first, nudging Sunghoon with his elbow.

She smiled. They both straightened.

Jake grinned as she approached. “Right on time. I had money on you being early.”

“I am early,” Y/N replied, glancing at her watch with a teasing look. “But you two clearly beat me.”

Sunghoon gave a small, crooked smile. “Jake insisted we leave early just in case we got distracted by fried snacks.’”

Jake didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “And we did, thank you very much.” He held out a paper bag that smelled vaguely like sesame and sugar. “Want one?”

Y/N took one without hesitation, and the three started walking- Sunghoon leading the way through the winding lanes while Jake lingered beside her, occasionally pointing out odd little shops with dramatic flair.

The market was a maze of sun-faded awnings, peeling posters, and curious smells. Old radios crackled from corners, kids darted between stalls and somewhere in the distance, a man yelled about a two-for-one mango deal like it was the end of the world.

“So,” Y/N asked, chewing thoughtfully. “How custom is this mahjong place?”

“You’ll see,” Sunghoon said, almost proudly. “Last time we were here, the guy tried to sell Jake a set shaped like sea cucumbers,” he added.

“I almost bought it,” Jake said defensively. “It was kind of cool.”

“It was horrifying,” Sunghoon muttered, but he was smiling too. “And we didn’t even play.”

Eventually, they reached a low tin-roofed shop wedged between two buildings, half-hidden by a hanging rug. A wooden sign above the door read, in hand-painted strokes: Mr. Liu’s Lucky Tiles.

Inside, the air was cooler. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with mahjong sets of every shape and color- some traditional, some made of glass, others painted with dragons, koi, and cherry blossoms. There was even a neon pink set in the corner, shimmering like it had no business being in such a dusty room.

Mr. Liu himself appeared from behind a beaded curtain- an elderly man with a stooped back and sharp eyes, rubbing his hands like he already knew why they were there. 

Jake and Sunghoon had met Mr. Liu in the early, uncertain days of the diner- when the rent felt too high, the customers too few, and the future too blurry to hold onto. He had wandered in one quiet afternoon, ordered nothing but tea, and stayed for hours, offering them sharp, unsolicited advice on budgeting, supplier haggling, and why their menu needed at least one dish with ginger. Over time, his presence became a quiet constant- dropping by with old coins to tip with, passing down contacts for cheaper produce, and sometimes just sitting silently, like the kind of distant relative you don’t call often but always count on. Their bond was dependable, old-school, forged in unspoken trust and shared stubbornness.

“You brought a friend this time,” he said to Sunghoon, nodding at Y/N. “Finally someone with taste.”

Jake gasped, “I’m right here, sir.”

Mr. Liu ignored him. “So, what kind of set are we making?”

Y/N stepped closer to the table lined with carved tiles and paint samples. Her eyes flitted across the display- flashes of color, lacquered wood, tiny painted details that told entire stories.

“I want something brighter... maybe something in red, I don’t know...” she began, voice soft but certain as her fingers hovered over a row of designs. “Those cherry blossoms and koi fish look nice. I want some lanterns on there too.”

Mr. Liu looked impressed. “Bold choice. Most people play safe with ivory and jade.”

Jake leaned in. “She used to play national level mahjong, you know? She's got taste.”

Sunghoon glanced at him sideways, but said nothing, watching as Y/N picked up a tile and turned it over in her hand like she was already imagining it on her table at home. Mr. Liu looked at Y/N with a newfound appreciation.

“I want a set that looks like a showpiece and also like something I never want to stop playing with,” she said. “You know what I mean?”

Mr. Liu nodded, reaching for a notebook. “Alright then. Lanterns, koi, cherry blossoms- red base?”

“Maybe hints of gold too,” Y/N said, smiling now, gaining confidence in the picture she was painting. “Nothing too flashy, just pretty.”

“I like that,” Sunghoon murmured beside her, arms crossed, watching her more than the tiles.

Y/N looked back at him, flustered and a little taken aback- like she wasn’t expecting him to say anything at all, let alone agree so gently. Her fingers paused mid-gesture over a tray of tiles, and for a moment, the noise of the shop faded beneath the warmth that crawled up her neck.

Sunghoon didn’t seem to notice what he’d done, or maybe he did and was pretending not to. His gaze dropped to the tiles again, expression unreadable except for the slight twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Jake, standing a few feet away and pretending to examine a display of dice he definitely didn’t need, caught the shift in atmosphere. He turned back just in time to see Y/N blinking rapidly and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Mr. Liu chuckled, already sketching something quick in the corner of his pad. “Come back in a week. And bring better taste with you next time,” he added to Jake, without looking up.

“I literally brought her,” Jake pointed out, affronted.

“And yet,” Mr. Liu deadpanned, turning a page.

Y/N laughed under her breath, the kind of laugh that softened the tension in her shoulders. Jake pouted dramatically, throwing his hands up before shoving them into his pockets, but even that didn’t mask the faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t mind him,” Sunghoon said to Y/N, his voice low but teasing. “Mr. Liu insults people he actually likes.”

“I realised,” Y/N smiled, looking back at the old man who was now carefully selecting tiles from a display tray. “It’s kind of endearing.”

Mr. Liu grunted at that, but a slight smirk betrayed him. “Don’t make me start liking you too, girl. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

She held back a laugh, standing beside the two boys like she’d been doing this for years. Something about the moment felt easy- settled, like the pieces were just starting to fall into place.

As Mr. Liu continued his prep, Jake leaned against the wall near the door and asked, “So, who’s your usual mahjong crowd, anyway? Just the grandmas?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. They’re terrifying.”

Jake looked at Sunghoon. “They made her cry once, didn’t they?”

Sunghoon raised his brows. “And then gave her candy ten minutes later.”

“Stockholm syndrome,” Jake said, solemnly.

“Community,” Y/N corrected, nudging him gently with her elbow.

Sunghoon watched the two of them banter, something calm blooming behind his ribs. He didn’t say much- he rarely did in such moments- but he didn’t want to. They were all in the same place now, tied together not by any great, dramatic event, but by the custom mahjong tiles Y/N was getting excited about.

Mr. Liu cleared his throat. “If you three are done flirting in my shop, I’ve got a set to design.”

Jake and Sunghoon immediately turned stiff and upright, but Y/N just laughed at the joke.

Outside, the sun was already leaning westward. The market buzzed with low chatter and the smells of sweet bean cakes and fresh noodles. Y/N stepped out of the shop with the boys beside her, her shoulders brushing Jake’s for a moment before she stepped forward to walk ahead.

Jake watched her for a second and then looked at Sunghoon. “Passing conversation, huh?”

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch this time. “Yeah,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Still passing.”

They didn’t head back right away. With a few hours to spare before the diner reopened for the evening shift, the three of them drifted through the market like a trio without plans- just steps and distractions.

Y/N stopped to try candied hawthorns from a vendor, offering one stick to each of the boys with a grin that dared them to say no. Jake bit into his without hesitation; Sunghoon looked suspicious of the sticky glaze but didn’t refuse.

They walked past a stall selling old records, and Y/N paused to thumb through them. Jake joined her, flipping covers and teasing her music taste until she found one he actually liked- and then teased him right back for being predictable.

At one point, they sat on a low wall near a koi pond tucked behind one of the older courtyards. Y/N threw breadcrumbs at the fish from a little paper pouch a nearby kid handed her, and Jake leaned back on his elbows, soaking in the sun, while Sunghoon quietly snapped a photo of the moment on his phone- he told himself that he would send it to his family as a life update. 

He never ended up sending it.

By the time they wandered back, the sky was slipping into evening hues. The air smelled different- cooler now, tinged with the promise of dinner. They said goodbye to Y/N at the corner where her ride usually picked her up.

Jake waved a little longer than necessary.

Sunghoon nudged him. “You gonna start writing poetry now?”

Jake just smiled. “Only passing poetry.”

viii. 

A week later, Y/N walked into the diner carrying a tote bag. The grandmas had barely finished their tea before she set the bag down and carefully pulled out her new mahjong set- red lacquered tiles gleaming, each one etched with cherry blossoms, koi fish, and lanterns that shimmered with the faintest touch of gold. It was vibrant, personal, unmistakably hers.

The grandmas crowded around instantly, handling the pieces like precious gems. They didn’t even start a game right away- just examined each tile, murmuring their approval in half-teasing, half-reverent tones.

Jake leaned over the counter, watching the scene with a satisfied grin. “We took her to the shop, didn’t we, Sunghoon?”

Sunghoon, who had just finished washing his wok, paused at the sound of Jake’s voice. He glanced at Y/N, then at the tiles, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We did.”

Y/N turned to them, her voice quieter than the chatter around her. “Thank you,” she said, eyes lingering on Sunghoon.

Jake gave a mock bow. “All in the name of community service.”

“Sure,” Sunghoon said dryly, but there was a warmth behind it.

The grandmas eventually began setting up a game, fussing over who would sit where like it was a matter of national importance. Y/N was coaxed into playing the first round, mostly because one grandma claimed her young eyes would balance out their seasoned wisdom.

Whatever that meant.

Jake and Sunghoon watched from behind the counter, sipping their iced coffees in sync. They didn’t need to be told this was special- they could feel it in the way Y/N laughed, her shoulders looser than usual, the way her hands moved confidently across the tiles.

“She fits here,” Jake said softly.

Sunghoon didn’t respond immediately. He just watched her, a ghost of that now-familiar smile on his face. “Yeah. She does.”

When one of the grandmas called out for the boys to stop being useless and come play the next round, Jake threw his hands up in surrender and made his way over. Sunghoon followed with less enthusiasm but equal affection, letting himself be scolded into taking a seat.

The game had spiraled into chaos- the best kind. Laughter bounced off the diner’s tiled walls, filling every corner with something light and breathless. Tiles clacked as they slid across the table, and steam curled lazily from forgotten mugs of tea. Y/N kept blurting out advice to Jake, forgetting herself in the moment. Her voice, half a whisper and half a laugh, gave him away more than once.

Sunghoon, deadpan and increasingly dramatic, accused her of conspiracy. The grandmas, gleeful and unbothered, leaned into the mess. One of them chuckled behind a hand. “Flirting,” one of the grandmas had said, pointing a bony finger in the air like a courtroom judge. “This is flirting.”

Y/N nearly choked on her tea.

She tried to laugh and swallow at the same time, which resulted in a brief coughing fit and Jake immediately reaching for a napkin, his hand awkwardly hovering like he didn’t know where to place it. Sunghoon blinked at the grandma, mildly horrified.

“W-What?” Y/N spluttered. “No- I was just- he was- ”

“I rest my case,” the grandma said, triumphant, shuffling her tiles like she’d just orchestrated a grand romantic revelation.

Jake grinned, smug. “Guess we’re flirting now.”

“We are not- ” Y/N began, face hot.

“She’s blushing,” another grandma sang under her breath.

“I’m not!” She cried, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her.

Sunghoon groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

The table dissolved into laughter. The grandmas high-fived each other. Jake smiled wide and unbothered, soaking in the moment like sunshine. Y/N tried to pull herself together, but the smile tugging at her lips refused to leave.

The game went on, pieces shuffled and discarded, but something else hummed beneath the surface. Something quieter than the jokes, more enduring than the clatter. With each round, each crooked smile, each rolled eye and soft nudge, a kind of ease began to settle in like a puzzle slowly clicking into place.

When the grandmas finally packed up and headed out, full and happy, the diner dimmed into its late-hour hush. The stools were empty, the lights flickered to their lower setting, and the hum of the refrigerator replaced the chatter of customers. But Y/N didn’t move to leave.

She lingered, almost without noticing. Her coat remained draped over the chair, her half-finished tea still warm between her hands. The buzz of the day was gone, but she remained grounded in that moment- like staying made more sense than going.

As Jake started stacking chairs and Sunghoon pulled out a bucket and rag, Y/N stood and quietly joined them. It was wordless- natural. She moved between tables, wiping down surfaces with the same care she’d use on cleaning mahjong tiles. The rag moved in slow circles beneath her palm, her rhythm matching theirs.

“You don’t have to help,” Sunghoon murmured, his voice low, words folding into the quiet hum of the diner.

“I know,” Y/N said after a pause, her tone light but honest. “I’ve just got nothing much to do.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He wasn’t good at arguing when the other person was so certain- or perhaps it was just that he didn’t know how to argue with Y/N. Maybe it wasn’t even about the argument. Maybe it was the way her presence always managed to make things feel just a little off balance, like trying to catch your breath mid-laugh. He held her gaze for a second, then gently reached forward and took the washcloth from her hands. His touch was careful, almost hesitant.

Without a word, he nodded toward the nearest booth. She understood and didn’t resist, sliding into the seat as he turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

A moment later, Jake was beside her, slipping easily into the space that Sunghoon had left behind- filling it with that familiar, quiet comfort he carried when he wasn’t trying too hard to be the loudest voice in the room.

“Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day?” Jake asked.

Y/N sighed, shoulders slumping as she flexed her hands in her lap. “I wish. The local theatre is screening Happy Together- Wong Kar Wai’s. I really wanted to go, but none of my friends were free.”

Jake wasn’t a film guy. He liked movies, sure- comedies, thrillers, the flashy new stuff everyone talked about. He’d heard of Wong Kar Wai, of course. Living in Hong Kong and not knowing who that was would be borderline sacrilegious- he’d be pebbled on the streets. But he didn’t think he had the patience for films like that- moody, slow, full of longing and long silences. He always zoned out halfway through.

Still, he looked at Y/N now, at the subtle way her expression dimmed as she talked about it, and he felt something small and stubborn twist in his chest. It was just a movie, he told himself. But for her, it wasn’t just anything. And for some reason, that mattered more.

“Let’s go then.”

Y/N let out a short, amused laugh, thinking he was joking. “What?”

“Let’s go to the movie,” Jake said again, more firmly this time. “Right now. We’ll make it.”

She blinked. “Jake, you can’t be serious. You have a diner to run, and Sunghoon-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waved off her concern. “Sunghoon’s got this. And I’m too tired to work.”

“Jake,” she said, softer now, guilt brushing her voice, “We can’t just leave. I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

Jake gave her a lopsided grin, one corner of his mouth squirming up. “If Sunghoon’s gonna be mad at anyone, it definitely won’t be you, Y/N.”

And strangely, she believed that.

Y/N watched Jake disappear behind the swinging kitchen door, his posture sure, purposeful. She stayed seated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve as muffled voices floated through. She couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the rhythm of them- Jake’s easy gestures, the way he clapped Sunghoon on the back, and Sunghoon’s quiet nod, his eyes never leaving the bubbling pots in front of him. There was no protest, no dramatic negotiation. 

It struck her how simple it had all been. That was the thing about Jake- he made everything look easy. But still, the guilt clung to her like static. She hadn’t meant to impose, hadn’t meant to be the reason someone was left behind at work. And yet… she also didn’t know how to say no- not to Jake. Not when he was being this version of himself- warm and certain and just a little bit insistent.

When Jake returned, he was smiling, bright and boyish. He stretched out his hand to her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Y/N looked up at him, then down at his hand. Her fingers hesitated for just a second before slipping into his.

“Let’s go,” he said, as if this was exactly what the day had always meant to become.

She nodded, quiet and unsure, and let him pull her gently to her feet.

They stepped out into the soft burn of late afternoon light, the kind that painted the edges of buildings gold and made shadows long and forgiving. The diner door shut behind them with a faint jingle, the hum of oil and clatter of dishes fading with distance. Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her hand still warm from Jake’s. Neither of them mentioned it.

They didn’t speak much on the way. Jake walked with a kind of boyish energy, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he’d committed. Y/N, on the other hand, kept glancing up at the sky, letting the wind push loose strands of hair across her cheek. Something about the silence wasn’t awkward- it was gentle, like both of them were trying to slow down time just a little.

The theatre was tucked between an herbal medicine shop and a print store, its small marquee spelling out Happy Together in crooked red letters. A few people lingered near the entrance, smoking or talking softly in Cantonese, and Y/N paused before the door.

Jake watched her take it in- how her shoulders relaxed just a little, how her eyes brightened like she was seeing something familiar, something comforting.

“Excited?” He asked.

She nodded. “Very much.”

Inside, the theatre smelled of old velvet seats and faint incense, the kind that lingered from the temple across the street. They picked seats near the back- close enough to see the screen clearly, far enough to have space between them and the handful of other viewers. When the lights dimmed and the opening credits began, Y/N shifted just a little closer.

Jake didn’t understand all of the movie- its silences, its metaphors, its aching slowness- but he watched it like he was watching her watch it. He noticed the way her eyes softened during certain scenes, the way she tilted her head when the characters said something heavy. And maybe that was enough. Maybe understanding her joy was more important than understanding the film.

When the movie ended, neither of them rushed to get up. The screen faded to black, the credits rolled, and still they sat there. The city buzzed quietly outside, but in here, the movie hung between them.

Jake finally spoke, voice low. “That was… a lot.”

Y/N smiled without looking at him. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

ix. 

Y/N hadn’t returned to the diner for a while. To be precise, she hadn’t returned since going to that movie with Jake. Sunghoon wasn’t sure if the two events were related in any way- the movie and the not returning to the diner. And in no means was Sunghoon trying to relate the two events. It was simply an observation he made, a fact Jake hadn’t yet acknowledged. 

The night Jake returned from the movie, Sunghoon had asked him how it went- the movie, in particular. But he knew Jake’s big mouth would talk about Y/N in the process. 

“The movie? I struggled to concentrate. You might like it, though, Sunghoon,” Jake had said. “Y/N loved it. She was quite happy.”

And Sunghoon didn’t question any further, too scared to come off as pestering or intrusive. He just nodded and continued moping the diner.

In the time that Y/N didn’t come to the diner, the grandmas still showed up. They followed their usual routine of eating, gossiping, playing mahjong and pestering Sunghoon and Jake. Some days, they would gossip with them, other days they would rope them into playing mahjong. But none of them acknowledged Y/N’s absence- or rather, they didn’t worry about her absence.

“Jake,” Sunghoon called out.

“Yeah?” He entered the kitchen, lip between his teeth and brows raised in question.

“Could you bring the tea to the nainais?” Sunghoon pointed at the five cups of tea on a tray and Jake nodded. “And could you ask them where Y/N is?”

Sunghoon didn’t meet Jake’s gaze- he was too shy to. He was afraid that Jake would take a single look into his eyes and call him out on something Sunghoon was too scared to admit. But Jake only raised a brow at him, lips slightly parted and tray of tee hovering mid pick-up.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jake chuckled a moment later. “Too scared to ask them yourself?”

Sunghoon didn’t respond- he didn’t need to. Jake wasn’t expecting a response; he was already out the kitchen and approaching the grandmas. 

“Here you go,” he sang to them as he distributed the mugs. “Hey, how come your sixth teammate hasn’t shown up in a while?” He asked, so casually and confidently, as if the question hadn’t been gnawing at his brain.

“Oh, she’s busy with college, honey,” one of them answered. 

“I think this is one of her busy months,” another answered. 

Jake straightened and turned to look at Sunghoon through the kitchen window- he knew he was listening, despite his feigned distraction. With a smirk, Jake returned to cleaning up empty dishes of previous customers.

Sunghoon, still in the kitchen, spacing out at the chopped vegetables in front of him, wasn’t sure if he believed the grandmas. He let his mind spiral- that perhaps, something happened between Jake and Y/N during the movie, that perhaps she felt embarrassed or awkward for reasons he didn’t know. For reasons Jake hadn’t revealed.

Just then, his phone rang. It was odd for someone to be calling him, especially at this hour. His family only usually called him in the mornings or late into the night. 

Y/N’s name was flashing across the screen of his phone.

Sunghoon’s breath caught in his throat. 

Slowly, cautiously, he picked up his phone, his fingers wrapping around the curves of the metal and sliding up on the call. He pressed the warm screen against his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sunghoon,” Y/N’s voice rang loud into his ears. She sounded frantic, almost preoccupied. “I’m home alone.”

For a moment, Sunghoon’s brain froze. He wasn’t sure what to make of that sentence- his heart almost spasmed. 

“I’m home alone and there’s a fucking cockroach in the house and I don’t know what to do,” she sounded like she was on the verge of crying.

Sunghoon let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“I’m so sorry,” she continued. “I’m proper terrified of bugs- I don’t know what to do-”

“Y/N, don’t worry about it,” he breathed, voice now filled with a sudden sense of confidence. “I’ll be right there.”

“No, that’s not-”

He ended the call before she could finish her sentence. Sunghoon stared at his phone, screen now black, reflecting his expression back to him. 

Jake walked in, his notepad nestled in his hand, eyes scanning the words he scribbled on it. “Someone ordered a Hong Kong-style Spaghetti Bolognese. Been a while since someone asked for that,” he said, tilting his head to the side before tipping it back in surprise. Then, he lifted his gaze to find Sunghoon frozen in his spot, eyes static. “What happened, why do you look like that?”

“Y/N just called me,” Sunghoon mumbled like he didn’t believe it himself.

Jake’s eyes darted in confusion. “Oh,” he said. “Is she okay?”

“Said she needed help with something,” Sunghoon blinked at him.

“Well, then, go,” Jake said with no hesitation, like it was his most natural reaction. He looked at Sunghoon like he was stupid for not leaving yet. “Go on, I’ll cook.”

“Are you sure?” 

“It’s not my first time cooking, Sunghoon,” Jake tilted his head. “You’ve taught me well enough.”

A few minutes later, Sunghoon stood in front of her apartment door, a parcelled container of udon in one hand and a tube of cockroach repellent in the other. Her building was in a fancier part of town- sleek, quieter streets, the kind lined with flowering hedges and motion-sensor lights- but it hadn’t taken him long to get there. He’d practically sprinted the whole way, not that he’d ever admit it.

He raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles met the wood, he heard a thud from inside- what sounded unmistakably like a shoe being hurled across the room.

“The door’s open!” Y/N called, her voice carrying a distinct mix of panic and irritation.

Sunghoon eased the door open with caution, stepping inside like he was entering enemy territory. And there she was- perched on the edge of her coffee table, legs crossed, scanning the floor with laser focus. Her oversized t-shirt slouched off one shoulder, her hair was tied messily like she'd abandoned the effort halfway through, and she wore only one sock- the other nowhere in sight, presumably a casualty of the ongoing war.

Something about her in that moment- disheveled, determined, completely unguarded- hit him with a strange, quiet softness. He had to blink and remind himself why he was there. Don’t stare, he told himself, as he closed the door behind him and stepped fully into her chaos.

“I brought some food,” Sunghoon said, holding up the plastic bag. “You said you were home alone,” he placed it on a cupboard that stood beside the doorway.

Y/N turned to him with wide, grateful eyes, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. Her gaze flicked to the bag he set down, then back to him- as if the sight of someone else in her apartment, someone calm and steady, made the whole situation feel a little less ridiculous.

“You really didn’t have to,” she shook her head.

“Udon’s quick to make,” he said, walking over to her with brevity she didn’t have. “Where’s the cockroach?”

“I think it went under the bookshelf,” she whispered like it might hear her.

He stepped aside quietly, scanning the floor like he was on a mission- perhaps he was. There was a certain kind of silence between them, familiar and strange all at once. She got off the table and hovered behind him like a shadow, pointing occasionally, giving unhelpful commentary like “I swear it flew” and “I heard it crunch.”

Eventually, he found it- the cockroach, cornered and twitching near the leg of the bookshelf. Sunghoon didn’t hesitate- grabbed a slipper she handed him and swiftly ended its reign of terror. Y/N let out a dramatic breath, slumping against the wall like a war survivor.

“I owe you,” she muttered, hand pressed to her chest.

Sunghoon finally looked at her then, eyes flickering. “Not at all.”

She tilted her head, then went quiet. He stood there, still holding the slipper, unsure of what came next.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, not trusting himself to sit still any longer. “I’ll apply the repellent,” he said, holding up the tube like a peace offering. “Should last you a few weeks.”

He got to work without waiting for her response, crouching by the corners of the hall first. The motion was methodical, something to focus on- dot the edge, press the tube, swipe. She watched him quietly as he moved into the kitchen, applying it behind the fridge, at the back of cupboards, and beneath the shelves with careful, practiced hands. He didn’t ask where anything was- he just kind of knew.

When he finally turned to her again, their eyes met for half a second before he looked away. “Your room,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but it was quiet, like he didn’t want to startle her.

Y/N led him down the short hallway, her hand brushing the wall as she walked ahead. He followed, steps measured. The door creaked open, and she stepped aside to let him in first.

Sunghoon hesitated before crossing the threshold. It felt… intimate, somehow, to be here- not in a loud or obvious way, but in the quiet traces of her life that surrounded the space. He felt like he’d stepped into a part of her she didn’t often share. He almost didn’t feel worthy.

And though he told himself not to look, he did.

There were photos framed on the walls- friends, blurry oceans, distant smiles- and a half-used candle on the study desk. Books stacked in uneven piles, a hair tie hanging off the corner of the lamp. Her bed was slightly unmade, a soft quilt tangled in the center. And resting on the top of her bedside table was her personalized mahjong set- the red one, with gold koi fish and painted blossoms. The one he helped pick out.

Sunghoon’s throat tightened.

He crouched in the corners of the room and applied the repellent in silence. But every now and then, his gaze flickered back to the mahjong set. The fact that she kept it there, next to where she slept, said more than she probably knew.

After he was done, she led him back to the hall again. She played with the hum of her shirt, awkward as she turned back to him. Sunghoon’s stiff demeanor wasn’t much help either. He himself wasn’t sure what else to say. 

“Do you wanna stay for a bit?” She asked softly, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask the question. “I have those green tea cookies you like.”

Sunghoon blinked. His first thought was confusion- he didn’t remember ever mentioning those cookies to her. But then he remembered- a few weeks ago when Jake had come in late to the diner, holding up a box of green tea cookies like a peace offering, loudly apologizing to Sunghoon for coming in later than promised. Y/N had been there, seated between the grandmas, shuffling the tiles with a calm that felt so at home.

Jake had shoved the cookies onto the counter with a grin and a “I know you love these. Makes you less mad at me, huh?” And Sunghoon, red-eared and grumbling, had tried to hide a smile while the grandmas teased him for it.

She remembered that- that small moment.

He nodded before his throat could catch up to his thoughts. Something about the offer, her remembering, the soft steadiness of her words- it settled over him like his mom’s bowl of comfort soup.

Y/N padded to the cabinets, one foot still missing a sock. She moved with the ease that came with being in her own house, but there was a lightness to her movements now, as if his presence didn’t interrupt anything- like he belonged there for the moment. She boiled water in a worn kettle, the kind with chipped paint near the spout that had been in the family since before she was born. And she pulled out a box from the back of the shelf. The green tea cookies were a little crumbled but still perfectly good. She smiled to herself as she laid them out on a porcelain plate.

They settled on the floor of her kitchen like kids hiding from responsibility. She handed him a mismatched mug- his had a cat on it, tail curled into a heart. Hers was plain, chipped at the rim. The plate of cookies sat between them like a peace treaty.

Sunghoon took a bite, and the taste was exactly like he remembered- earthy and a little sweet, crumbly in the best way.

“I didn’t think you noticed,” he said after a long while, his voice low, careful.

Y/N looked at him, a slow blink. “I notice more than you think,” she said simply.

Sunghoon glanced down at his shoes, then back at her, unsure of what to make of it. He wondered what else she had noticed- but chose not to ask.

“So,” he began, instead. "You have a proper phobia of cockroaches?”

Y/N nodded, mid-chewing on the cookie. She swallowed abruptly. “Bugs in general,” she admitted. “The last time I saw a spider in the house, I fainted and my parents rushed me to the hospital.”

“You fainted?”

“Yeah,” she laughed like it wasn’t a big deal- like it was an old memory “It’s gotten better now, but I’m definitely still terrified.”

“I can tell,” Sunghoon nodded, a grin playing on his lips.

Y/N rolled her eyes, eyes drifting back to her mug. “I didn’t mean for you to come, by the way,” she admitted. “You really didn’t need to go out of your way to do this.”

“It’s not a problem, Y/N,” Sunghoon assured. “Why’d you call anyway?”

“I thought you’d give me emotional support and teach me how to chase down a cockroach.”

“Through the phone?” He laughed now, finally realising how childish the situation actually was.

“Laugh all you want,” Y/N rolled her eyes. 

They both looked down at the plate between them. The cookies were beginning to crumble at the edges.

“You haven’t come around to the diner in a while,” Sunghoon said after a beat- not accusatory, just staging an observation.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Y/N sighed. “I’ve been swamped with assignments.”

“Don’t need to apologise for that,” he said, shaking his head. 

“I missed it though,” she added, softer this time.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You should probably get back before Jake burns the place down.”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon exhaled, glancing toward the door. “He’s probably trying to plate spaghetti like a Michelin chef.”

x. 

A few days later, on an early morning when the streets were still yawning and the sky hadn’t fully made up its mind about the sun, Y/N found herself tagging along with Sunghoon and Jake to the wet market. There was no real reason- just that she was free, and just that she could.

Sunghoon had mentioned wanting to experiment, to see if he could add a few new seafood dishes to the diner’s menu. That was the official reason. The real reason, perhaps, was simpler- it was nice having her there.

The market was already alive, a cacophony of voices and smells and sloshing water. Jake took the lead, animatedly picking fights with fishmongers over prices, freshness, or whether the catch was really caught that morning. Sunghoon followed a few steps behind, arms crossed and expression sharp, his eyes silently backing Jake’s words like punctuation marks.

Jake was mid-haggle with an elderly fishmonger about the size of a grouper when Sunghoon leaned toward Y/N and muttered, “he always starts a fight before 5am. It’s part of his warm-up routine.”

She stifled a laugh, then wrinkled her nose when a splash of fish water nearly hit her sandals. “Is it always this... intense?”

Sunghoon gave a faint, dry nod. “This is one of his better days.”

Eventually, Jake held up a glistening red snapper triumphantly like a knight with a sword. “Victory,” he declared, already halfway to the next stall. The old fishmonger chuckled, muttering something about these boys and their drama.

Sunghoon calmly handed over the money and shot a quick thanks before motioning for Y/N to follow.

Y/N trailed after them, half-awake, half-amused, her eyes darting between the two of them- between Jake’s loud dramatics and Sunghoon’s quiet intimidation. She didn’t fully understand the rhythm of their routine, but she liked being a part of it anyway.

They weaved through crates of shellfish, bundles of herbs, and stalls with dangling octopus tentacles. Jake struck up conversation with nearly every vendor- some clearly annoyed, some amused, all strangely fond of him.

Some vendors, familiar with the duo, greeted them with grins and playful jabs. A few even offered discounts without being asked- especially when they noticed Y/N in tow, standing a little behind, blinking curiously at a very lively basket of prawns.

“You like prawns and shrimp?” Sunghoon asked when he noticed her.

“Love,” she responded. 

“What about lobster?” He continued.

“Think about it everyday,” she smiled at him, innocent and childlike.

Seconds later, Sunghoon was signaling toward Jake with a subtle lift of his chin, eyes flicking toward a crate of lobsters sitting in a cooler nearby. Jake caught on immediately- of course he did- and ambled over to the stall, already rolling up his sleeves like it was about to be a full-blown negotiation.

“These aren’t just lobsters,” Jake said to the vendor, dramatic as ever. “These are practically celebrities. I feel like I should be asking them for autographs.”

The fishmonger laughed. “Only if you’re paying celebrity prices.”

Jake squinted at the man, then turned to glance briefly at Y/N and Sunghoon standing a few steps behind. “She likes lobster,” he said, pointing his thumb at Y/N. “You’re really gonna make me tell her we couldn’t get any?”

The vendor raised a brow, grinning. “She’s that special, huh?”

Jake didn't skip a beat. “Special enough for a discount.”

Y/N stifled a laugh behind her hand. Sunghoon just shook his head, arms crossed again, quietly watching Jake argue his way into a discount like he did it for sport.

In the end, Jake returned victorious, holding up the paper-wrapped package like it was a trophy. “Lobster secured,” he announced.

“For a good price?” Sunghoon asked.

Jake grinned, cocky. “For her, yeah.”

Sunghoon glanced at Y/N- she was still blinking at the lobsters, face lit up with delight- and then back at Jake. “She gets us cheaper prices, doesn’t she.”

“It’s like she’s a walking coupon.”

Eventually, with bags full of seafood, bunches of greens, and Jake still animatedly chatting to a vendor about how fish bones were the real flavor heroes, the trio made their way toward the bus stop.

The morning traffic had just begun to swell, but they caught an early local bus- half empty, smelling faintly of engine oil and coriander from someone’s breakfast bag. Jake hoisted the heavier crates into the luggage rack with ease, exchanging a cheerful “good morning” with the driver like they were old friends.

Y/N sat near the back, wedged between a bag of clams and a plastic tub of greens, her knees pulled slightly in to make space. Sunghoon took the seat beside her, holding a smaller insulated bag on his lap, while Jake stood near the front, holding onto the rail with one hand and using the other to keep talking to someone on the phone- probably his brother.

The bus rattled along, sunlight just beginning to filter through the dusty windows. Y/N swayed gently with the movement, occasionally bumping Sunghoon’s shoulder. He didn’t move away.

Sunghoon stared out the window, his expression as unreadable as ever- quiet, faintly furrowed, like he was measuring something in his mind he didn’t quite have words for. Not brooding, exactly- just present in a way that made him seem miles away.

Back at the diner, the morning unfolded in a quiet rhythm. The sun had finally risen, its light spilling gently through the fogged windows, catching dust motes in golden halos. Jake unloaded the groceries with theatrical groans- dramatic as always- while Sunghoon took the ingredients into the kitchen, his focus already sharpening.

Y/N had offered to help, but was quickly shooed away.

“You’re a guest,” Jake had said, wagging a finger at her.

“You’ll just get in the way,” Sunghoon added with less kindness, though the way his voice dropped suggested he didn’t mean it harshly.

So she sat on a stool by the counter, quietly watching.

Sunghoon began working on the lobster, his movements precise, economical. Just behind him, a bowl of shrimp was being deveined. Jake wandered in, scooped a small portion of shrimp into a tiny dish, and turned on his heel to head back out.

“What’s that for?” Sunghoon asked, not looking up.

“For the cat.”

“Don’t give her too much,” Sunghoon mumbled, slicing through the shell of the lobster. “Too much shrimp’s bad for them.”

Jake paused, raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

“I researched,” Sunghoon grumbled. And then, very deliberately, turned away- shoulders hunched slightly, like he could hide his face behind the curve of his neck.

Y/N bit back a smile.

Curious, she followed Jake to the front of the diner.

Out on the stoop, crouched beside the faded step, was a small orange cat- half asleep, tail flicking slowly. Jake knelt in front of her, placing the dish down and murmuring something Y/N couldn’t hear. The cat opened her eyes, then lazily leaned forward to sniff the shrimp.

“She likes Sunghoon more,” Jake explained, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s the one who found her, you know. Took her to the vet, made a whole bed for her in the storage room. Doesn’t talk about it though.”

Y/N crouched beside him, her fingers grazing the rough concrete as she stretched her hand out. The cat blinked up at her. And then, coolly, with that feline grace, nuzzled her head against the back of Y/N’s hand before turning toward the shrimp.

Y/N’s face lit up with something between surprise and wonder. Jake, still crouched, leaned back on his heels and gave her a grin.

“She likes you,” he said.

“Not as much as Sunghoon,” she replied softly.

Jake chuckled. “Don’t worry. That’s not a competition you want to win.”

Inside, behind the glass, Sunghoon paused in the middle of peeling garlic and glanced out- eyes lingering just long enough to catch the scene before ducking his head again.

By the time Jake and Y/N returned to the kitchen, the smells had bloomed- garlic, butter, a hint of chili, the sweetness of seafood carried gently in the steam rising from the stovetop. 

Sunghoon didn’t say much as he plated the dishes he made- three new ones he was considering for the menu.

First, Typhoon Shelter Shrimp- lightly battered prawns fried with garlic, chili, and crispy bits of breadcrumb, piled into a modest heap that still looked restaurant-worthy.

Next, Steamed Clams with Black Bean Sauce, served in a shallow bowl, the clams peeking open through a dark, aromatic glaze flecked with scallions and red pepper.

Then came Pan-fried Grouper Fillet- seared till golden and crisp on the edges, set atop a spoonful of soy-ginger sauce that glistened under the diner lights.

He worked in a quiet rhythm, focused and precise. Then, without warning, he reached for a fourth plate- larger than the others- and gently lowered two halves of a garlic butter poached lobster, its tail meat already split and fanned slightly apart, a bit of lemon zest caught the light.

Sunghoon didn’t glance up. “That’s for us to eat,” he said, placing the plate aside. “Not for the menu.”

Jake barked out a laugh. “Yeah, no way can we afford to put a lobster dish on the menu.”

Sunghoon shrugged modestly, but there was the faintest trace of color in his cheeks. “You said you think about lobster every day,” he muttered to her, not quite meeting her gaze, as he sat down beside her.

Jake pretended not to hear it and sat beside him, already reaching for chopsticks to taste the shrimp. “Okay, but this shrimp? We are putting this on the menu. I’ll fight you if you say no.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “We’ll see.”

Y/N sat down with the lobster dish in front of her, quietly touched- and a little amused. “It’s so over-the-top for a random weekday.”

“It’s not random,” Sunghoon replied.

A week later, the typhoon shelter shrimp was added to the menu- not because Jake insisted. But because after the lobster, Y/N enjoyed the shrimp the most.

xi. 

“Guess who I just got off the phone with,” Jake walked into the shared bedroom, flicking his phone onto the middle table.

“Who?’ Sunghoon asked, eyes still stuck on the book he nestled in his lap.

“My dad,” Jake stated.

That got Sunghoon’s attention. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Jake plopped down on his bed, surprised by the lack of wrinkles on the sheets and messy laundry. Sunghoon had cleaned it up earlier, unable to have the sight of clutter. “He said business has been picking up again. Things seem good, apparently.”

“Oh,” Sunghoon’s gaze dropped, unable to look at Jake’s triumph. A low anxiety settled in his stomach, his muscles tensed. “I’m happy to hear that,” he said, and he meant it. But he wasn’t sure what the consequences of that would be.

“You’re worried about the diner now, aren’t you?”

Sunghoon and Jake were twenty-six now. They’d met at twenty-one- two strangers with miserable jobs and a few bills in their pockets- and somehow, five years later, they were still shoulder to shoulder.

They’d started the diner together, moved into a tiny rented flat above it, and never really left each other’s orbit. It was five years of waking up to the same alarms, sharing the same instant coffee, arguing about grocery budgets, crashing after shifts in the same room. They'd grown around each other like ivy- tight, inevitable, inseparable.

It wasn’t just closeness; it was muscle memory. The kind of bond where silence filled in the blanks and secrets barely had time to form. They never needed to say much to be understood. Some things stayed unspoken, sure, but even those things were known in that quiet, mutual way.

Over the years, they’d learned how to read each other better than the back of their own hands.

Sunghoon knew Jake got cranky when he was hungry, that he liked ketchup on his rice sometimes and got defensive about it, that he flicked his wrist when nervous and couldn’t keep still when something bothered him.

Jake knew that Sunghoon didn’t like being touched by new people, that a small smile from him meant more than full paragraphs, that when his brows dipped ever so slightly, it meant he was in his head again- thinking too hard, spiraling quietly.

“Your brows are drooping.”

Sunghoon tutted at him, turning his head to hide his expression. “What are you on about?”

Jake sighed and lifted himself off the bed, circling around the table to reach Sunghoon. He towered over him, which was odd. Sunghoon was the taller one between them. But as he looked at Jake now, curled into a corner of his bed, he felt small and weak- like the future wasn’t in his hands anymore.

“Listen,” Jake started, a firm hand placed on Sunghoon’s knee. “I’m not leaving the diner until you do, understand?”

Sunghoon leaned his head against the wall, eyes stubbornly fixated on his book. 

“I stuck with you while you sent money back home for your sister and you stuck with me when I was sending money back to my family,” Jake continued. “We’re in this together, man,” he patted his knee. “I’m not leaving you hanging.

Finally, Sunghoon turned to him, eyes narrowed, almost like he was holding sorrow. “I’m grateful for you, Jake,” he mumbled. The world felt foreign in his mouth- foreign to Jake’s ears. He didn’t say things like that- not often, not at all. But Jake didn’t poke fun at him for it. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Jake gave him a curt smile and settled at the edge of the bed, whatever spec was left beside Sunghoon’s legs.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“What is it?”

Sunghoon almost hesitated, afraid that it would ruin the moment. He licked his lips, tongue suddenly dry. The thought itself made him feel confused, light headed. “Do you like Y/N?”

Jake immediately scoffed. “I just told you my family’s making more money and that’s the question you ask?” He wasn’t offended. In fact, he had a teasing smile on his mouth, a light expression. But Sunghoon knew that it was his way of steering a conversation, of changing the topic.

“I’m being serious,” Sunghoon raised his voice. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Jake thought about it for a moment- Y/N. He couldn’t deny that her name always brought a pang to his chest- the good kind. The kind of feeling you get when your mother cooks your favourite food for dinner or the feeling you get when you realise you’re someone’s favourite person. He smiled every time just thinking about her- her shy gazes, the way she could banter with him, the way she helped him cheat in mahjong.

What exactly were they doing?

How could he even let this happen?

Despite everything he was starting to feel himself, Jake couldn’t ignore the way Sunghoon was around her. It was different- undeniably, unmistakably different. He was softer with her. Not in any dramatic or romantic way, not overtly, but in the small things.

Sunghoon, who usually kept people at arm’s length, who bristled at new conversations and avoided eye contact when he wasn’t in the mood- he welcomed her in. He smiled more, spoke first, ran across the neighbourhood with a tube of cockroach repellent because she called him in a panic. He listened to her, remembered things she said in passing, let his guard down in ways Jake had rarely seen, even after five years of friendship.

Jake watched it all from the sidelines- quietly, almost respectfully- but it gnawed at him. Jake knew his friend. And he knew this girl made him happy- that this wasn’t just kindness. It was carefulness.

“I don’t know,” Jake finally said, not knowing how to articulate his thoughts. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze. “I really don't- she’s-,” he sucked in a breath. “The mahjong, the random trips, just her presence. I don’t know what it’s doing to me.”

“You do,” Sunghoon insisted. “You’re just denying it.”

“I can say the same for you.”

Sunghoon looked away now. “I guess, I don’t know either,” he admitted and let a moment of silence pass by them. “It’s really up to her now, isn’t it?”

Jake hung his head low, picking at his nails. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he sighed- and suddenly, his eyes were on Sunghoon again, hand on his knee. “But I hope you know- whatever happens-”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon didn’t need him to finish the sentence. He just knew. And the silent acknowledgement between them was good enough.

xii. 

Sunghoon was getting good at mahjong- his moves were more confident now, his hands steady as he arranged his tiles. He wasn’t winning every round, but he was no longer the tentative beginner he had been a few weeks ago. The grandmas had started nodding in approval, their teasing turning into genuine respect.

Jake, on the other hand, was still struggling. Every turn he made was accompanied by an exaggerated sigh or a panicked glance toward Y/N. More often than not, he leaned closer to her, whispering questions like, “Wait, is this one good?” or “Do I throw this? Or is that, like, a war crime in mahjong?”

Y/N tried to keep a straight face, whispering back in between her own turns, giving him subtle clues without outright cheating. But even then, Jake's face would scrunch in concentration like he was defusing a bomb, only to make a hilariously bad move and groan dramatically when the grandmas cackled.

“Maybe you’re just not built for this,” Sunghoon said once, eyeing Jake’s chaotic tiles.

Jake shot him a glare. “Sorry I didn’t emerge from the womb with mahjong instincts like you.”

It was an empty afternoon again, one where their usual customers were either busy with work or had already come and gone. It was one of those evenings where Sunghoon and Jake could put their diner duties aside and tend to a game of mahjong. And this time, instead of macaroni in broth, they had the new prawns that had been added to the menu.

Sunghoon won that round- against Jake and two grandmas.

“Again?” Jake groaned, slumping back in his chair. “That’s your third win in a row. This is rigged.”

One of the grandmas clicked her tongue. “It’s not rigged, boy. He’s just better than you.”

Jake threw his hands up. “Traitors, all of you.”

Sunghoon only smirked, stacking his tiles neatly while the grandmas reshuffled theirs with seasoned ease. Y/N returned a phone call just in time to catch Jake pouting. 

“Another loss?” She guessed, setting down a fresh pot of tea.

“He cheats,” Jake muttered, pointing at Sunghoon.

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. “Tell them how you discarded a winning tile. Again.”

“I was distracted,” Jake defended. “You were humming. Who hums while playing mahjong?”

“I do,” Sunghoon replied easily, glancing up at Y/N.

She laughed and settled next to Jake, stealing a warm rice cracker from one of the side bowls. “Maybe humming is your power move.”

“No,” Jake said, pushing the cracker bowl toward her. “His power move is being unreasonably good at everything.”

Sunghoon shrugged, like he couldn’t be blamed for his talents. “You’ll get there eventually.”

Jake didn’t reply to that- he just looked at Sunghoon for a moment, then turned away, his smile tight around the edges.

Y/N broke the moment by asking, “One more round?”

“Believe me, I want to,’ Sunghoon grinned, watching Jake roll his eyes. “But we really need to get that cooker fixed.”

“Right, that was today,” Jake grumbled, already leaving his chair to untie his apron. 

The grandmas immediately started groaning in protest.

“You can’t leave on a winning streak,” one of them complained, dramatically slapping a tile down.

“Children these days,” the other muttered. “No sense of honour.”

Jake put his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright! We’ll make it up to you next time. Promise.”

“You said that last week,” the first grandma narrowed her eyes.

“That time I meant it less,” Jake said as he backed away toward the kitchen, “this time I mean it more.”

Y/N turned to Sunghoon, eyebrows raised. “What happened to the cooker?”

“It started sparking,” he said plainly, gathering up the tea cups. “I turned it off before it blew up. Jake panicked and tried to throw salt at it,” he added under his breath.

“I panicked like a normal person!” Jake called from the back.

Y/N laughed. “That explains why everything tasted weird yesterday.”

Sunghoon paused, then looked at her deadpan. “That was Jake’s cooking.”

A crash echoed from the kitchen. “I heard that!”

Y/N grinned as she stood up to help stack the mahjong tiles. “Where are you getting it fixed?”

“Place a few streets over. Some guy Jake knows,” Sunghoon said, slipping into his shoes near the door. “Are you free? You should come?.”

Y/N looked down at her phone, then at the door. “I am.”

Jake poked his head out. “We’ll get snacks after.”

“Sold,” she smiled, grabbing her jacket.

They walked to the market, the broken cooker tucked under Jake’s arm like some odd, metallic baby. He led the way with a confidence that only came from knowing every shortcut and side street in this part of town, throwing back quick comments without ever breaking his stride.

“Left here,” he called over his shoulder. “The guy’s stall is just past the tea shop that smells like socks.”

Sunghoon wrinkled his nose. “That’s specific.”

“You’ll smell it when we get there,” Jake said cheerfully.

Y/N walked in the middle, quietly entertained, her gaze darting between the signs and the noisy carts rattling past them. The morning air had settled into a pleasant kind of warmth- sunlight catching on wet pavement, leftover from a brief drizzle. It smelled like vegetables, vinegar, and fish. 

“You sure this guy’s legit?” Sunghoon asked, eyeing the wires poking out of the cooker.

Jake scoffed. “He fixed our microwave last year. It hasn’t exploded once.”

“That’s your bar for success?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jake grinned. “Low expectations, low disappointments.”

Sunghoon shook his head but didn’t argue. He just matched his pace with hers, occasionally nudging her away from puddles she didn’t notice.

They reached the stall after one wrong turn and a minor argument about directions. The cooker was handed off, and the old man behind the counter promised to “have it breathing like a newborn” by sundown.

With time to kill, the trio ducked into a nearby street vendor alley, following the scent of fried dough and something sweet. Jake immediately beelined toward skewers; Y/N lingered at a cart selling mango sago; and Sunghoon stood at a distance, scanning both of them with that same quiet attentiveness he always wore when no one was watching.

Jake returned with a stick in each hand, waving one at her.

“It’s fried fish cake. Try it.”

She took a bite and made a face. “It tastes like regret.”

Jake laughed so hard he nearly dropped his own.

“I can make them better,” Sunghoon chuckled under his breath and handed her a small cup of chilled soy milk he’d picked up. “You’ll need this.”

As the three of them leaned against a low wall near the alley exit, chewing and sipping and laughing at nothing in particular, there was a pause- a moment soft and slow. A lull in the city’s noise, the kind that only comes when the company is easy and the day has no demands.

Y/N spoke first. “Do you guys ever get sick of spending every day together?”

Sunghoon blinked. Jake turned toward her. “Nope,” Jake said. “He annoys me less than most people.”

Sunghoon shrugged. “It’s been five years. Too late to start hating each other now.”

Y/N smiled. “You two are weirdly wholesome.”

Jake looked over at Sunghoon and raised an eyebrow. “Weirdly?”

Sunghoon just sipped his drink, not denying it, remembering the previous night’s conversation.

xiii. 

Y/N was nervous to visit their apartment.

It wasn’t because she didn’t want to go- she did, very much. It was just… strange. Strange to be friends with people like them. Jake and Sunghoon were twenty-six. They’d lived through things she hadn’t yet touched. They had bills and taxes and lived away from home. They ran a business. They had a cat that visited their diner every morning and a complicated relationship with a fish named Clementine.

Y/N, by contrast, was twenty. Barely. One of those overachieving kids who had done everything right- grades, clubs, national-level sport that now made her knees click, university courses that looked impressive on paper but left her exhausted. On most days, she still asked her mom where the scissors were.

She told her parents she was going to meet a college friend that afternoon. Which wasn’t a lie, not exactly. Just not the whole truth. She didn’t know how to explain her friendship with Jake and Sunghoon- their diner, their banter, the quiet comfort of peeling garlic at the counter while they bickered about radio stations.

So she didn’t. She just snuck out quietly, like she was doing something wrong, and met them at the corner where they’d said they’d be.

Now, she was knocking at their door.

Sunghoon opened the door, his usual calm composure softening into something warmer when he saw her- a glint in his eyes, a small toothy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Behind him, Jake was frantically sweeping the floor. It wasn’t an unusual sight. He’d done that plenty of times in the diner- he was the one who took care of it after all- but here, in the cozy mess of their home, it looked a little more chaotic.

Sunghoon leaned against the doorframe, amused. “I know he keeps the diner polished, but at home? He’s the messiest person I know.”

Jake straightened, tossing the broom aside with dramatic flair. “You’re just a clean freak. I’m normal.”

“Normal is debatable,” Sunghoon said, already stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N crossed the threshold slowly, curiosity bubbling beneath her nerves.

Their apartment was nothing like hers.

It was small- the kind of small that made everything feel close, almost intimate. The hall barely fit three people comfortably, and it connected directly to the open kitchen, where mismatched mugs hung on a rail and bags of flour were stacked in the corner like a permanent fixture. She caught a glimpse of the single bedroom beyond, where two beds sat neatly divided down the middle, each with a different colored blanket. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the floor tiles.

Jake noticed her glance and beamed. “I redid the whole thing myself. The bathroom, I mean. Best construction work of my life.”

Sunghoon cooked lunch for them that day- something quick but flavorful, the way he always did. Lately, it felt like all their hangouts revolved around food. Which, honestly, made sense. Jake and Sunghoon owned a diner. It was kind of their whole thing.

But Y/N didn’t mind. In fact, she loved it. She liked the rhythm of their lives, the casual way they threw ingredients together, the jokes tossed across the kitchen like confetti. She liked how nothing about them felt routine, even when it technically was. Around them, she didn’t feel like a cog in a machine, or like the overachieving kid who peaked too early. Her life wasn’t mundane anymore. Around them, she felt… interesting.

While Sunghoon moved around the kitchen with quiet focus, sleeves rolled up, Jake pulled a chair for her near the fish tank- a big, square glass box wedged beside a cluttered shelf and a sunlit window. Inside, four goldfish swam in lazy loops, their scales flashing gold and white in the water’s filtered light.

Y/N leaned closer, resting her chin on her palm. “Did you name them?”

“Nope,” Jake said, popping a cracker in his mouth. “They’re all called Clementine.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nodded like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Every time one dies, we replace it and call the new one Clementine. At this point we’ve been through at least... seven? Eight? So now, they’re just all Clementine.”

Y/N burst into giggles, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s efficient,” Jake said, smug. “We don’t get emotionally attached, and we don’t have to remember names. Win-win.”

“Sunghoon, did you agree to this?” she called out.

From the stove, Sunghoon replied without turning. “I tried to name one Junebug once. He changed it back to Clementine in twenty-four hours.”

Jake grinned, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “It’s tradition.”

“So what’s for lunch?” Y/N asked, leaning forward on the table, the light from the window catching in her hair.

“You’ll see,” Sunghoon said coolly, eyes still trained on the stove as he added something into a sizzling pan.

Jake, without a word, got up and walked over to the low drawer under their small TV. He crouched, rummaged for a second, then returned with a battered deck of cards in hand. With a practiced flick, he started shuffling them, the soft snap of the cards punctuating the calm.

“Do you know how to play poker?” Jake asked, looking at Y/N with that glint of challenge he always wore before a game.

Y/N flushed and shook her head. “Nope.”

Jake gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “You know mahjong... but not poker?”

“It’s embarrassing, I know!” Y/N cried, laughing. “I’ve spent so much time playing with those damn tiles that I never got around to the cards.”

“Wow,” Sunghoon called over his shoulder. “What even got you into mahjong?”

“It’s like a thing in my family,” she said with a shrug. “All my aunts and uncles are obsessed. I basically had no choice. It was either learn or be exiled from game nights.”

Jake began dealing out three neat piles of cards onto the table. “Well,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “you’ve taught us mahjong. Now it’s time we return the favor.”

“Get ready to lose,” Sunghoon added, placing a lid over the simmering pot and finally joining them at the table. He smelled faintly of garlic and soy.

Y/N narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re both very confident for people who nearly cried during a tile draw last week.”

Jake raised his hand. “That was Sunghoon.”

“I did not cry,” Sunghoon said flatly.

“You almost did.”

“Chopped onions were on the table.”

“There were no onions,” Jake said.

“There were onions in my heart,” Sunghoon replied.

Y/N snorted, half-folding in on herself with laughter as Jake passed her her hand of cards.

Sunghoon returned from the kitchen, balancing three mismatched plates in his hands. He set them down one by one, the warm aroma immediately curling into the air like an embrace.

It was a simple lunch- egg fried rice with just the right amount of sesame oil, pan-seared tofu with a crisp glaze, and stir-fried greens. But what made Y/N pause, just for a second, was that it was somehow all her favorites. Things she’d mentioned offhandedly before, little details she hadn’t realized they’d remembered.

She looked up. Sunghoon was already settling into his seat, acting like it wasn’t a big deal.

Jake clapped once, oblivious. “Okay, we eat and play. Ultimate multitasking.”

“I can’t learn a new game and chew at the same time,” Y/N protested, laughing.

Jake winked. “Sure you can. That brain of yours? Gifted.”

Sunghoon reached for the cards. “We’ll go slow. I’ll talk you through it.”

They began.

Jake narrated with too much enthusiasm, while Sunghoon clarified things with quiet patience. Y/N listened, nodded, and still somehow managed to mess up the first round.

“Wait, I thought two queens was good,” she said, frowning at her hand.

“It is,” Jake said, “but not if I have three kings.”

“Oh.”

Sunghoon slid her a napkin. “You’re doing fine.”

Y/N laughed as she took a bite of tofu. It was perfectly crisp, not too salty- exactly how she liked it. She didn’t say anything, but she met Sunghoon’s eyes for a moment across the table, and he gave her a small, barely-there smile before looking back down at his hand of cards.

Something about that smile made her chest feel tight, but not in a bad way.

They kept playing- Jake competitive, Y/N increasingly flustered, Sunghoon quietly amused. The game was half-played, half-taught, interrupted constantly by someone reaching for rice or teasing someone else.

Somewhere between losing her third hand and trying to sneak a peek at Jake’s cards, Y/N gave up and leaned back with a groan. “Okay, wait. Pause. Can we talk for a second? You can’t just keep destroying me in poker without a little storytelling.”

Jake raised a brow but didn’t stop shuffling. “Are you trying to distract us so you can win?”

“Maybe,” she grinned. “But seriously- how did you two end up opening a diner?”

Sunghoon didn’t look up from his cards. “Long story.”

“We were both broke, had struggling families, and hated our jobs,” Jake explained. “We worked in the same restaurant- he was a chef and I was there for some reconstruction work. We met one night by chance and just-”

“Quit,”  Sunghoon finished his sentence. “We quit within a week, rented that space out and opened the diner. spent all our savings on it.”

“And we're doing much better now, obviously,” Jake said. “The diner is doing so well.”

“Yeah,” Y/N smiled. “It's my favourite restaurant.”

“You’re lying,” Sunghoon mumbled again, not looking up from his cards.

It wasn’t accusation- just disbelief, soft around the edges. He couldn’t quite picture it, not when Y/N probably ate at places with white tablecloths and waiters in pressed shirts. The kind of restaurants with velvet cushions instead of plain wooden chairs, ambient jazz instead of a jukebox in the corner. Not… their place- their little diner with its flickering sign and chipped coffee mugs.

But when Y/N leaned forward, her smile calm and certain, something about it quieted that disbelief. “I’m really not,” she said.

The game began to dissolve somewhere around the fifth round. Y/N stared down at her cards, utterly lost, as Jake tried (and failed) to keep a straight face while explaining the rules for the third time.

“I give up,” she groaned, tossing the cards down in mock defeat. “This is too much. I’m never going to get it.”

Sunghoon chuckled softly but didn’t say anything. He’d already won the last two rounds without even trying. Now he was leaning back, sipping the last of his tea, eyes watching the cards like they still had something to say.

Jake tapped the table. “Alright, alright. Poker night is officially over.”

“Thank God,” Y/N muttered.

There was a pause. Then Jake stood up, brushing crumbs from his jeans. “Wanna see Sunghoon’s stash of old books?”

Sunghoon raised a brow but didn’t object. He just let out a soft exhale and nodded once. “Go ahead. It’s under my bed.”

Jake grinned, already halfway to the bedroom. Y/N followed him, not quite sure what to expect.

Their bedroom was simple. Two twin beds, pushed against opposite walls, with a narrow dresser squeezed in between. The room smelled faintly of citrus and something smoky- like old wood or incense. Jake knelt down and tugged at the edge of one of the beds before dragging out two large cardboard boxes, the sides worn soft with use.

“Behold,” he announced dramatically, “the Dragon’s Hoard.”

“Jake, don’t call it that,” Sunghoon called from the table, his voice muffled but amused.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor as Jake opened one of the boxes. Inside were books of all sizes- hardbound, leather-bound, dog-eared paperbacks. Some were stacked with scraps of tissue between the pages, others had post-its jutting out like flags.

She reached in slowly, reverent. The first thing her fingers touched was a thin volume of poems- its cover pale blue, the title fading into silver scrollwork. She opened it. Inside, the pages were covered in Sunghoon’s neat handwriting- translations, notes, small circles around particular lines.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered.

Jake smiled. “He found one at a flea market in Busan. Swears it changed his life.”

Y/N gently lifted another- a weathered book of Korean folktales, the cover cracked and stained from time. Beneath it, a French novel, a Japanese ghost story collection, a hand-sewn booklet of traditional recipes.

“How does he even find these?” She asked.

Jake shrugged. “He has a radar for them. Even on our busiest days, he’ll walk past a pile of trash and somehow come back with a book worth reading.”

Y/N chuckled, then hesitated. “Why does he keep them here? Why not on a shelf?”

“We kinda don’t have space for a shelf,” Jake paused, sitting on the bed. “But he says if he sees them every day, he gets distracted. He wants to forget about them for a while. Let them surprise him again when he opens the box.”

“That’s…” She trailed off, touched in a way she couldn’t name.

Sunghoon had been standing at the frame of the door, silent and making himself invisible. The pair didn’t realise he was there. 

“You can borrow some if you want,” Sunghoon offered. 

Y/N, startled, turned back to look at him. “I couldn’t… are you sure?”

“You’ll take care of them.”

xiv. 

Y/N had a set of ceramic plates that she liked to collect. She hadn’t told anyone about it- the confession always made her feel a little old. But she’d been collecting for a while now, and it was easy, considering all the markets around her had at least one stall that sold ceramic items.

That morning, before going to the diner to play mahjong with the grandmas, she realized that one of the plates had broken. Honestly, it wasn’t that deep- but it seemed to bother her more than she liked. The frustration seeped into her game, clouded her focus, and tugged at her expression. Everyone could tell she was off.

“What’s wrong, honey?” One of the grandmas asked, pausing mid-turn.

“Oh, nothing,” Y/N sighed, her fingers fidgeting with one of the mahjong tiles.

The conversation made both Sunghoon and Jake stop in their tracks- Jake paused mid-wipe, rag in hand, while Sunghoon froze over the chopping board, green onions half-sliced. They wouldn’t say they were eavesdropping- they knew they were listening- but it didn’t feel like they were supposed to be part of the conversation.

“I have this plate that I really liked, and it cracked this morning,” Y/N explained. “Like, straight into three big pieces. Just broke.”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s what’s bothering you?” Another grandma chuckled, rubbing her back in gentle comfort.

“It’s stupid,” Y/N laughed softly at herself and tried to get back to the game.

“Jake knows how to fix plates,” Sunghoon blurted out.

The group turned- first to look at Sunghoon in the kitchen, then to Jake leaning casually against a table nearby.

Jake had his arms crossed. He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s just glue and some paint. I’ve fixed a few in the restaurant.”

Y/N looked down at her plate again, realizing exactly what he was talking about- the dish in front of her had faint cracks near the rim, sealed with glue and tinted to blend in.

“I could help?” Jake offered casually.

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the kitchen. The clatter of drawers opening and closing echoed faintly, and moments later he returned, holding up a familiar tube of glue like a tiny trophy.

He gave her a small grin. “Just say the word.”

A long walk later, Jake was in Y/N’s apartment, and it was exactly as Sunghoon had described it.

“Very Y/N,” Sunghoon had said once, and Jake hadn’t known what that meant until now.

It was quiet- not sterile, but composed. Like the kind of place where every object had a story, every corner had been arranged with quiet care. Ceramic bowls sat neatly on a shelf in the dining nook. A bookshelf leaned against the wall, not overflowing but selective. Plants, small ones, lined the windowsill like they belonged there.

Jake stood just inside the living room, the broken plate wrapped in cloth in his hands, careful not to track any dust in from outside.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Y/N said, although there was no mess to be seen. She shut the front door behind him quickly and quietly. “My parents are still at work. You’ve got like, an hour.”

Jake grinned, whispering in mock secrecy. “Wow. So this is a covert mission.”

“You’re literally fixing a plate,” she rolled her eyes, trying to keep her voice low. “Let’s go to the dining table. It’s better lit there.”

Jake followed, placing the wrapped plate gently down. “Still can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone you collect ceramics.”

She pulled out chairs for both of them. “Because it sounds weird and delicate and obsessive. I’m already enough of a nerd.”

“I think it’s kinda cute,” he said, unwrapping the broken pieces. 

They sat beside each other, knees slightly touching. Neither were bothered by it, neither seemed to care. Jake brought out the small tube of glue and a brush from the pocket of jeans. Y/N watched as he carefully arranged the broken pieces on the table. His movements were slow and calculated. For someone so chaotic most of the time, he was strangely calm now.

“Do you do this often?” She asked.

“Sunghoon drops things constantly. We have a bunch of glued-together dishes at the diner. But I’ve gotten better at hiding the cracks.”

Y/N reached out to turn one piece gently, aligning it with another. “Don’t hide them.”

He paused. “No?”

She shook her head. “I kinda like the cracks.”

Jake looked at her- like, really looked at her. Her brow was furrowed just slightly, eyes focused on the jagged edges, like she cared about the object not just as a plate, but as something worth saving. It made something tug in his chest.

“Alright then,” he murmured. “We’ll keep the cracks.”

They worked in silence for a while, fitting the three pieces back together like a little puzzle. Y/N held them steady as Jake applied the glue, his fingers brushing hers a few times- warm, gentle, fleeting. Once it was secure, he pulled out a small tube of gold paint.

“What’s that?”

“Kintsugi style,” he said. “Fixing the cracks with gold. Makes it prettier. I saw it in some article and started doing it at the diner.”

Y/N watched in quiet fascination as he used a thin brush to trace the fault lines in the ceramic with gold. It gleamed, soft and subtle, catching the light from the window.

“There,” Jake leaned back slightly, admiring the plate between them. “Better?”

“It’s beautiful,” Y/N whispered.

Her fingers hovered just above the gold-lined cracks, not quite touching the surface. Something about the way the gold shimmered softly in the afternoon light made the plate feel even more precious now- like its story had only just begun. She looked up, about to say something else, but stopped when she realized Jake hadn’t looked away.

He was watching her.

Not like how someone watches a friend, or even with his usual teasing curiosity- but quietly, almost searching. His eyes softened as they met hers, and suddenly, it was like the space between them had shrunk to nothing. They hadn’t moved- but they were closer.

The moment pressed in, slow and quiet.

Jake’s arm was still on the table, elbow bent, fingers smeared faintly with gold paint. Y/N’s hand rested near his, close enough that the backs of their fingers brushed without meaning to. Neither of them pulled away.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, just barely. Her heart fluttered wildly, and she knew- she just knew- that he could hear it in the silence between them.

She didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe no one had, maybe it was just gravity, pulling them together the way it always did when people sat a little too close and looked a little too long.

Jake’s eyes flickered down to her lips, then back up. Just once.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Their faces were inches apart now. Her gaze had dropped to his mouth without realizing it, and when she met his eyes again, there was something unreadable there- an emotion suspended between impulse and restraint.

Her lips parted slightly.

Jake moved- just a breath forward.

And then he pulled back.

It was slow, intentional. His eyes didn’t leave hers until the distance returned, enough to break the spell. And then, of course, he smiled. That crooked, half-sincere, half-distracting Jake smile.

“I should get back to the diner,” he said, voice soft but steady.

Y/N blinked, a beat too late. The spell cracked. “Right,” she said quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Jake stood up, running a hand through his hair as if trying to shake something off. He stuffed the glue and brush back into his back pocket with practiced ease, like he hadn’t just pulled away from something almost fragile.

Y/N remained seated, watching him move around the room, suddenly unsure of where to look. Her chest still felt tight- not painfully so, just… alert. Like she’d been holding something too close to the edge.

Jake slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward her, pausing by the doorway. His eyes found hers again, gentler now, more familiar.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” he said. “And trusting me with your cracked plate.”

She gave a small smile. “No. Thanks for fixing it.”

Jake grinned. “Anytime, darling.”

Then he was gone, slipping out the door like he hadn’t almost kissed her- like he hadn’t just left a quiet storm behind.

xv. 

Y/N came to the diner that evening just like she always did. The neon sign buzzed quietly above the doorway, casting a soft pink glow over the sidewalk. The cat- a sleepy little thing who’d claimed the entrance as her own- was curled up just beside the door. Y/N paused for a second, crouched to scratch gently behind her ear, then stood and slipped inside. The air was warm, carrying the familiar scent of broth and soya sauce, and the gentle hum of clinking cutlery filled the space like usual.

"Morning," Jake grinned, tossing her a wink.

Y/N returned the smile. 

And Jake went back to talking to Sunghoon, laughing about something she didn’t catch. He waved when he saw her, casual and easy. Sunghoon clearly didn’t know about what had happened- about what hadn’t happened.

And perhaps he didn’t need to know. Perhaps there truly was nothing there to know. Over the night, Y/N had convinced herself that nothing had happened- that she was too in her head.

They played Mahjong that night like they always did. The grandmas were already seated at their usual table, shuffling tiles with practiced ease. Y/N joined them with a familiar smile, slipping into her seat as if nothing had changed. If anyone noticed her slightly quieter demeanor, they didn’t say anything.

Jake was the same- animated, teasing, losing every single round with exaggerated groans and theatrical sighs. Sunghoon won a round when Y/N stepped away to refill her tea, and the grandmas joked that it was only because she wasn’t playing.

Everything, on the surface, was normal.

By the time the grandmas started gathering their things, the sky had dipped into a deeper blue, and the diner had emptied of customers. The soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen was the only other sound in the quiet space.

Jake dried his hands on a towel and checked his phone. “Shit, I have to go. That hardware guy just texted- he closes in fifteen and he’s holding that sink part for me.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, tossing a wave toward Y/N. “I’ll be back in, like, twenty minutes.”

Y/N nodded. “Don’t rush.”

Then it was just her and Sunghoon.

Sunghoon looked at her from across the table.

“Want to keep playing?” He asked, already reaching for the tiles.

Y/N gave a small smile. “Sure.”

They played slowly at first. No banter, no distractions- just the soft click of tiles on the table and the low murmur of their voices calling out suits. The silence wasn’t awkward, though. It was focused, easy, and in some odd way, comforting. Outside, the sky had turned the color of steel.

A few moves in- it started to rain.

At first, it was gentle- a steady pattering against the diner windows. But soon, it grew louder, heavier. Fat drops streaked across the glass, turning the neon glow from the sign into a pinkish blur.

Sunghoon glanced up from his hand and let out a small laugh. “Of course it’s raining.”

Y/N turned to look outside. “Of course.”

His phone buzzed on the table. He checked it, then held it out for her to see.

Jake: Took shelter in that garage down the street. Raining too hard to walk. I’ll go straight home from here.

Sunghoon pocketed his phone. “Guess it’s just us.”

Y/N gave a noncommittal hum and started shuffling the tiles again.

“Your parents won’t get worried?” He asked.

She shook her head. “They’re not home,” she gave him a soft smile.

They’d been playing for what felt like hours- time stretching long and slow the way it does when there’s nowhere else to be. The diner was still wrapped in rainlight and quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. Outside, the world was all wet pavement and streaked windows. Inside, the Mahjong tiles whispered across the table, and somewhere in the corner, the cat stretched, tail twitching in sleep.

“You’re cheating again,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but edged with amusement. He didn’t look up right away, just tilted his head toward her tiles, eyes flicking over the suspiciously good hand she was building.

Y/N glanced at him through her lashes. “I’m just good, Sunghoon. Accept defeat.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced down at his own hand, pretending to study it, but his fingers stayed still on the tiles.

The rain outside pressed harder against the windows, beads of water tracking down the glass like slow-moving tears. The neon diner sign was little more than a hazy smear now- pink and gold rippling across puddles. The lights inside buzzed softly overhead.

“You know,” Sunghoon said, still not looking at her, “I used to think I liked the quiet.”

Y/N stilled, mahjong tiles stuck between her fingers. She didn’t interrupt- just watched and waited.

“Before you showed up, this place was quiet in a way that felt... right. Not good, not bad. Just what it was. Like breathing. Or peeling wallpaper. Something that doesn’t ask for attention.”

She tilted her head, eyes softening. He still wasn’t looking at her.

“And then you came in.” He finally raised his gaze- not sharp, not teasing. He looked steady and sincere, like everything in his life had built up to this moment. “With your laugh that made the Mahjong grandmas forget it was their turn, your ease, your kindness. I don’t even know what you did but you changed everything,” he smiled, barely- the kind that cracked at the corners but didn’t last long. “And it stopped being quiet. And I didn’t want it back.”

Her fingers lingered on a tile she hadn’t yet played. The cat, curled up beneath a booth nearby, stirred slightly, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said. “When I should’ve. I told myself it’d pass. That you’d get bored eventually. With the udon. The broken tables. The smoke. With us,” he swallowed, like the words sat thick in his throat. “But you didn’t leave. And I kept not saying anything. And now…”

A beat. The sound of distant thunder, low and slow.

“I don’t need you to love me back, Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just needed you to know I do.”

He looked down, finally breaking eye contact. He reached forward, picked up a tile like nothing had shifted- like the weight of what he’d said didn’t sit heavy between them now.

Then he placed it down gently.

“Your move.”

xvi. 

The thing about Sunghoon was that he was always normal.

He could lose a limb and still wake up at 6:30, make rice the same way, fold the same tea towels, and sweep the front of the diner like the earth hadn’t shifted beneath his feet. He was built for composure- for endurance- the kind of person who swallowed chaos like pills with water and never spoke of the side effects. Even when his world cracked, he would smooth over the edges and carry on.

So, in the days that followed, Sunghoon treated Y/N exactly the same.

Same half-smile when she walked in. Same deadpan sarcasm when she dropped a Mahjong tile. Same way he slid a steaming bowl of soup across the counter and said “too salty today. Don’t complain.”

No lingering glances. No awkward silences. No change in tone, no shift in air.

It should have been comforting- familiar, even. But to Y/N, it felt like standing in a room where someone had painted over the walls in the exact same shade, except one spot hadn’t dried, and you couldn’t stop noticing it.

She didn’t bring it up. Neither did he.

Jake didn’t seem to notice anything was off. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t say anything either- a theme, it seemed, between the three of them.

The Mahjong games resumed. The grandmas teased, the udon simmered, and the diner breathed in its usual rhythm.

But Y/N couldn’t quite get her own rhythm back.

She wasn’t cold with Sunghoon. She wasn’t avoiding him. She just didn’t know what to do with the space he’d created between them- that strange invisible line he’d drawn and then walked away from like it didn’t exist.

And maybe that was the part that stuck with her the most.

He had told her he loved her- and then went right back to washing dishes like it meant nothing.

Like it was a Tuesday. Like she was just another girl who came in for soup and Mahjong.

It was the weekend of the Mid-Autumn Festival. The neon diner sign stayed off for once, its usual greenish glow swallowed by the soft, flickering lantern light that spilled through the streets.

They had planned it a week ago- Sunghoon, Jake, and Y/N- to spend the evening at the local carnival just a few streets away. The kind of event strung together by plastic booths, cheap music, roasted chestnuts, and paper lanterns that hung overhead like constellations.

Y/N stood near the corner of the intersection, half-watching the festival lights blur through the fogged street lamps, when she saw Jake approaching alone, she got concerned. 

For a moment, a quiet panic settled in- the kind that bloomed without warning. Was this Sunghoon’s way of pulling away? Of singling her out after what he had said? Maybe this was how things would start to shift- subtly, awkwardly- until the warmth between them curdled into something unfamiliar. She hadn’t expected it to sting like this.

She blinked, brows pulling together. “Where’s Sunghoon?”

Jake shrugged, already a few steps away from her. “Fever. Again. Happens every year around this time. He always pretends it won’t, and then he crashes like clockwork.”

Y/N frowned, concern flickering across her features.

Jake waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. I’ve spent every Mid-Autumn either dragging him around or stuck inside making him soup. This time,” he said, flashing her a grin, “I actually get to go with someone who won’t cough on me the whole night.”

Y/N’s eyes softened just as he reached her. And for a second, Jake just looked at her, examined her. His smile shifted from playful to something quieter, more genuine.

“You look incredible, by the way,” he said. “The qipao suits you.”

She smoothed down the side of her dress, suddenly aware of how snug the fabric felt. “Thank you.”

“Red’s your favorite color, isn’t it?”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “…Yeah.”

They walked side by side down the narrow street, the buzz of music growing louder, blending with the rustle of leaves and the shouts of children chasing each other between stalls. The festival had swallowed the neighborhood whole- lanterns strung like stars across the rooftops, booths selling everything from fried dumplings to rabbit-shaped buns, the air thick with sweet and savory smoke.

Jake bought roasted chestnuts and passed her a warm paper packet. She took one, let it rest in her palm before cracking it open.

“You always this generous with your snacks?” She asked.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Only for people who don’t mock me at Mahjong.”

She grinned. “So never?”

They moved from stall to stall with no real direction, the rhythm of the carnival pulling them along like a tide. Jake bought her more snacks, pointed out the worst-dressed lanterns, and cracked jokes at every booth. He didn’t hesitate to reach for skewers, barter with vendors over silly prices, or shove her gently toward the candied hawthorn stand when she hesitated.

When they passed a game booth- the kind with flashing lights, plastic hammers, and impossible odds - Y/N began to move past it without thinking. But Jake stopped.

“Oho,” he said, eyes lighting up. “These are my thing.”

She gave him a skeptical glance. “Didn’t you just lose miserably at the ring toss?”

Jake scoffed. “That’s a scam. This,” he gestured at the game setup, “is skill. I am built for this.”

Y/N laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he grinned. “Pick a prize.”

The booth was lined with prizes- neon frogs, cartoon ducks, little plush radishes with blushing faces, and at the center- a fat round cat wearing a red scarf.

Y/N raised a brow at the cat. “I like her.”

Jake nodded enthusiastically. “And you’ll have it.”

He handed over the tokens to the vendor, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles like a man preparing for battle. The music started, lights began to blink- quick and erratic- and Jake moved with speed and precision, hitting the right sequence with an ease that almost made it look choreographed.

The machine let out a cheerful jingle. Jackpot.

He shot her a smug smile. “Told you.”

The vendor, unamused but efficient, handed him the cat. Jake turned to Y/N and placed it gently in her arms with a mock ceremony. “For my lady.”

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, trying not to smile too wide.

When they reached the lantern-painting booth, Jake slowed his pace.

The space was tucked into a quieter bend of the carnival- half-lit by paper lanterns swaying gently from bamboo poles, the sound of laughter and music dulled here, like it had been placed under glass. People sat two-by-two at long, low tables. Children dipped brushes in watercolor, couples leaned close to whisper meanings behind symbols, old men painted silent wishes with practiced hands while their wives held the paper still.

It was intimate. Soft in a way that didn’t fit him.

Jake hesitated at the edge, hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd as if unsure this was a place he was allowed to step into. But Y/N had already slid into a seat, looking up at him with a raised brow and a half-smile.

“Come on,” she said, patting the bench beside her. “You don’t have to be poetic.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, smiled faintly, and took the seat next to her. He picked up a thin brush, stared at it for a second like it might bite him, and then dipped it into the ink.

“What are you painting?” He asked after a while, glancing at her paper.

Y/N tilted her lantern toward him- a red koi, bold and rising, swimming upward against a flow of soft blue current. Something about it reminded him of her- stubborn and graceful all at once.

He turned his own lantern around, showing her what he’d written:

Tin Cups Diner.

She snorted. “That’s it?”

Jake shrugged, half-grinning. “It’s the best place on earth.”

Y/N shook her head but didn’t tease him further. They just sat there for a moment, shoulders nearly brushing, watching each other from the corners of their eyes. The brush water rippled faintly between them.

Later, when the fireworks began- loud bursts splitting the sky into molten gold and violet- they left the crowds behind. The temple garden wasn’t far, a sloped patch of grass just beyond the canal. They found a quiet spot beneath a ginkgo tree, close enough to hear the river, far enough that their silence didn’t feel strange.

The lanterns had begun to float.

Dozens of them- painted, inked, marked with names and hopes and half-meant prayers- drifted down the canal like paper stars. Their glow danced in the water, flickering with each ripple, as if trying to stay alive just a little longer before the dark took them. They wondered how far their own lanterns had gotten.

Y/N sighed softly. “I used to come here with my cousins,” she said. “Every year. It always felt like something big would happen here. Like the year would change or something.”

Jake glanced sideways at her. “Maybe it is.”

She turned to him, unsure what he meant.

Jake reached down and tugged a blade of grass from the ground, rolled it between his fingers like he needed something to do with his hands. His gaze stayed on the canal, on the soft flicker of firelight reflecting off the water. And then he said, almost casually, “I think I’m falling for you.”

Y/N froze.

Jake didn’t look at her- not yet.

“I wasn’t going to say anything tonight. Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he added, with a breath of a laugh. “But then you smiled at that old lady who gave you the dumpling and I just... yeah.”

He finally turned to face her.

“You make everything feel easy. And loud. And too much. And I like it. I like you. I don’t know how it happened- how I got here. I woke up one day and I just knew. Liking you- loving you has been the easiest damn thing I've done in a while.”

His fingers flexed slightly, like he was holding back from reaching for her.

Jake pressed his lips together. “And I know that’s not fair. I know you didn’t ask for it. But that moment… that day in your house- when we almost kissed- that meant something. I know you felt it too.”

He leaned in just a little, like he was trying not to push, but couldn’t help himself.

“I’ve been trying to be the version of me that waits. That doesn’t ruin things. But I swear to God, Y/N, if I have to keep pretending that didn’t happen- that it didn’t change anything- I’ll lose my mind.”

Another pause. His voice dropped, almost like a confession to himself.

“I’m not asking you to pick. That would be unfair on you. I’m not trying to be the loudest voice in your head either. And if you don’t want to pick- that’s perfectly fine, too. I just… couldn’t let tonight end without you knowing that I’m already in it. All the damn way in it.”

READ ENDING HERE

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

oof, everything with izuku and shinsou in pez makes me so sad, is there any au where they’re friends? or do they ever get along better in the future?

I won’t say about the “getting along better in the future” bit because I’d rather that be revealed in the fic itself. I do have a fic where they’re best friends from nearly the very beginning of canon that I fondly refer to as my Fake Dating AU, despite the fact that there is no fake dating at all.

All Might and Inko are fake bitter divorcees.

I love this fic so much, it’s my favorite bnha fic next to pez, and it’s been sitting in my mind for years now. If I ever publish another bnha fic, it’ll probably be this one. More info below the cut for anyone who wants to avoid spoilers to a fic I may never write.

Fundamentally the issue is this:

A child

EXPLODES

At the UA Entrance Exam.

This is only like 20% Izuku’s fault, or, depending on how you look at it, 100% Izuku’s fault.

Unluckily for everyone, Monoma stole Izuku’s Quirk first out of everyone. He. Explodes. (Yes, I know that he just draws a blank when he steals OfA I came up with this before that became canon just ignore that ignore it).

Anyway it’s just his arm but this is still wildly traumatizing for everyone. While Aizawa is fucking booking it across campus and lawyers are getting contacted and ambulances are called and all exams are getting halted, three people respond:

Midoriya Izuku, wondering if he is legally to blame for this kid’s arm exploding

Shinsou Hitoshi, no idea what the fuck is going on, just there to force the kid with no arm to calm down and breathe so he doesn’t bleed out faster

Iida Tenya, confused, blood splattered, sprinting across campus to kidnap someone named Setsuna Tokage on Izuku’s frantic order

Monoma gets better, because Izuku had met Setsuna earlier in the day and correctly realized that Monoma may regrow his own arm if he copied Setsuna’s Quirk. But the entire exam gets canceled for everyone, and the three kids who were directly involved in the emergency response get held for their parents. Legally, they need to bring them back for interviews about what happened, and they need to get parents involved at that point.

Izuku has a problem, and it is this:

Everyone knows it’s his Quirk that made that boy explode.

But he didn’t have a Quirk this morning.

His mom knows this.

He frantically texts all might begging him to pick him up instead. The school won’t release him unless an adult comes to get him and he’s got no other options save his mom. He didn’t know how to tell the he got a quirk but he knows that making a boy EXPLODE is not the way to do it.

But it’s fine. All Might is coming. He will be here, and it will be fine then. This is so, so fine.

Izuku: “Mr. Aizawa, you don’t have to call my mom. I texted my—” Adult man who I meet 4-7 times a week in an isolated location without parental knowledge or supervision. But don’t worry, it’s just because he told me not to tell anyone. Haha, you don’t want to call the police on this man. “—dad.”

Aizawa, does not want to be here: we already called your mom kid.

Izuku: oh god

Aizawa: she was down as your emergency contact. But if your dad is coming instead, I’m sure that he’ll let her know

Izuku: that… sure does sound like the kind of information people that share a child would share

Aizawa, so fucking tired: okay

Now Izuku has a new problem:

His dad is coming.

He doesn’t have a dad.

His mom knows this.

He tries to frantically call off all might. All might does not respond. He is a model citizen and does not text while driving. Izuku is fucked.

Iida is picked up. Izuku waits. His mom arrives. There are tears. He tries to power walk her out of the building before anyone says the words “your sons quirk blew up a boy” out loud and in that order

Yagi Toshinori frantically enters the room, takes one look at him, looks at no other fucking people, and says “my boy are you alright”

Izuku: fuck.exe

This all makes more sense to Aizawa now. A haunting amount of sense. He needs to go day drink.

Aizawa, in haunting realization: so this is your son

All Might, did not plan this far ahead: … yes

Midoriya Inko, knows she did not have a child with this man: I’m sorry—

Izuku, panicked: HI DAD

What follows is a lot of eyebrow raising and hissed, cut off whispers and begging his mom under his breath to be fucking cool about this please please please. As a result, she does not immediately out the fact that she has no idea who the fuck this man is and she wants him arrested for something, she will figure out what.

The other result is that the vibes are so immediately and violently toxic that Aizawa and fucking Shinsou, who is also here, immediately comes to the conclusion that Izuku’s parents are bitter divorcees who have given up trying to keep it together for the kid and are just at each other’s fucking throats.

Aizawa, wants to know less about All Might’s personal life: … anyway your son’s Quirk was copied during the entrance exam and the arm of the child who did it. Exploded. You’ll need to bring your son in within the week to answer some questions for our records

Inko, shocked: my son doesn’t have a quirk

Izuku: fuck.exe

Aizawa, staring at fucking All Might, mildly: no it was definitely your son’s quirk

Yagi, never sweated harder in his fucking life: well… honey, uh, you know that on my side of the family there’s a history of late bloomers

Inko, saccharine: did I know that, sweetie? Because that sure sounds like something a mother should know about her child, but I’m not sure that I knew that. In fact, it may be that everyone just expected me to know that when I walked into this room without telling me

Aizawa:

Shinsou: :o

Aizawa: to be clear only one parent is needed for the follow up interview

Inko: he is Quirkless. He was always going to apply Quirkless.

Yagi: right right but, well, it seems that he has a Quirk now, so perhaps it’s best if he uses that

Inko: ONE THAT EXPLODES ARMS???

Yagi: I am certain it does other things too

Aizawa, staring directly at the ceiling: I’m sorry, I can’t let you leave here today if you may explode. When was the first time you used your Quirk and were you able to use it safely

Izuku, coughing slightly: technically I’ve never. Used. My quirk

Shinsou: :o :o :o

Izuku: so really it’s been a day of surprises for us all

Aizawa:

Izuku: but hey I got my Quirk guys. yayyyyyy.

Matters escalate. Inko unlocks her theatre kid background and accuses All Might of violating the custody agreement that they do not have. The words “I’ll kill you in this room” are said aloud and where other people can hear them. Izuku has to restrain his own mother.

Izuku asks if they could please have a family meeting. Aizawa says that they definitely should.

Izuku convinces his mother to not murder Yagi long enough to get them all into an empty bathroom, where she immediately starts beating all might, his lifelong hero and personal mentor, with her purse.

He transforms into All Might so she won’t try to kill him on the spot.

THE RESULTS:

Izuku’s mom is so fucking angry

She is so fucking angry

But she also knows that if shit gets revealed “I have all might’s quirk because I am his secret son” is 1000% better than “I have all might’s quirk because it’s transferrable and you can have it too if you torture it out of me.”

Inko will happily fake being bitter divorcees with all might if it means adding an extra layer of protection for her son. They’re doing this.

THE OTHER RESULTS:

Shinsou Hitoshi just sort of wanted to go to the bathroom and opened the door to find his fellow test taker with his mom and the world’s most famous man who was obviously the same guy as the dad from before, like they’re wearing identical clothes and everything, and after a moment of haunting silence says “I’ll use the other one” and just. Leaves.

Izuku: fuckfuckfuck.exe

Shinsous not a dick okay. He’s not going to leak the fact that the world’s most famous man apparently has a tinier, more unobtrusive form and he’s been using it to quietly white knuckle his way through the worlds most rancid divorce, fucking apparently. All Might’s saved like, a stupid number of people and possibly the world. He does not want to be this involved in All Might’s life and is hoping that he can confidently power walk his way out of this social interaction.

He cannot.

He has to suffer it. Nope, he’s not gonna tell anyone. Yes, really. If forgetting was an option, he’d have already done it. He promises. It’s all good. He’ll keep quiet.

He then has to have the same conversation with Aizawa.

Before they part, Izuku tells Shinsou that his Quirk is amazing and, a bit impulsively, asks him if he wants to train with him for the rescheduled exams. And Shinsou wonders if this is a trap and deflects with, “Oh you probably have a lot of people you can train with don’t let me hold you up.”

And no. No, Izuku really, really doesn’t.

And Shinsou remembers that while he knows this guy as All Might’s son, no one else does, and he was also thought to be Quirkless until an hour ago and obviously has a lot going on in his home life. So, a bit impulsively, he exchanges numbers with Izuku.

Which is how my AU where Izuku and Shinsou end up best friends before UA gets set up. It’s way too long to discuss in any detail, but some highlights:

The pre-UA friendship is actually Izuku, Shinsou, and Iida. Iida feels embarrassed because he was canonically coming down kind of hard on Izuku during the exam and then when boys exploded Izuku was in full control of the situation and acted the way a hero should and so did the other boy and next to them Iida must have seemed simply abominable and anyway Tensei cannot fucking take it anymore he simply cannot so he hunts Aizawa like an animal to a coffee shop so he can try and squeeze Aizawa for information about whoever the fuck the other boys are so Iida can just apologize or whatever the fuck honor demands and it’s just

Aizawa: no

Tensei: you don’t even know what I was going to say

Aizawa: the answer is no whatever it is

Tensei: you havent even heard my bribe yet

Aizawa: what is your bribe

Tensei: *sliding a coffee cup his way*

Aizawa: your bribe is coffee

Aizawa: in a coffee shop

Tensei: wait

Aizawa: so it’s essentially a market value of 400 yen is that it

Tensei: wait. Okay. This is a secret, off menu coffee with so much caffeine that you have to sign a waiver. They call it the nine engine locomotive. And it can be yours if you help me out here

Aizawa:

Aizawa: *walks over to the cashier*

Tensei: fuck wait wait

Aizawa: can I have the nine engine locomotive

Cashier: do you have a death wish

Aizawa: I have two jobs and one is teaching

Cashier: sir for you we can make it ten engines

Aizawa does admit that, to his deepest misfortune, he knows one of the parents of the kids in question. He can’t hand out their information but he can pass along the message. Izuku and Shinsou end up meeting with Iida for coffee and the three of them become friends and agree to train together for whenever they reschedule the exams for

This turns out to be a moot point because, as a result of this mess, the UA board of directors has to be informed that the student involved is all mights secret son and they lose their minds. He is All Might’s secret son who has a Quirk so powerful that it explodes lesser boys. They absolutely must have him at UA they’re sure he’ll figure out how not to explode. Nedzu, Nedzu, admit him now before he accepts from another school. Nedzu.

Nedzu has 97 screened calls and a headache.

The thing is that this has caused a bit of havoc. UA is usually the first school to hold their entrance exams. They usually get the pick of the litter. But now they have to laboriously replan and reschedule the entire practical exam for every single heroics applicant, which is causing conflicts with other courses’ exams, and they need to make sure that the new exam minimizes the risk of boys exploding for legal reasons. So they’re scrambling already without the Board suddenly deciding to just let in people for being all might’s son, which they can’t do. They’re even making Endeavor’s son sit the fucking exam. Do you want the number two hero to burn the foyer down. Do you. Because he will.

But the Board is insistent. Shiketsu will steal All Might’s secret son who explodes lesser boys out from under them. Admit him.

They end up fudging it as an early admission deal based on an extreme display of heroism. He saved an actual life are you saying that’s not enough to pass the exam?? Monoma is alive and has an arm thanks to Izuku’s quick thinking, which is saving UA from an incredibly costly lawsuit. He gets full rescue points. Boom. Call him right now tell him he’s in do it before shiketsu finds out all might has a secret son that explodes lesser boys.

And nedzu’s like. Okay. But if you want that reasoning to clear, it needs to be applied to all the boys involved.

And the Board is like, wasn’t the other one an Iida boy? Great family, great Quirk, great potential. Let him in.

And Nedzu says, And Shinsou Hitoshi.

Someone with a mind control quirk like his hasn’t made it into heroics in over 30 years. The revised exam won’t give him any real chances of changing that. It’s a trade off. They can cut corners for All Might’s secret son, but they have to give Shinsou Hitoshi a chance. Nedzu has a good feeling about him, anyway.

One morning, Shinsou wakes up to a letter, and it tells him, “Hello, we think you’re spectacular, and we’d like to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Won’t you say yes?”

Okay, it doesn’t say it like that. But it might as well be what he hears.

He calls Izuku. Izuku got the same letter. They scream on the phone with each other until they’re breathless and giddy.

But the thing is. UA. Also. Informed. Their Schools. Who. Made. An announcement.

Bakugou loses his fucking mind.

Bakugou didn’t even want Izuku applying to UA. Only for Izuku to be one of three people in history to get early admission offers?? He’s fucking furious. He wants to know how Izuku did it.

And the thing is? Izuku already decided that he wasn’t going to reveal his shiny new quirk to these people. He doesn’t want them to suddenly decide to treat him well because he’s not Quirkless anymore. Fuck them.

Anyway Iida Tenya, following multiple flowcharts and pro cons lists, decided that it was Acceptable Friend Behavior to surprise his new, dear companions at their schools to personally congratulate them on their early acceptance and potentially indulge in some celebratory beverages together. His school released earlier than theirs, as his school had modeled its academic structure to complete earlier in the day so that hero hopefuls could take advantage of the heroics exam prep courses it offered, which he had been excused from since he had secured early admission to UA. So it was a simple matter to head over to Aldera and catch some feral, frothing hooligan physically accosting his dear, dear friend with illegal Quirk usage no less. Iida, of course, verbally reprimanded the vagabond and marched straight to the office to report such deplorable behavior

Bakugou: who the fuck was that

Izuku, gaping after him: fuck—Iida, Iida wait

He didn’t stop him in time.

And despite Iida’s fervent and loud insistence as to what happened, the principal blames Izuku.

Iida’s someone who just cannot abide by injustice. It gets under his skin. It makes him angry. He gets more baffled and aghast and furious the more he sees how Izuku is treated. He also gets confused as to why they think Izuku’s Quirkless and, even if he was, what that would have to do with him being physically assaulted on school property.

The school, for all of its happy announcement, wasn’t actually happy that Izuku made it in. They actually called UA to make sure that they were talking about the right student, which was a fun call for Nedzu to get. They still don’t know that Izuku has a quirk, because UA didn’t tell them and neither did Izuku, so they think Izuku did some kind of first aid or something to respond to an emergency and got sort of waved into the program. So whereas Iida got a personal congratulations from his principal, Izuku got called up to the office to be asked if he really thinks that whatever minor first aid he performed means he’s ready for UA heroics? He’s taking a spot from someone who deserves it more, and it will look worse on them when it becomes clear he can’t do it. It’s selfish. He’d be better off declining it.

Izuku drags Iida off of his school grounds and to shinsou’s school. Shinsou’s got his backpack strap torn off and a fresh cut in his lip. He takes one look at Izuku and laughs, bitter and empty

Iida takes this arc the worst. He is very protective of his friends and does not want to abide by other students or adults abusing them. He wants justice.

The boy spirals. He is power walking to their schools every single day to pick them up. He is baking them high protein brownies and writing them little encouraging notes for nutritional snack packs he hand prepares. He is Exuding An Energy.

They start a shared google drive and he has an entire folder labeled “My Revenge Plan By Iida Tenya” that’s dedicated to compiling evidence regarding these injustices and one day taking away all color of power or authority from those who wronged his friends. Izuku and Shinsou don’t actually know what’s up with the folder (the google drive is sacred they’re not gonna go in his room some people have revenge plans it’s fine)

Later in the fic they invite Todoroki to join their google drive and he immediately, instinctively, and without need for explanation knows that this is the emotional equivalent of asking him to move in with them. He is honored and he is touched.

There’s a mini buzzfeed unsolved arc because Izuku and Shinsou are experimenting with shinsou’s quirk and Izuku says “hey what’s with those eight shadowy figures that watch me ominously in the distance every time you put me under” and Shinsou says “the fucking what” and Izuku says “the eight shadowy figures” and Shinsou says “say psych right now”

After determining Iida does not see them too they decide that Izuku is obviously deeply and profoundly haunted because of that one time Bakugou dared him to knock on the door of that old abandoned house everyone said was haunted and now the ghosts live in his bones. This conclusion is compounded by the fact that the past users find this fucking hilarious and decide to haze the newbie by playing it up

The issue is that Iida is extremely productive and decides that what they need is to make a tour of all major religions and sample their exorcism rituals and go from there. Izuku has had 11 exorcisms from multiple religions and now Catholic bishops won’t stop calling Iida because Izuku’s catholic exorcism was wildly and blatantly unsuccessful and they are very concerned that satan is within him and Iida is of the stance that if they couldn’t do it the first time he doesn’t see what “going to the Vatican” will do so good day sir. Iida is trying to ghost the Catholic Church he keeps blocking their number and they keep calling from a new one. Izuku is despondent he does not want to go to Rome

Eventually they have to admit to the adults in their life that Izuku is obviously, profoundly, and irreversibly haunted because they decide to just say fuck it and use it for warfare. It’s their nuclear option. Total wildcard. When they are out of all other options, Shinsou just puts Izuku under and sees what crazy shit those ghosts do. The first time they have to use it Izuku explodes into a hurricane of writhing and enraged tentacles that try to manually break shigaraki in half.

Shinsou, sweating, trying to open the folder labeled “hey there demons it’s me ya boi”

Aizawa, stone faced: why is one of the folders labeled My Revenge Plan By Iida Tenya

Iida: I don’t see how that’s relevant

Izuku: oh my gosh sensei you can’t just—

Shinsou: you can’t just ask what someone’s doing in the google drive sensei it’s sacred

Aizawa:

Shinsou: *hits play* *x-files theme song immediately begins to play* *defeated whisper* I forgot we did that

I cannot emphasize enough just the peak shenanigans of pre-UA Iida, Izuku, and Shinsou. They end up spending nearly every single day together. They sleep over at each other’s houses. They become just incredibly close and some days Shinsou can’t breathe from it, because he walked into that exam with no friends and no real hope of passing, and now some days he can’t believe that this is his life. He can’t believe he has this.

Iida’s living with his brother, who is handling the launch of the Mustufasa branch of Idaten, to take advantage of a private middle school in the area that is a feeder school into UA. They regularly have at least one student a year make it into the heroics program and multiple who manage to get into support, business, or gen ed. So throughout all this a very confused Iida Tensei is Doing His Best while his little brother and his friends end up hysterical after playing with a Ouijia board during a sleep over. He’s very confused because the other parents seem to think he is a parent and he is not he is not he’s too young and hot to be tenya’s dad. He’s in a parents group chat with Izuku’s parents and Shinsou’s dad and is like “am I. Did you mean to put me in here. Should I. Add my mom?” And then later it’s a source of great hysteria for him. What do you MEAN he’s in a group chat with All Might what do you mean all might told him that ingenium is one of his favorite heroes and Tensei didn’t even realize he was all might when he said it. Shouta shouta how could you not warn him—

When they get to UA and Izuku somehow gets two votes for class president (who the fuck voted for him Izuku didn’t even vote for himself) and ends up in a three way tie with Iida (shinsou and Izuku both voted for him he’s so type a it’s what the office needs) and Yaoyorozu and he hires Shinsou as his campaign manager to help him throw the election and Iida gets so affronted at what the resultant flyers say about his dear dear friend that he tries to passionately concede the election and Izuku is like “no I commissioned those also shinsou you’re fired” and Shinsou is like “hey every single thing I wrote is true”

Iida and Izuku but Izuku especially just acts like it’s a given that they’re going to be doing team ups with Shinsou when they’re older. Izuku commissions a voice modulator that can throw its voice between his and Shinsous to help obscure who’s talking in case anyone figures out shinsou’s quirk and Shinsou doesn’t know how to explain to Izuku that he thought no one would ever tolerate him as a hero, let alone be excited to work with him

[redandgreyscale]

Do you guys remember that post where I said Evan tries not to kiss Barty during manic episodes because it is harder to get him to stop? Yeah... this is gonna be a fun ride!

warning for this: Limits are being crossed and non consensual touch is happening.

Barty's pupils are so big right now Evan isn't able to see the green on his eyes.

He knows what that means.

There are a hundred papers scattered on his table, too many open books and splashes of ink spread around from dipping the quill on it carelessly.

"Hey honey, what are you doing?" Evan sits in front of him on the library table. Barty barely looks up.

"I thought I could order my notes on transfiguration but then I couldn't remember what we did at the start of this year so I had to look for the corresponding books and then I thought I needed to dive deeper into what we're doing now too so my notes would be correct and more precise so I kind of... Yeah" he looks up now, and for how big his pupils are, he seems unable to focus on anything for too long. Evan nods calmly. Okay. He can do this.

"So you're making notes for this year's full curriculum?"

"For every year! Isn't it amazing?"

Every year. They're in their fifth year. Evan takes a second to think about how to deal with this. He could let Barty keep going even if it's a crazy— not crazy, they don't use that word. It's a very... Impractical thing to do. But he looks like he's already been here for too long, and even if he doesn't feel like it his body needs a break. His mind too.

"Yeah, it is" Evan replies, his hand moving to grab Barty's over the table "but maybe you could take a break and walk with me for a bit? It's sunny outside, I want to be with you in the gardens, we could kiss you know?"

Kissing is a shiny subject, in the sense that most times when he mentions it Barty leaves everything he's doing just for it. There are a couple other shiny subjects as he likes to call them, but this is the more effective one.

"But I want to finish this" his brows furrow, the internal debate clearly visible on the outside.

"You can finish it later, yeah? The books won't go away"

Eventually he gets to coo Barty enough to get him out (with a light threat to everyone within vicinity to not touch his table), and they walk for a bit. They get to the herbology class and stay there for a bit, Barty rambles nonstop about every single plant and creature that's there, and Evan listens nodding to all of it.

"Can we kiss now?" He asks after a bit, looking at Evan like it's the only thing he can see. So Evan kisses him and Barty returns it fiercely. Hands tugging at hair, grabbing at his shirt, moving until he's pressed against one of the walls and Barty covers his whole body.

It seems like a good way to let off steam, so Evan keeps up with it. It's fine, they know where the limits are.

Except apparently not. Because Barty's hand finds his belt, and suddenly he's biting his neck.

"Just kissing, Bee" Evan tries, grabbing Barty's wrist to stop him, it's okay, everything's fine, Barty will stop as he always does and—

"But you taste so good I just need to taste you whole" his voice is stronger, demanding, he presses harder onto Evan almost growling onto his neck.

"Honey please stop" Evan tries again, the bites on his neck get harsher, he can hear Barty panting right onto his ear and his hips pressing onto his. He can— Oh no. nononono "Barty stop" he tries to push him away, to end this, and Evan is a strong man, but Barty is stronger right now "Barty!"

Evan kicks him right on the groin with his knee hard enough to hurt and pushes Barty away when he's able to. Both their breathings fast and loud. No one says anything. Evan can feel his eyes sting, this wasn't supposed to happen, they talk about this things, Barty knows where the limits are. Barty stops when he asks.

Except he doesn't.

Evan gets away from there as fast as he can, not caring a bit about his ruffled clothes as he gets to his room and into the shower and finally allows himself to cry. He feels dirty, there's something ugly crawling onto him, he can't breathe, can't move. His skin burns from how much he's tried to clean it and by the time he gets out it feels raw.

He doesn't know how he'll look at Barty again.