fluffroom

[fluffroom]

Ahhh, 8/8 of the SKZ x Fantasy Creature au stories are finally finished and posted! I really liked this one, and I kinda wanna write a part two to some, if not all, of them (especially Hans). Please let me know what you think, leave a heart if you like it, reblog if you REALLY like it, and tell me what you think if you have the time and don't mind. I'd love to improve where I can. *°:⋆ₓₒ

[fluffroom]

"As Long As You Visit" - SC

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | haunting, grief & romance |Changbin x Reader

TW: death (off-screen, past), mentions of head trauma (not in detail), grief, loneliness, supernatural/ghost themes, and mild existential melancholy.

Summary: You took a job at the hospital to see if the medical field was right for you- and ended up finding something you didn't believe in. Tucked away beneath the building is a supply room the staff refuses to enter, and a man with warm eyes who never seems to leave it.

You took the job at St. Araminta's because you weren't ready for med school, but wanted to see what the inside of a hospital felt like.

Receptionist work was manageable. Greeting patients, forwarding calls, wrestling with the copy machine. It was quiet most days. Sad, sometimes, but never unbearable.

What was unbearable was the gossip.

"Don't let them send you to the basement," one nurse warned on your third day, snapping her gum as she handed you a stack of charts. "it's haunted."

You raised a brow. "You're kidding."

She smirked. "I'm serious. Supply room's in the cellar. People hear stuff. Footsteps. Whispers. Things move."

You waved it off, amused. "I don't believe in ghosts."

She shrugged. "You will."

. . .

By the second week, you were out of staples. The copier was eating its own paper. No one volunteered to go down to the basement.

So you went.

The door to the cellar groaned like a horror movie cliche. The steps down were concrete and cold, and the overhead lights flickered as if they couldn't quite decide whether they were dying or not.

You muttered to yourself, "Not scary. Just old."

The supply room door stuck when it was about to open. Inside were rows of shelves and boxes, labels faded, the air was thick with damp and something faintly metallic.

You searched in silence. And then-

Footsteps.

You froze. They echoed behind you, then stopped.

"Hello?" You called out. "Is someone there?"

And someone peeked around a corner.

A man.

Young. Black hair. Hoodie and work boots. His eyes were wide, sheepish.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to scare you. I didn't think anyone was down here."

You blinked. "Who are you?"

"Changbin," he said, smiling a little. "Janitorial staff. They usually have me doing the weird storage stuff no one wants."

That made enough sense. You relaxed.

He showed you where the staples and paper were tucked away behind a mislabeled box of IV tubing.

"Thanks," you said, still a little surprised by him. "It's freezing down here."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his arms. "Gets in your bones."

You left thinking nothing of it.

When your coworker asked if you were scared, you rolled your eyes. "Not at all. There's literally just a janitor down there."

Her smile faded slightly. "I've never seen anyone."

You laughed. "Maybe you didn't look hard enough."

. . .

After that, you became the "supply person."

No one else wanted to go.

But you didn't mind.

Because Changbin was always there.

You had short conversations at first. He'd ask how your day was. You'd ask what he was organizing. He always had something to do- moving boxes, checking inventory, adjusting shelves.

But he never left the basement.

He never complained.

He just smiled.

. . .

The strange thing was that no one had ever seen him.

Not once.

You brought him up at lunch once, laughing about how he always seemed to be reorganizing the same stack of gloves.

Blank stares.

"The janitor?" you said again. "Shorter guy? Real friendly? Always wears the brown hoodie?"

The head janitor, Minyoung, shook her head. "That doesn't sound like any of my staff."

You frowned. "Maybe he's new?"

"No new hires."

"...Oh."

You let it drop. But something had begun to itch at the back of your neck.

. . .

A few days later, you went down again.

But this time, not for supplies.

Changbin was sitting on an upside-down bucket, flipping through a dusty clipboard.

He looked up. "Hey."

You didn't smile.

"Changbin...I asked around. No one knows who you are."

His face paled. "Oh."

"They said no one works down here. Not even part-time."

He stared at the floor.

You stepped closer. "Are you- real?"

He let out a slow breath.

"...I didn't know I was dead," he whispered. "Not at first."

Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"I thought U was stuck on shift. Forgot how long it had been. Thought someone would eventually find me. But no one ever did."

He looked up.

His eyes were shimmering. Hollow. Sad.

"I've been here a long time."

You backed into the shelves.

"I-I don't understand-"

"I didn't want to scare you," he said quickly. "That's why I talked to you. Most people feel something and run. But you-you called out. You wanted to see me."

Your hands were trembling.

"I just thought- I thought you were nice," you whispered.

"I tried to be," he said, voice cracking. "I wanted to help. I didn't want to be just...a shadow."

He swallowed.

"You're the only one who ever talked to me."

Silence wrapped around you both like cold air.

. . .

You left without another word.

For days, you avoided going downstairs. You found excuses. Sent others. Changed the copier paper in slow misery.

Part of you wanted to forget him.

But you couldn't.

Because every time you glanced at the cellar door, you wondered if he was still sitting on that bucket, waiting.

And what if you never went back?

What if you were the only thing keeping him tethered?

. . .

So you went.

Down into the cold. Down into the quiet.

The light above flickered once. Then steadied.

Changbin was there.

He didn't look surprised.

"I was afraid you'd never come back," he said softly.

You stared at him. "What happens if I don't?"

"I don't know."

He looked down at his hands.

"I don't know how long I've been like this. The walls blur. Days don't feel like days. I remember the hospital before they renovated. I think I was helping after hours. Hit my head. But no one found me."

You sat down beside him.

Your shoulder touched his.

He didn't feel cold.

"I don't know if I'm a ghost," he said. "Or something else. I just know that I'm still here. And I don't want to be alone."

"You've been alone for a long time."

He nodded.

You looked around.

The room was still just a supply closet. Just boxes and shelves and dust.

But it felt different now.

Because it wasn't empty.

. . .

You started visiting regularly.

Not always for a reason.

Sometimes you would just talk. Sometimes you sat in silence. Sometimes he told you things he remembered- the smell of fresh gauze, the nurses he'd once joked with, the patients he'd seen walking out, smiling, healed.

You brought him a coffee once.

He held the cup for a long time. Just to remember what it felt like.

He never drank it.

But he said the warmth reminded him of sunlight.

You didn't stop thinking about that for days.

. . .

Eventually, you started keeping a journal.

His name. His memories. His favorite things.

You didn't know what you were trying to do. Help him move on? Anchor him better?

Maybe you just didn't want to forget.

Because somehow, over time, he became your friend.

And more than that...he made the hospital feel less lonely.

Even if you were the only one who could see him.

. . .

One day, while reorganizing a shelf, he turned to you suddenly.

"If I'm still here," he said, "do you think it means I'm not ready to go?"

You looked at him. "Do you want to go?"

He paused.

Then slowly shook his head.

"Not yet."

You reached out, took his hand.

It felt like static.

Not solid. Not not solid.

But it held.

And you squeezed it.

He smiled.

. . .

You worked at the hospital for another year.

Every week, you visited.

No one ever caught you. No one ever asked.

And when you left- moved on to new things, brighter places, a clearer future- you went downstairs one last time.

You found him sitting by the boxes, humming to himself.

"I got into med school," you told him.

He smiled. "Of course you did."

"I wanted to say goodbye."

His face fell.

"I'll come back," you said quickly. "I promise."

He looked at you like he wanted to believe it.

So you hugged him.

And this time, it felt real.

Like warmth.

Like something that had been waiting for years.

. . .

You did come back.

Years later. You walked into the basement of a place that didn't remember him.

And still-he was there.

And he smiled when he saw you.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

i am not immune to stories in which characters who have endured harsh, empty existences become absolutely transformed by someone’s sincere love for them and learn to live

[fluffroom]

SAD SONG SERIES MASTERLIST

DISCLAIMER: the songs inspiring my writing are linked at the very end of each ‘chapter’ so if you’re interested in listening, go ahead. none of these are connected to the other in any way and i’m sorry some are shorter than the others, bear with me.

when i was your manft. bang chan (3.5k)

marry me ft. lee minho (2.2k)

happier ft. seo changbin (1.1k)

heather ft. hwang hyunjin (800+)

lips of an angel ft. han jisung (1.6k)

talking to the moonft. lee felix (1.5k)

back to december ft. kim seungmin (1.8k)

drivers license ft. yang jeongin (1.3k)

as i said in each chapter, if there are any warnings i missed or anything you think i should add, please send me a message and i’ll fix it as soon as i can. also i should add that i did not proof read or edit anything, it’s all raw. — and this utterly and completely self divulged.

[fluffroom]

"Where You Found Me" - KS

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | romantic, magical & soft | Seungmin x Reader

TW: brief implied emotional manipulation by another character, mild transformation body horror (magical, not grotesque), fear and confusion during a magical reveal, and themes of magical bond/servitude (presented softly)

Summary: On a solo tropical vacation, you meet a quiet concierge who seems unusually invested in your comfort, and a cat who visits your bungalow each night, curling up by your side like he's always belonged there. What begins as a dreamy summer getaway slowly unravels into something far more magical than you ever expected.

When your best friend backed out last minute, you were sure the vacation would be a bust. But you weren't about to waste that much money.

The bungalow you'd booked was meant to be shared. Cozy, beachy with a hammock on the balcony and a view of the ocean so blue it made your heart ache. But now, with only one suitcase instead of two and the silence of a stranger's absence hanging over everything, it felt...too quiet.

Still, you were determined to make the most of it. A whole month in paradise. Why waste it?

You unpacked. You stretched. You opened the windows to let in the breeze.

And that was when the cat appeared.

He was sitting on the edge of your bamboo porch like he belonged there- sleek and chocolate-brown, with pale golden eyes that didn't blink, didn't waver, didn't move from you for a moment.

"Hello," you said.

You yawned, slow and wide, then trotted off like he had better things to do.

You met Seungmin the next day.

. . .

He was manning the concierge desk in the resort lobby- short-sleeved shirt perfectly ironed, name tag shining. You almost did a double-take when your eyes met.

Same gaze.

He smiled politely. "Welcome. You're the solo in bungalow six?"

"Yeah," you said, trying not to sound self-conscious.

"If you need anything," he said, voice calm and low, "I'll make sure it gets done."

You weren't sure what to say. His words weren't flirty, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your skin feel a little too warm.

. . .

Your other friends arrived a day later, screaming your name, hauling luggage. bringing noise and laughter and fruit drinks in coconuts.

They noticed him too.

"The concierge guy is cute," one of them whispered after Seungmin walked by.

Another smirked. "He was watching you, by the way."

You shook your head, but your cheeks burned.

. . .

He was around. Always when you needed something. Towels, recommendations, even a replacement charger after yours mysteriously stopped working.

"You're lucky," your friend teased one night. "He doesn't act like that for everyone."

But you noticed something else, too.

The cat.

Every night, it returned. Through the window you left open for the air, it padded softly across the tile, leapt onto your bed, and curled up by your feet like it had every right to be there.

You let it.

After a few nights, you stopped being surprised. He'd nudge your arm when you read too long, nip at your fingers if you ignored him. He'd purr when you scratched behind his ears. It should've felt strange, but it didn't. Not anymore.

It felt like he knew you.

Like he'd been waiting for you.

. . .

You met a guy while looking for shells on the beach.

He was charming, sun-kissed, and full of compliments. Too full. Too smooth. But your friends encouraged it. Vacation flings, they said. What's the harm?

The cat didn't like him.

You noticed it immediately.

After your first date, the cat came in and sat at the edge of your bed, tail flicking, eyes unreadable.

You reached out. He turned away.

You laughed awkwardly. "Jealous?"

He didn't blink.

The next day, same thing.

Only now, he wouldn't even lie beside you. Just watched from the window, ears twitching every time your phone lit up with a message.

It was strange. Unnerving.

Then came the night you had a bad feeling you couldn't shake.

. . .

The guy- Adam, or wait, Adan? - had taken you on a walk through a path he claimed no tourists knew about. Something about the way he looked at you when you hesitated set your nerves on edge.

You didn't go.

You made an excuse. He frowned, too fast. Smiled, too slow.

After you parted with him, walking home, your phone buzzed with a message: Next time, maybe don't waste my time.

. . .

The cat was waiting when you returned.

This time, he didn't hesitate.

He leapt onto your bed, stared you down- and right before your eyes, the shimmer started.

His fur rippled.

His shape stretched.

You backed up against the headboard, heart hammering.

And then- he was human.

Seungmin.

Shirtless. Barefoot. The same golden eyes. The same exact gaze.

You couldn't breathe.

He looked down. Embarrassed. Sad.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"What-what are you-?"

He took a slow breath. "I'm yours."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm your familiar," he said softly. "It's complicated. But I've always belonged to you. I was waiting. I had to wait for you to find me. And you did."

You could barely speak. "You've been the cat-"

"All this time," he said. "Even before you saw me."

"I don't understand."

He nodded. "Most don't. But it doesn't change what I am."

You stared at him.

"I needed to know something," he continued, voice harder now. "The guy you were seeing- he's not who you think. He's done this before. He just breaks hearts and then goes on like nothing happened. He makes people fall in love with him just to get their hearts broken."

Your stomach dropped.

"I couldn't intervene," Seungmin said, "not until you knew what I was. But now you do."

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn't glowing. It wasn't grand or monstrous. Just a man. A quiet, careful one who had always looked at you like you were his entire world.

You swallowed. "So what now?"

He tilted his head. "Now...you can choose. If you want me to go, I will. You don't owe me anything."

You shook your head slowly. "You've been protecting me."

"I was made for it," he said, smiling just slightly.

And somehow, your fear softened.

Because the truth was...you had felt something. Long before the cat became a man. A warmth. A connection. A sense of being known.

"Stay," you whispered.

His shoulders sagged in relief. "Okay."

He turned back into the cat before your eyes, graceful and effortless.

He curled up beside you again, warm and safe.

And that night, for the first time, you slept soundly.

. . .

You never saw the guy again.

Some staff said he left early. Others said he wasn't even on the guest list to begin with.

You didn't ask.

You spent the rest of the month exactly how you wanted- sun, sea, secret beaches, and yes...more than one night on the balcony with a boy who turned into a cat.

And when you left, he came with you.

In feline form, of course.

At least for now.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"Ocean Oracle" - YJ

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | bittersweet, melancholy & sweet | Jeongin x Reader

TW: near drowning, storm/ocean peril, brief loss of consciousness, chronic illness (grandparent, background), slightly eerie magic realism elements, and deep ocean mention.

Summary: You spend the summer in a sleepy beach town, working at a sno-shack and caring for your ill grandmother. It's an ordinary, sun-drenched few months- until a strange boy with sea-glass eyes and sand in his pockets begins showing up every other day. You thought he was just curious. But you had no idea how deep the tides really ran.

The beach town smelled like salt and oranges.

You had always loved it here- the slow mornings, the old bookstore that sold postcards no one mailed anymore, the cicadas that buzzed louder than the waves. But this time was different. You weren't just visiting for a weekend. You were staying the whole summer.

Your Grandma had gotten sick, and your family had needed help. You offered to go. You said it like you were being generous, but truthfully, you needed the quiet. A break. From what, you weren't even sure. Just something.

To keep yourself busy, you got a job at the sno-shack near the boardwalk. It was barely bigger than a garden shed and painted like a pastel rainbow. You worked alone, making snow cones for sunburnt tourists and sleepy kids with sand still stuck between their toes.

It was fine.

Then he showed up.

. . .

You noticed him first because of the blue hair.

Not dyed blue. Not the kind of artificial blue you get from a box. This was deep, oceanic. Almost wet looking, like the color clung to him from the sea itself.

The second thing you noticed was the sand. It coated his calves, his hands, even the inside of his elbows. He was barefoot and wearing the same green swim trunks every day, and somehow he always looked like he'd just come out of the water- even when the ocean was quiet, and no one else had dared to go in.

He only ever bought one snow cone. Mango. Paid with change that was warped and discolored, crusted with salt and grit. You almost said something, but then he smiled.

"Do you every think about jellyfish?" he asked.

You blinked, somewhat startled. "...Not often?"

"They don't have hearts," he said. "Or brains. But they still move. Isn't that weird?"

That was your first conversation.

. . .

He came every other day after that.

Sometimes he'd ask you about clouds. Sometimes about music. Once he brought a shell and held it up to your ear to prove a theory he had about "the ones that hum only when you're sad."

You learned his name was Jeongin. You didn't get a last name. He didn't ask yours.

You tried asking once where he was from.

He just tilted his head. "I live near the reef."

"You dive a lot?"

He smiled, slow and soft. "You could say that."

. . .

Jeongin fascinated you.

You wrote it off at first as loneliness. He was cute, yeah- wide eyes, soft voice- but also strange in a way that made you curious. The kind of strange that didn't feel dangerous. Just...out of place.

He didn't have a phone. Didn't seem to know how TikTok worked. Talked about sea creatures like they were old friends. ("Nudibranchs are very judgmental," he once said, frowning. "But urchins?" Delightful.")

He watched the sky like it was a puzzle he hadn't figured out yet.

You once offered him a second snow cone on the house. He refused.

"Things cost something," he said. "Even when people say they don't."

You didn't press.

But you wondered.

. . .

The day he warned you, the sun was high and golden.

"Storm's coming," he said, standing at the counter with his usual mango snow cone, paid this time with three wet dollars that looked like they'd seen better days.

You glanced up. "Looks fine to me."

He didn't smile.

"I'm serious," he said. "Don't be near the water tonight."

"Should I close down?"

He hesitated. "Just promise you'll be careful."

You laughed, brushing his concern off. "Alright, ocean oracle. I'll be careful."

You never saw his expression darken as you turned away.

. . .

You didn't mean to stay late.

A big order had come in last-minute- someone's birthday party- and you hadn't wanted to waste the leftovers. The wind picked up, tugging at the flags strung above the boardwalk. You cleaned in a hurry. Locked up.

The clouds were coming in fast.

You ran.

And then-

The pier gave a terrible groan.

You saw the wave too late.

It crashed into the shore like a hand slapping down, and suddenly everything was water.

Your shoes were gone. Your bag. You screamed for help, the sound was ripped from your throat. You clawed at the air, swallowed salt, kicked, fought, thrashed-

And then...

Arms.

Strong. Cold. Wrapping around you, dragging you upward.

You blacked out halfway through.

. . .

You came to on warm sand, coughing.

The sky was dark now. Thunder rolled far away. You were lying on a small strip of land- a sandbar maybe, or something like it- not far from the main beach. But no one would see you here. Not tonight.

You tried to move.

A soft hand pushed your shoulder gently. "Don't. Rest."

You blinked.

There he was.

Dripping wet. Hair plastered to his cheeks. Eyes wide, glowing faintly in the low light.

"Jeongin," you rasped.

He crouched beside you, pressing something into your hand- a round shell, cool and heavy.

"I'll find help," he whispered. "I told you there would be a storm."

Then he was gone.

Diving into the water like he belonged there.

. . .

When you woke again, you were in your Grandmother's house, wrapped in three blankets. Someone had found you, eventually. They said you were lucky. Said you must have swum to shore, even though you didn't remember it.

Jeongin never came to the sno-shack again.

. . .

Not until he very last day.

Your bags were packed. The sun was out again. Your Grandma was doing better, and you were headed home tomorrow.

You stood by the counter, just looking at the sea."

Then someone cleared their throat.

You turned.

He looked the same. Hair damp. Skin sun-kissed. Swim trunks, as always.

"I shouldn't have warned you," he said softly. "I broke a rule."

You blinked. "A rule?"

He nodded. "We're not supposed to get close. Not like that. Not enough to care what happens."

You stared at him.

"...What are you?"

He smiled, but there was sadness in it. "You've already guessed."

You didn't speak.

The wind tugged at your shirt. Somewhere down the beach, a gull cried.

He stepped closer. Pressed something into your palm.

A coin.

Old. Worn. Sea-polished.

"Payment," he said.

"For what?"

"For your kindness."

You looked down at it, then back up-

But he was already running.

Into the waves.

Into the sea.

Gone.

. . .

You still keep the coin in your pocket.

Sometimes, when you listen to a shell, you swear you can hear someone laughing underneath the hum.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

" Please Don't Look At Me That Way" - HJ

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | Bittersweet Tragic, Emotional |Jisung x Reader

TW: violence, gore, body horror, near-death experience, attempted biting/attack, themes of loss and grief, moral dilemma, mercy killing implied, and animal fear response. PLEASE read with caution.

Summary: In the early chaos of the apocalypse, you're separated from your group and nearly overrun- until you're pulled to safety by someone you barely remember from school. Hideen away in his makeshift shelter. The days pass in eerie stillness, and something about him...doesn't add up.

You were only supposed to be gone ten minutes.

That's what they all said, anyway, when they waved you off at the checkpoint. "Ten minutes," they told you. "Hit the pharmacy, grab anything we can use, and come right back." But ten turned into thirty. Then an hour. Then chaos.

The glass shattered before your fingers could even close around the last bottle of antibiotics. Then came the screaming. The shadows. The smell.

You ran.

. . .

You didn't remember when the sun dipped so low. It burned on the horizon like a final warning, orange lights slashing through the twisted bones of the half-fallen city.

And they were still behind you. Not a mob, not like stories you'd heard from farther up North. No- just five or six, all lumbering, all huge. Still wearing high-vis vests, safety goggles dangling from their rotten necks like punchlines. Construction workers. Maybe, before. Now just meat with memories. And they remembered how to chase.

You swerved into an alley, nearly tripping over a rat, and emerged on a street that was silent except for your heartbeat. Your legs were giving out. Your lungs burned.

And that's when you saw him.

Standing near the curb. Headphones on. Hoodie up. Backpack slung low on one shoulder like he hadn't noticed the end of the world yet.

You recognized him instantly- Han Jisung. Same school, same year. Quiet kid. Always listening to music, always scribbling in a notebook like the world inside his head was better than the one around him.

"Jisung!" you screamed.

He didn't hear you.

You slammed into him like a storm. He stumbled back, headphones slipping down. "What the-"

Then he looked up.

And saw them.

There was no question. No delay. No hesitation.

He grabbed your wrist.

"Come on."

. . .

The RV was a miracle.

Tucked between a billboard and a chain-link fence, its windows painted black, the tires flat from age. But the inside- clean. Stocked. Water. Blankers. A hand-crank radio. Even a little gas stove. It didn't smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like lemon disinfectant.

And safety.

. . .

The dog- small, tan, half-chihuahua maybe- barked when you entered, then immediately tucked itself behind the couch, peeking out with wide, nervous eyes. Jisung said the name on his collar when he found him was Hwan.

Jisung closed and locked the door behind you. The moans of the undead faded. The night crept in.

"They'll leave," he said after a moment. "Give it an hour."

You were still catching your breath, staring at him. "That was- you saved my life."

He shrugged. "Right place, right time, I guess."

. . .

Days passed.

You never found your group. Not a trace of them. No footprints, no signs. You checked the checkpoint twice. The road was blackened, the ground wet with blood that had dried to tar. No one left to ask. No one left to follow.

So you stayed.

Jisung wasn't much of a talker. Not at first. But he let you use the shower. Let you eat. Let you have the bed when he curled up on the couch.

You'd wake up some nights to find Hwan in your arms, trembling, even though it had started off sleeping near Jisung. Each night, he moved closer to you. One morning, he outright refused to go near Jisung.

He didn't seem to notice.

He didn't eat much. You offered, but he always said he'd eaten earlier. You never saw him cook. Never saw him chew.

And he never slept. You only realized it the third night when you woke up and saw him standing by the window, headphones on, swaying slightly to the music only he could hear.

His eyes looked dark, glassy. Not red- not like the stories. Just...empty.

You wanted to ask. You didn't.

Not yet.

. . .

It was on the fifth night that you saw it.

You'd woken up thirsty, throat dry as gravel. When you crept out of the bed to get water, you spotted Jisung on the couch.

He had his back to you, his hoodie peeled off for once. He was wrapping a bandage around his arm- tight, practiced. Like he'd done it many times.

But the skin undermeath was wrong.

Veins- thick and black - ran up from the wrist to the elbow, like tree roots. The flesh had turned gray-blue. Dead looking.

You froze.

Your foot his the corner of a case of water.

He turned.

You were already ducking back into bed, pretending to be asleep.

But you knew.

. . .

You noticed after that.

He grunted instead of speaking. Groaned when he moved. His jaw twitched constantly. Like something inside him was fighting to get out.

He still tried to smile.

Still asked if you were warm enough.

Still gave you the bigger half of the last protein bar.

You found yourself watching him, studying every small twitch. And you saw something else there, too. Sadness. Shame. Like he already knew what you knew.

He was trying. Trying so hard to stay...human.

. . .

It happened on the seventh night.

You were brushing your hair in the tiny cracked mirror above the sink when you heard the growling. Not Hwan. Not a zombie.

Jisung.

You turned.

He stood in the center of the RV, arms loose at his sides, chest heaving with with shallow, broken breathes. His eyes had gone cloudy. His lips were pulled back. His teeth-

He lunged.

You screamed.

You grabbed the first thing within reach- a thick can of peaches- and slammed it into his head.

He fell backward, collapsing onto the floor with a sickening groan.

You backed away, heart pounding, tears in your eyes.

His hand twitched.

He opened his eyes.

"...shit." he muttered.

You stood frozen. "You were going to bite me."

"I didn't mean to," he said, his voice hoarse. "I-I didn't want- it's getting harder-"

"How long?"

He didn't answer.

You stepped closer. "Jisung. How long have you been- like this?"

He closed his eyes.

"When I found you," he said quietly. "I'd been bitten the night before. I thought I got lucky. No fever. No turning. I thought maybe I was immune. Maybe some people are."

You didn't speak.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the spot on his head where the can had hit him. "Then you came along. And you smelled like- God. I hate this. I hate what I've become."

Hwan whimpered in the corner.

You stared at him.

"I liked you," he said, like it hurt. "In school. I never talked to you, but...I remembered your voice. I remembered how you smiled at the lunch lady, even when she was mean."

You blinked hard. "Jisung..."

"I thought I could hold on," he whispered. "Long enough to help you. Long enough not to be...this."

You sat down, trembling.

He reached toward you, then stopped himself.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "So I have to go."

"No."

His eyes lifted.

You shook your head. "You can't go out there. You'll lose control and hurt someone else. Or worse. They'll hurt you."

He gave a soft, sad laugh. "Maybe that's what I deserve."

You bit your lip so hard it bled.

"I don't want to be the one who does it," you whispered.

"Then wait until I'm not me anymore," he said gently. "And his me again. Harder."

. . .

That night, curled up on the bed. You left the can of peaches beside you. Just in case.

You didn't sleep.

Neither did he.

. . .

By the tenth day, he couldn't speak much.

His words slurred. He shuffled when he moved. His skin was gray all over now.

But he still smiled at you. Still tried.

You fed Hwan, who wouldn't go near him anymore. You cleaned the RV. You cried when he wasn't looking.

He sat in his hoodie, headphones on, eyes half-lidded. A ghost of who he was.

But still there. Still trying.

Still your friend.

. . .

He left before sunrise on the fifteenth day.

No goodbye. Just his headphones were left on the couch. And a note, scribbled in shaky handwriting.

"I can't hold it in anymore. Thank you for pretending I was still me."

. . .

You buried the note under your pillow.

And when Hwan curled up against your side, you finally let yourself cry.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"Midnight Companion" -HH

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | protective, gentle horror & urban | Hyunjin x Reader

TW: mild violence, implied threat, vampire-related themes (blood, fangs, predatory behavior), mentions of unsafe neighborhoods and stalking.

Summary: When a sudden switch to night shift leaves you walking alone through a dangerous neighborhood, a mysterious man begins showing up to walk you to work. He says it's just to keep you safe- but the truth behind his nightly visits is darker than you ever imagined.

The night air in your neighborhood always carried a bite, but lately it felt more like teeth sinking into skin.

You hadn't wanted to switch to night shift. It was supposed to be temporary- a couple of weeks until the manager figured out the schedule. But two weeks turned into three, and now this was your new normal: 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. at the corner store, walking under flickering streetlights past closed laundromats and crumbling billboards.

You started carrying pepper spray in your coat pocket after the first week. Nothing had happened. No really. Just...the occasional shadow where there shouldn't have been one. The feeling of being watched, even when you turned your head fast enough to see nothing but pavement. That sort of thing.

Still, when you saw him the first time, leaning against the wall near the shuttered pharmacy, you froze.

Tall. Dark coat. Hair so pale it almost glowed under the lamplight. He was...beautiful, in the way statues were beautiful- sharp and still and untouchable. His eyes caught yours and held them.

You thought you were about to be mugged.

But instead, he smiled.

"You shouldn't walk alone," he said, stepping into your path.

You gripped your pepper spray. "I have mace."

He blinked, then chuckled softly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just...saw you walking alone, and thought it looked dangerous."

"That's the neighborhood," you replied, still on edge.

"I could walk you," he offered. "Just to the corner. Or the store, if you'd let me.

You eyed him carefully. Every rule you'd ever learned screamed at you to say no. But there was something odd about him. Not threatening- just strange. Like he didn't belong here. Like someone had pulled him from a painting and dropped him into your dirty, buzzing city.

"...Fine," you said slowly. "Just tonight."

He smiles again, eyes crinkling. "Hyunjin," he said, offering a hand.

You didn't shake it. But you remembered the name.

. . .

He walked with you every night after that.

Never too close. Always at your side, never behind you. Sometimes he asked questions- where you were from, if the job was boring, if you liked the stars. Sometimes he just walked in silence.

He never told you much about himself.

You asked once where he lived, and he answered, "Around."

You asked if he worked nearby, and he smiled strangely. "Not exactly."

It should have been a red flag, but he never pushed your boundaries. He never asked to come inside. He always walked you to the store, paused under the broken light out front, and said goodnight.

It became a habit. Familiar. So familiar that when you didn't see him one night, you felt strangely...unsafe.

Until you turned the corner and he was already waiting, as if he knew you'd be running late.

. . .

One night, it was cold enough to see your breath.

You pulled your hoodie tighter and glanced sideways at Hyunjin. "Don't you get cold?"

He smiled. "I don't really feel it."

You laughed. "What, are you a vampire or something?"

He tilted his head. "Would that scare you?"

You smirked. "Only if you wanted to drink my blood."

He didn't answer. He just looked at you, too long, too steady. You turned away first.

. . .

It wasn't until the night someone else showed up that things changed.

You saw him before Hyunjin did, at least, you thought you did. A man standing across the street, dressed in black, pale as paper. He wasn't watching you, though.

He was watching Hyunjin.

You slowed. "Do you know that guy?"

Hyunjin turned. His whole body stilled.

The man smiled, baring teeth that were too white, too sharp. And then he crossed the street.

Hyunjin moved fast- faster than you thought possible. He stepped between you and the stranger and said, low and firm, "Don't."

The stranger tilted his head. "They smell nice."

"Walk away."

"I'm hungry."

Hyunjin's body shifted subtly like a shadow curling. You blinked- and for half a second, his face changed. His eyes darkened. His lips parted.

Fangs.

You stumbled back. "What-?"

Hyunjin didn't look at you. He growled- an inhuman sound- and lunged.

The fight wasn't flashy. There was no flying or blood spraying, no slow-motion punches. Just the quiet, brutal sound of movement- of impact, of claws and teeth.

And then the stranger was done. Just...gone. Like smoke. The alley was silent again.

You stared at Hyunjin.

He wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't even scratched. But he looked at you like he was in pain.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

"I didn't want you to see that, he said softly.

You stared at him. "What are you?"

"A vampire, he said. "I wasn't lying."

Your knees wanted to give out.

He stepped back. "I've never wanted to hurt you. I never would."

"You-" You shook your head. "Why me? Why walk me to work? Were you...feeding off me or something?"

"No!" His eyes widened. "God, no. I never touched you. I just-" He sighed, visibly struggling. "I heard you walking alone at night. You were scored. I could smell it. I thought...maybe I could help. Just this once. Just for a while."

You still couldn't breathe right.

"I never planned to tell you. But he-" Hyunjon glanced down the alley. "He's not like me. He wouldn't have stopped."

You remembered the look in the stranger's eyes. Like you were a meal.

You looked back at Hyunjin. Pale skin, dark eyes, elegant hands.

He could have hurt you. So many times. But he hadn't.

He protected you.

"You're really a vampire," you wshipered.

He nodded.

"And you've been walking me to work just because...what? You wanted to?"

"I liked your voice," he said. "And you're kind. Most people don't notice things anymore. You do. I don't meet many people like that."

You blinked. Your chest felt too tight.

"I understand if you never want to see me again," he said. "I'll go. I'll stay away."

He turned.

"Wait."

He stopped.

You swallowed. "Will he come back? That other one?"

Hyunjin didn't turn. "Maybe."

"...Then you should probably keep walking me to work."

He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide.

You shrugged, trying to look braver than you felt. "You're creepy, but you've got a decent track record."

A smile cracked across his face- slow and shocked, and genuine. "You're...unbelievable."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

He stepped back to your side. The silence stretched as you walked.

Then you said, "So...no reflection, or is that just a myth?"

He laughed, deep and bright. "Myth."

"Sunlight?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Like acid on skin. Hurts like hell."

"Do you...really drink blood?"

He glanced at you. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"...Fair."

You reached the corner store. He paused, like always. The light above the door flickered overhead.

You hesitated, then turned toward him. "I'm scared of you," you admitted.

He nodded. "That's okay."

"But I trust you."

That surprised him.

He lowered his gaze. "Then I'll protect you. For as long as you'll let me."

You smiled, faintly. "See you tomorrow night, then?"

Hyunjin looked up, and this time, there was something fragile in his expression. Hope. Relief. Awe.

"Yeah," he said. "Tomorrow."

. . .

You still work the night shift. You still walk through the same dark streets.

But now, there's always a shadow at your side- tall and quiet and too beautiful for this world. Hyunjin walks with you like it's the only thing he was made for.

He doesn't lie to you anymore.

And sometimes, just before the sun rises, you think you catch him smiling like he's never known what it meant to be human...but maybe he's starting to learn.

Because for once, he's not just surviving the night.

He's sharing it.

With you.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"Whimsy On Wing Street" -LF

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | cozy, whimsical & enchanted | Felix x Reader

TW: mild panic/anxiety, fear of losing control or grip on reality, identity secrecy, emotional distress, and self-doubt.

Summary: Your first job in a cozy small-town kindergarten, where you build a fairy garden with your students and find yourself charmed by your new aide, Felix. But the line between whimsy and reality begins to blur when you discover just how deep Felix's connection to the garden really goes.

Your first day as a real teacher started with a cracked coffee cup, three accidental marker stains, and a smile you couldn't shake. The classroom was smaller than you expected, the furniture low and worn, but it had its charm. So did the town- just big enough for a corner diner and just small enough that everyone waved.

The principal had welcomed you with a clipboard and a warm, apologetic expression. "We're still looking for an aide," she's said. "You'll be on your own for now, but we've already had a few applicants. Shouldn't be too long."

You didn't mind. You'd spent four years preparing to wrangle a group of tiny humans. What was one more challenge?

Besides, the classroom had something special- a back door that led to a small, fenced-in outdoor area. Originally installed as an emergency exit, you had other ideas. Within the first week, you'd started transforming it into a garden. Not just any garden- a fairy garden.

You and the kids planted violets, pansies, thyme, and moss. You let them bring their own trinkets: marble pieces, polished buttons, tiny plastic animals. You found an old dollhouse at the thrift store, cleaned it up, and nestled it beneath a cluster of purple primroses. The kids loved it. Every day, someone added something new.

And then, one Monday morning, the principal appeared in your doorway with a smile that told you your life was about to change.

"I found your aide," she said. "He starts today. His name is Felix."

. . .

He arrived with a sunny grin and hair so pale it shimmered under the fluorescent lights. You barely had time to say hello before the kids swarmed him like bees to sugar.

He laughed, crouched down to their level, and greeted each of them by name by the end of the day.

You were impressed. And curious.

You learned that he was your age, also freshly out of school, and had taken the job because, in his words, "There's no greater honor than being trusted with wonder."

You weren't sure what that meant. But the way he said it made it sound like poetry.

. . .

Felix quickly became the best part of your routine.

He was whimsical in a way that was sincere, not performative. He taught the kids songs you'd never heard before, always in odd, lilting melodies. He wore clothes in soft earth tones and fabrics that flowed just a little too well when he moved.

And he adored the fairy garden.

You often found him crouched beside it during lunch breaks, brushing dirt away from the dollhouse porch or repositioning trinkets. Once, you caught him humming softly while weaving a strand of moss into the fence.

One afternoon, he came inside holding a flat, palm-sized stone, colored a deep, sea-glass blue.

"It was just sitting on the porch," he said, grinning. "Like a gift."

You'd thought maybe he left it there himself, playing along for the kids. But he never admitted to it. In fact, he always seemed more delighted than responsible.

You didn't press. You were just glad someone else believed in the magic.

. . .

You should have known something was off the morning he wasn't there.

Felix was always early. Always humming in the corner, helping with nametags, tying shoes with a patience that bordered saintly.

But that morning, the room was dark. No hum. No open windows. No bag by the desk.

You figured maybe he'd hit traffic. Or taken a sick day and forgot to text. You were about to start prepping the snack table when you remembered: you had candy in your car. Little foil-wrapped chocolates. "From the fairies," you'd tell the kids.

Smiling to yourself, you stepped back outside.

The sun was low but warm, casting golden light through the leaves above the fenced garden. The candy rustled in your pocket as you walked around the classroom toward the back door.

Then you saw something.

A flicker of light- tiny and fast, like a firefly, but...wrong. It shimmered white-gold, more solid than a bug's glow. It darted low to the ground by the fairy garden.

You stopped walking.

The light paused near the dollhouse porch. Hovering.

And then- it landed.

A person. Tiny. Glowing. No taller than your hand. With delicate wings that caught the sun like shards of glass.

Your mouth went dry.

They bent over the little flower pot where someone had left a bead and a paperclip charm the day before. Scooped it up. Then they looked around, cautious, and flew a few inches away.

And in that moment, you saw the face.

Felix.

Your breath hitched audibly.

The little fairy froze.

Then-like a popped bubble, the shimmer vanished. The tiny figure disappeared midair, gone like mist in sunlight.

You stumbled backward. You didn't mean to. You weren't even trying to make a sound.

Your back hit the wall near the back door, heart in your throat, palms slick with panic. Your mind reeled, stammering logic: maybe you were tired. Maybe it was a dream.

But the air still shimmered faintly, as if something magical had just breathed out.

You couldn't go back inside. Not yet.

You ran to your car. Sat in the front seat with the windows up, trying to breathe. You stared at your trembling hands for a full fifteen minutes before the clock told you it was time to go inside.

You stood up. Straightened your sweater. Told yourself to pretend nothing happened.

. . .

Felix was at his desk when you walked in.

Bag slung over the back of the chair. Hair slightly damp, as if he'd just showered. He looked up when you entered, eyes lighting up with a grin.

"Morning!" he chirps cheerfully. "Sorry I wasn't early today- I had something to take care of."

You stared at him.

He tilted his head. "You okay?"

You nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Just...tired."

He watched you for a moment longer. Then let it go.

You spent the morning stumbling through activities, distracted. You kept glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes- expecting...what, exactly? Wings? A halo?

He was himself. Laughing with the kids. Passing out crayons. Making silly voices during storytime.

He leaned down at one point and whispered. "You're really pale today. Are you sick?"

You gave him a brittle smile. "I'm fine."

But you weren't. You were unraveling.

. . .

At lunch you finally said it. Or part of it.

"Felix," you began, when the kids were outside with the other teachers and you had a sliver of quiet. "The fairy garden. Do you...really believe it?"

He looked up from the box of markers he was organizing. "Of course I do."

"Not just for the kids. I mean...really believe it."

He tilted his head. "Don't you?"

You swallowed. "I used to think it was sweet. Pretend. But today, I..." You hesitated. "I think I saw something."

He set the markers down. "Something like what?"

You were afraid to say it. Afraid of sounding crazy. But more than that, you were fearful of what would happen if you were right.

"I saw a light. Outside. It wasn't a bug. It was...someone. Small."

His expression didn't shift. Not in fear. Not in confusion.

Just...quiet recognition.

You continued, barely above a whisper, "I think I saw you."

There. It was out.

Felix didn't speak for a long time.

Then he gave the smallest, saddest smile you'd ever seen him wear.

"I was careless," he said softly.

Your throat tightened. "So it was you."

He nodded.

"Are you-?"

"Yes," he said. "A fairy. Or something close to it."

Your legs felt weak. You sank into the nearest chair.

"I wasn't supposed to show myself. Especially not to you." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I've always been too curious for my own good."

You stared at him. The same man who helped kids wash glue off their hands. Who brought you tea on rainy days. Who wore socks with stars on them and smelled faintly of lavender.

It didn't make sense.

And yet- it explained everything.

The perfect hair. The odd songs. The way he seemed to know which kids needed an extra smile before they even said a word.

"Why...why come here? Why be a part of this world?"

His smile turned thoughtful. "Because children still believe. They leave offerings, sing songs, and whisper secrets to the wind. They see what adults forget."

"And me?" you asked. "Why me?"

"You believed enough to make a garden," he said. "To keep it safe. To encourage magic."

"I didn't mean for it to be real."

"Real things don't need permission to be real."

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then: "What happens now?"

He tilted his head. "That depends."

"Are you leaving?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

Something heavy was lifted between you both. A fragile truth finally aired out.

Felix leaned forward. "Then I'll stay. If you let me."

You nodded slowly.

And for the first time, you saw the shimmer in his eyes. Not just metaphorical.

Real.

Soft and glowing.

Magic.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"Golden Boy" - BC

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | SPN, Bittersweet & Emotional | Chan x Reader

TW: animal collision, blood and injury mentioned, mild medical care, isolation, and emotional distress.

Summary: After a shift at the library, you take a shortcut home through the sleeping town, only to stumble into something you were never meant to see. What follows changes everything you thought you knew about the golden boy that everyone adores...and about yourself.

You were already running behind.

The library closed at eight, but one of the older ladies in your town had come in at 7:59 with six overdue books and a story about her grandsons you'd already heard three times. You smiled politely, did the overdue paperwork, and listed. Because that's what you always did.

You weren't the kind of person people remembered. Not in the cruel way- just in the ordinary way. Forgettable. The person who stamped books and lived in their parents' basement. The person who took nursing classes online and ate their lunch in their car.

No one would notice if you vanished.

You finally locked the front door and stepped into the humid hush of night. The town was already asleep. A few porch lights were still on, but everything else- the gas station, the diner, the church parking lot- was quiet. You got in your car, rolled the windows down, and started driving the back way home. A narrow, private road that cut behind the old quarry and dropped you just a few turns from your parents' house.

You'd taken it a hundred times. It wasn't even really legal for public use, but no one ever said anything.

Your headlights cut through the dark, music humming softly and low from speakers. It was peaceful. Empty.

And then-

It wasn't.

Something dashed out across the road, fast and low.

A dog.

Your foot slammed on the brake pedal, but there was no time.

THUD!

Your heart rocketed into your throat. The car jerked to a stop, skidding slightly, and everything went still.

"Oh my-" you gasped, already fumbling for your seatbelt. You pushed your door open, the engine still idling behind you, headlights pouring light into the thick tress on either side of the road.

You stepped out onto the gravel and stumbled forward.

Your stomach turned over.

It wasn't a dog.

. . .

It was a person.

A man, lying crumpled in the beam of your headlights. His arms were bent at strange angles, his shirt torn, and there was a scrape on his face.

You blinked hard, shaking.

But you'd seen a dog. You were sure you'd seen a dog- dark, large, running so fast it blurred in the night. There hadn't been time to think, let alone imagine things.

You knelt beside the man, your breath shallow. His chest rose and fell- uneven, but alive.

Then the light hit his face just right.

And you saw him.

"Chris?" you whispered.

Your voice broke. Your hand hovered over his shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid to know. But there was no mistaking it.

It was him.

Chris Bahng.

You knew him- everyone did. Golden boy of your town. The kind of man who helped old women carry groceries and remembered every child's name at the fall fair. The kind of man who seemed untouchable. Not just kind, but shining. He didn't have enemies. He didn't have anything to hide.

And yet-

Here he was.

Half-unconscious, broken in the road.

You looked around. Nothing. No sign of a wreck, no dropped phone, no backpack, no sign of what he'd been doing out here in the middle of the night, miles from town.

Just him.

And something else-

Around his neck was a thin leather cord. A pendant. You'd seen it before. It was always visible under the collar of his shirts, peeking out during soccer games, glowing faintly under the gym lights.

Your hands shook as you crouched lover and tapped his cheek.

"Chris? Can you hear me?"

No response.

You couldn't call for help- no signal. You checked your phone anyway, as if it might've changed in the last thirty seconds. Still nothing.

You couldn't leave him. You couldn't explain it either. You should've called the police. You should've gone for an ambulance. But something about it felt...wrong.

Not just bad. Wrong.

Like you'd stepped into something that wasn't meant to be seen.

You didn't think. You acted.

You dragged him toward the car. It took everything you had to get him into the back seat. You weren't big. You weren't strong. But adrenaline and fear made you capable in a way you hadn't expected.

He groaned once, soft and sharp, but didn't wake.

. . .

When you finally got him in the car, sweat dripping down your spine, you sat in the front seat, panting. Hands gripping the wheel. Staring into the dark.

Then, for some reason, you remembered your dashcam.

Your fingers moved without thinking. You popped the memory card from the tiny slot, plugged it into the reader on your phone.

The file opened.

There it was. Playback of the moment before the crash. You held your breath.

A flash of dark fur.

Long legs.

A shape too big for a normal dog-

Not a dog.

A wolf.

And there, clear as anything: a glint of silver around its neck.

The same pendant.

Your stomach dropped straight through you.

You rewound it. Watched again. And again.

Wolf.

Then the moment of impact.

Then-

Chris.

No fur. No paws. Just him, broken and bloody and wearing the same necklace. You scrolled forward, but there was no sign of the shift. One frame: a wolf. The next: a man.

No transformation.

Just a switch.

You looked at him again, breathing shallow in your back seat.

What the hell had you just hit?

. . .

You didn't drive to the ER. You should have.

Instead, you drove home.

. . .

Dragging him down into your basement apartment was harder than getting him into the car. The stairs groaned under the weight, and you slipped twice, his legs nearly crashing into the railing. You got blood on your hands. Your hoodie. Your floor.

You didn't care.

You laid him on your bed- thin mattress, thrifted sheets- and grabbed the first aid kit you used for your CNA practice. Cleaned him up as best you could. He was bruised, scratched. A gash on his temple and another on his arm. But nothing life-threatening, as far as you could tell.

He didn't wake.

You watched him from your desk chair, legs pulled to your chest, blanket wrapped around you.

Every now and then, you glanced at the dashcam footage. Like you needed to confirm that yes, this was real. This was happening.

. . .

You woke up just after 3 a.m.

You were half-asleep, chin tucked into your hoodie, when you heard him groan.

You shot up.

His eyes opened slowly. Confused. Disoriented. He looked at the ceiling, then down at his own hands, flexing his fingers.

"Don't move," you said quietly. "You were hit. You're hurt."

He turned his head too fast and winced.

And froze.

"You..." he said, voice ragged.

"I hot you," you whispered. "Except- I didn't. Not really. I hit a dog. A wolf. And when I got out to check on it, it wasn't a wolf anymore. It was you."

He stared.

"I thought I was losing it," you went on. "But I have dashcam footage. It's all there. You were a wolf. You were wearing the necklace."

He didn't deny it.

His throat worked as he swallowed.

"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?" he asked quietly.

"Because I didn't know what you were."

His eyes fell closed for a long moment. His breathing was shallow, and when he opened them again, he looked...tired.

Not from the injuries. From hiding.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Is it real?" you asked. "All of it?"

"Yes." A pause. "I wish I could lie. But you already know."

You didn't ask what he was. You didn't have to. You knew. You'd seen enough stories. And you'd seen his eyes- even now, dark and golden at the same time. Unnatural in a way you couldn't explain.

"How long?" you asked.

"Since I was sixteen."

You sat back, trying to breathe. He watched you carefully.

"I've never hurt anyone," he said. "I wouldn't. That's not what this is. I didn't ask for it."

You believed him. You didn't know why, but you did.

He sat up slowly, wincing, hand pressed to his ribs. "I need to get home before anyone notices I'm gone."

"You're not going anywhere tonight," you said. "You're barely conscious."

"I've been worse."

"Not on my watch."

His lips quirked, tired. "Are you a nurse?"

"In training."

"Lucky me."

You sat in silence for a while.

"Are you going to tell anyone?" he finally asked.

"No."

He looked surprised.

"I don't think anyone would believe me if I tried," you added. "And...you don't seem like a threat."

"I'm not."

You nodded. "Then we're good."

He stared at you like he didn't quite understand. Like he didn't know what to do with your quiet, matter-of-fact acceptance.

"Why aren't you freaking out?" he asked.

"I already did," you said. "I just did it very quietly."

. . .

He stayed until morning. Slept on your bed again. You dozed in your desk chair, dreamless.

When he left, he paused in the doorway.

"You could've left me there," he said. "You should've."

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

You shrugged. "Because I know what it's like to be invisible. And no one deserves to die alone in the dark."

He didn't say anything. Just looked at you for a long, long time.

Then he whispered, "Thank you," and disappeared into the dawn.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"Where The Dragon Sleeps" -LK

Fantasy Creature AU | 3k Words | fantasy, slow burn & gentle angst | Minho x Reader

TW: grief/death of family members (no details), non-graphic mentions of violence, identity concealment, mild body horror, emotional distress, and themes of isolation and trauma.

Summary: You lived in a village where everyone knows everyone, and Minho, the newest arrival, has become a favorite. But when something old and inhuman stirs just beyond the trees, you realize not all stories stay legends.

The village of Elowen sat nestled between low hills and forest, the kind of place you could almost forget existed once you left it. It smelled of river water and firewood, baked bread and the sweet sting of lavender, and it was so quiet some nights you could hear deer stepping through the leaves. It was home.

Minho had arrived in the spring.

He was just a little too perfect, which is why you'd noticed him in the first place.

Good with the children. Good with tools. Quiet but not unfriendly. He carried water with one arm and built fences like he'd been doing it his whole life. A small smile, kind eyes, always volunteering for the hardest jobs without complaint. And though he never spoke of where he'd come from, no one pressed. Elowen was a welcoming place, but not nosy.

. . .

When word came that a dragon had been spotted near the Northern Ridge- a blur of wings and fire in the dark sky- fear sank into the village like frost. Livestock were brought in early. Watch rotations began again for the first time in decades. You found yourself walking home with a lantern in your hand even when the moon was bright.

But Minho? He hadn't flinched.

"They usually don't come this far," he said one evening when you brought him tea during fence-mending duty. "Not unless they're hungry. Or hunted."

You blinked. "That's a strange thing to say."

He only smiled, sipping the hot tea carefully. "So I've read."

You started watching him closely after that.

It was nothing at first. Just a sense that his movements were too smooth. That his hands didn't blister the way that they should have. That he didn't breathe hard, even after working all day. That no one had ever seen him bleed.

. . .

And then came the night of the growl.

It was low - so low that you thought it might have been your imagination. The kind of sound your mind tries to make sense of: maybe a dog, maybe the wind, maybe-

Then another sound: feet on grass, but not human ones. Too heavy. Too careful.

You cracked open the shutters of your little cottage and peered into the dark.

Minho was walking toward the edge of the trees, his hands tangled in his hair, bare feet digging into the dirt. He was shivering like something inside him was splitting apart. The noise-

A growl again. Then a choked, guttural snarl.

You grabbed your heaviest wool coat and followed, heart pounding.

. . .

The forest behind the village was old and dense, but you knew its trails. Minho didn't follow them. He moved deeper, past the silver roots and into the quiet hollows. You crept behind, slow as you could, until he stopped in a clearing and fell to his knees.

He screamed.

No- roared.

It tore through the trees like thunder, like something ancient and furious trying to claw its way out of a man's throat.

And then-

His body began to shift.

You stumbled back, hiding in a hollowed gap of a tree, covering your mouth.

Bones stretched and cracked. His spine arched, skin shimmering with scales that bled into midnight. Wings unfolded from his back, vast and leathery and trembling. His face twisted, jaws forming, fangs glinting. The fire that poured from his mouth was desperate and pained, like a wound made of flame.

Minho was a dragon. The dragon.

You watched him collapse again after the transformation passed, crouched in the ruins of himself, trembling and gasping.

It was time to go. Quickly and carefully, you stepped out of the safety of the tree and began to flee back to the village.

It was too late, your heart stopping altogether when you'd accidentally stepped on a fallen branch, making a too loud crack echo through the trees.

His head snapped up.

Too late to run. Too late to lie.

He didn't move.

"...You followed me," he rasped.

You nodded slowly, throat dry.

He didn't shift back.

The dragon in him was half-formed still- some mix of man and beast- and it broke your heart, how tired he looked.

"I didn't mean for you to find out," he said quietly. "Not like this."

You stepped forward. "Are you...hurt?"

He gave a small, humorless laugh. "No. Just...shedding, I guess." His claws dug into the earth. "I tried to hold it in. I always try to hold it in."

"What are you?"

Minho finally looked at you. Fully looked at you.

"A dragon," he said. "But not like the stories."

Your mouth opened, then shut again. You sat down on a log, just a few feet away. "Start from the beginning."

And so he did.

. . .

His kind were fewer now, too few. He'd once had a family: a mother with wings like thunderclouds and a father who sang in a voice that could shake a mountain. But they were gone. Hunted by humans. Killed for their scales, their flame, their magic.

"I was barely grown when I lost them," he said, voice low. "Not old enough to fly far. Not old enough to understand. I hid. I stayed in the form of a boy for so long, I forgot how to change back without pain."

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

"Elowen was safe," he said. "Kind. I just wanted to be...someone again. Someone who mattered. Someone who helped."

You looked at him- really looked -and realized that everything you'd noticed had been real. His kindness. His gentleness. His quiet way of belonging. None of that had been fake.

And yet.

"There's a dragon near the village," you said. "People are scared. If they knew-"

"They'd kill me," he finished. "And I wouldn't stop them. I'd never hurt them. Not even if they tried."

His claws were trembling.

You reached for his hand. Human again. Shaky. Warm.

"I don't want to like to them," you whispered. "I love this village."

"I know."

"But I think I...I think I trust you."

He looked startled.

"I don't know what to do, Minho," you said, voice breaking. "You've given them nothing but help and safety, and if they knew, that wouldn't matter. It should matter."

He didn't speak.

. . .

The firelight from his breath had burned faint embers into the trees, flickering like stars between the leaves.

"Why did you show yourself tonight?" you asked.

"I couldn't hold it anymore," he said. "I thought it'd be safe. I thought I was far enough."

"Do you shift often?"

"No," he said. "Only when I lose control."

You nodded.

"I won't tell them," you said. "Not yet. But I need time. I need to understand what this means. For me. For you. For everyone."

He nodded, and you could see the shame and relief fighting for space on his face.

"I can't ask you to carry this," he said.

"You didn't ask."

He smiled, small and sad.

. . .

The next day, you woke up with heavy eyes and an aching heart. Minho was already at the well, carrying buckets as if nothing had happened. The others greeted him like always.

You watched him from your open window, torn between two homes: the one you were born in, and one you might have found in him.

Over the next few weeks, you kept his secret. It changed everything and nothing.

You started walking with him more. Asking quiet questions in the fields. Sometimes he'd whisper stories from a world that didn't exist anymore: golden valleys where dragons danced in clouds, songs sung in firelight, flying with his siblings beneath the moon. And sometimes he was just Minho- making you laugh, building a bench for the baker, tying a ribbon in your hair just because he liked the color.

You began to wonder if maybe this wasn't a betrayal after all.

Maybe love could be bigger than a lie.

But the peace didn't last.

. . .

One morning, a hunter arrived. Rough, tired, hardened. Said he'd tracked a dragon North and was offering his services to Elowen.

The elders welcomed him with cautious interest.

Minho said nothing.

That night, you found him again in the woods, crouched in the clearing like the first time.

"They'll find out," he said.

You touched his hand. "Not if we stop them."

"We?"

You nodded. "We. I made my choice."

He turned to you then, wide-eyed and quiet, and for the first time, you saw tears in his eyes- not from pain, but from something gentler.

Hope.

. . .

You and Minho began a quiet plan. Moving evidence. Burning his shredded scales. Altering the trees. Even seeding rumors of the dragon flying Westward. Together, you led the hunter away- carefully, slowly- until he gave up and moved on.

And still, you told no one.

But one morning, sitting on the hill above the village, you finally asked what had haunted you since that first night:

"If it ever came to it...would you leave, to protect them?"

Minho didn't hesitate. "Yes."

You nodded again.

"But if I could stay," he added, "if someone believed in me enough...I'd never leave again."

You looked over the village.'

Then back at him.

And reached for his hand.

. . .

One year later, the village still whispered sometimes of the dragon that never returned. You never told them the truth. You never had to.

Because Minho was just a man who loved a small village more than anything. A man who learned how to become something gentler than fire. A man who smiled at you across the fields, and who kept his wings hidden- except for the nights you asked to see them.

And sometimes, when the sky was very clear and no one else was awake, you'd walk with him into the woods and sit beside the flames he no longer had to hide from you.

And in the glow of his firelight, you believed that even monsters could be beautiful.

And even dragons could be home.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"why do you write?" because it’s the only way to silence the characters pacing around my brain like victorian ghosts with unresolved issues that prevent them from moving on.

[fluffroom]

"Things With Horns" - I.N

Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | soft angst, unspoken love & ache | Jeongin x Reader

TW: abandonment, emotional loss, loneliness, grief, emotional suppression/repression, identity crisis, unsettling, implied control, and surreal reality.

Summary: He left when you were seventeen- no warning, no goodbye. Now you're twenty-one and he's back. But he's not quite the same. And neither are you.

You were thirteen the first time Jeongin showed up.

You don't remember wishing for anything. Not a friend, not a creature, not someone with a soft voice and moon-silver eyes who climbed into your windows like he lived there. But there he was- sitting cross-legged, hoodie up, cheeks full of your cereal like he'd been summoned from some chaotic, sugar-loving realm.

He grinned at you.

"I'm Jeongin. I'm kind of your imaginary friend."

You furrowed your brows. "But I didn't imagine you."

"Yeah," he said, scratching his head. "That's...part of the weird bit."

. . .

For years, he came and went.

You'd wake up and find him asleep in your laundry pile. Or hear his laugh in your ear while you studied. Sometimes he left for "meetings," which he never explained- but he'd always come back. Always.

He told you he came from a place that didn't quite exist. Not here. Not there. He called it the Fold, or sometimes home.

You stopped asking questions once you realized he never liked answering them.

He was Jeongin. Mischievous, kind, too sharp sometimes, but never cruel. His smile could shatter clouds. His hoodie smelled like pine needles and smoke. You kept it the summer he left it behind. You never gave it back.

. . .

Then he left and didn't come back...

You were seventeen. He'd been weird all day- quiet, hiding his face, hoodie drawn so tightly around him you couldn't see his eyes.

You remember sitting on your roof, side by side.

"You okay?" you asked.

He didn't answer at first, just picked at the frayed seam of his sleeve.

Finally: "If I ever go away...you won't wait for me, right?"

You frown at the mere thought. "What does that even mean?"

But he doesn't answer.

And the next morning, he was gone.

No goodbye. No note. No last laugh through your headphones. Just absence. As if he'd be your imagination after all.

. . .

It's been four years.

You're twenty-one now, and for the most part, you've moved on. Mostly.

You've stopped turning around when you think you hear footsteps in the woods. Stopped leaving the window unlocked. Stopped waiting.

But you never stopped dreaming of him.

And sometimes, you still wear his hoodie.

. . .

The day he finally comes back, it's raining- no pouring.

You're walking home from another one-person dinner when you hear someone call your name. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just like a secret, spoken into the wind.

You freeze, and the hair on your body sticks up, bumps rising to the surface of your skin.

Because the voice is his.

And when you turn around, he's there.

Same boy. Same clothes.

But not exactly.

Because now?

He has horns.

They curl back from his temples like softened bone. Elegant. Delicate. Real.

You don't trust your eyes, rubbing your palms against them. "Jeongin...?"

He fidgets. Won't meet your gaze. His hair's longer now, falling over his forehead and half-obscuring one of the horns like he's trying to hide them.

"Hey," he mumbles.

You continue to stare.

Then-quietly: "You were gone a long time."

"I know."

"You left."

"I know."

It comes out sharper than you mean it to. "No note. No warning. No explanation...just gone."

"I didn't think you'd want one."

"That's...so stupid."

He looks up then, eyes wide and hurting. "I was ashamed."

You pause. The rain's picking up, wind pushing water down your back.

He looks like he's been walking for miles, soaked through and shivering.

You sigh. "Come on. We'll talk inside."

. . .

Once inside your apartment, he stands awkwardly in the bathroom, dripping on the tile. You shove a towel at him. He dabs at his horns like they're fragile.

"They started growing when I turned seventeen," he says softly. "It's...not supposed to happen."

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, creatures like me- we don't always grow them. They're a mark. A sign of...growing up. Power. Responsibility." He sighs. "I wasn't supposed to get them."

You tilt your head. "So what? You panicked?"

"Not at first." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "At first, I thought they were just bruises. Then they started itching. Then I saw the points. I kept hiding it under my hood." A pause. "And then I realized what they were. And I couldn't- I didn't want you to see me like that."

You narrow your eyes. "Like what? Real?"

He flinches.

"You were real to me," you snap. "Every stupid, weird, impossible part of you. And you disappeared."

"I was scared," he says, voice cracking. "You're human. You grow up, you move on, you forget. I'm not supposed to stay that long. I already broke rules just by hanging around."

"Rules?"

"There's...more of us. From where I come from. A system. A hierarchy. The Fold watched us. Tracks our timelines. I was already under review for staying past your fifteenth birthday. We're supposed to fade by then. You're supposed to forget."

"I didn't."

"I know. That's what scared them."

The room's quiet now except for the patter of rain on the windows.

He looks at you. Really looks. For the first time in years.

You step closer. He doesn't move.

Then, softly: "I missed you."

He nods, throat tight. "I missed you every day."

. . .

He stays with you for a while.

Not forever. Just days that stretch like threads- quiet and strange and full of almosts.

You learn he's not quite human. Never was. You knew it, deep down, but now it's undeniable. His horns are warm to the touch. He doesn't sleep the way you do. Sometimes he forgets things, like gravity or time.

But he's still Jeongin.

He still puts too much syrup on waffles and laughs at your terrible jokes, and frowns when you stay up too late.

But there's a distance now, like something fragile sitting between you now.

And the horns are part of it.

He keeps trying to hide them.

"You're embarrassed," you say one night, watching him comb his hair forward like a curtain.

"Of course I am," he mutters. "They mark me. They make me...Other."

You frown. "They make you you."

He glances up. "You say that now."

You don't argue. Not because he's right, but because you don't know how to prove him wrong yet.

. . .

One night, he's gone again.

Not for long.

But long enough to leave that ache again in your chest- that silence that only he fills.

When he comes back, his hoodie is torn and his eyes are shadowed.

"What happened?"

He hesitates. "I had another meeting."

"With who?"

He doesn't answer.

"What did they say?"

He rubs his arms. "That I'm broken. That staying with you this long has warped the bond. That I shouldn't have come back."

You feel cold. "So...what? You're going to leave again?"

"I don't want to." He swallows. "But I might not have a choice."

You're crying before you realize it.

He moves to reach for you, then stops. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me," you whisper. "You left me."

. . .

The next day, you wake up and he's gone.

No hoodie. No candy wrappers. No trace.

Only a single curling horn rests on your pillow- crystal-like and soft at the base, sharp at the tip.

A gift. Or a goodbye.

You don't know which.

. . .

Weeks pass.

You keep the horn in your t-shirt drawer.

People ask how you're doing. You say you're fine.

But you're not waiting anymore.

You go on with your life. Learn to carry the ache with you.

Some nights, you talk to them empty air just in case. Just in case he's listening.

You don't expect an answer.

But you speak anyway.

. . .

Because the thing about Jeongin is-

He's not real.

He was real in every laugh. Every silent morning. Every time he looked at you like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

And that has to count for something.

Even if it's not forever.

Even if it was never meant to be.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

"In Theory"- Seungmin

Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | angst and slow heartbreak | Seungmin x Reader

TW: parental divorce (brief mention), isolation, emotional dependence, identity crisis, unintentional gaslighting, loss, abandonment, unrequited love, and implied dissociation. please read with caution.

Summary: He appeared when you were ten. He never left. He was never supposed to stay this long. But then...what happens when you fall in love with someone who was never real to begin with?

Seungmin showed up the day after your Dad moved out of your family home when you still weren't even sure what "divorce" meant.

He didn't knock. He didn't need to. One moment, you were sitting on the edge of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest, listening to the echo of the front door slamming- and the next, there he was.

A boy with soft brown eyes and a sweater too big for him sat cross-legged on your rug like he had been there the whole time. He blinked at you, head tilted.

"You look like you could use a friend," he said. "Lucky for you, I'm great at that."

You didn't scream. Didn't question. You just nodded and scooted over to make room for him.

That was fifteen years ago.

Now you're twenty-five, and Seungmin is still here.

. . .

"Okay. Tall guy at the end of the bar- third time he's looked over," Seungmin whispers, even though no one could hear him anyway. "Beige coat, bad posture. Definetely a sweater - under - jacket type. Thoughts?"

You glance over. Beige Coat Guy is, in fact, making eyes at you. He's got a kind face and an almost-shy smile. He looks a little like a golden retriever might, if reincarnated as a tax accountant.

"He's cute," You mumble into your drink.

"Cute in a 'texts you "u up?" and then ghosts you for three days' kind of way," Seungmin counters immediately. "Also, mismatched socks."

"He's sitting down. How would you even know that?"

"I know things," he says, smug.

You sigh, a familiar warmth settling into your chest. "You just don't want me to talk to him."

He doesn't deny it.

. . .

Your roommate, Jamie, thinks you're insane.

You don't blame them. It's not every day someone walks into the kitchen at 8 a.m. to find their roommate having a full-on argument with thin air over what cereal to eat.

"Look, I'm not trying to be rude," Jamie says one night, standing awkwardly in your doorway. "But...you know no one's there, right?"

You don't respond immediately.

Seungmin is sprawled on your bed with a bag of popcorn in his lap, throwing kernels in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.

You nod once, almost too slow. "Yeah, I know."

Jamie hesitates, watching you for a second too long. "Okay. Just...wanted to check."

After they leave, Seungmin makes a face. "They think you're crazy."

"They aren't wrong to wonder."

"They also aren't wrong about your taste in cereal," he adds, tossing a piece of popcorn at your face. "Plain Cheerios? Be serious."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. Always smiling when it's him.

. . .

You meet someone.

His name is Daniel, and he's tall and easy to talk to and doesn't mind the way you fidget when you're nervous. He has a warm laugh and a job that sounds like it means something.

He also can't see Seungmin.

That last part shouldn't matter. It never has before.

Except this time, Seungmin hates him.

"He wears loafers with no socks," Seungmin grits out as you get ready for your fourth date. "No socks."

"You wear mismatched ones."

"I'm not real."

You pause. The words slice too cleanly through the air. It hangs there, bleeding.

"I like him, Min."

There's a beat of silence. Then, quieter: "I know."

. . .

It gets worse the longer you date.

You bring Daniel home one night and find Seungmin sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes dark. He doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at you. Just disappears before Daniel can even step inside.

But he doesn't show up.

Not until Daniel kisses you for the first time.

You're still smiling when you walk through the door, cheeks warm, heart fluttering.

And he's already there.

Slouched in your desk chair, hoodie half-zipped, looking at you like you'd just shot him in the gut.

You hang your keys with your purse.

"Min-"

"You kissed him."

"I-yeah. He's my boyfriend."

He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. Like it hurts. "Right. Your boyfriend. The one with the Spotify tattoo."

You frown. "Don't do that."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are! You've been doing this since the day I met him. Sabotaging. Judging. You act like you're some kind of...of relationship gatekeeper or something-"

"I'm not," he snaps. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"From what?!"

He doesn't answer.

So you say it.

The one thing you've never let yourself say.

"You're not real, Seungmin."

The words hit harder than you thought they would. You don't mean them- not really - but they come out sharp, cruel.

His face doesn't change. Not even a flicker.

"I know."

You're breathing too fast now. "I don't need you anymore. I'm twenty-five. I don't- I don't need an imaginary friend. I'm not ten."

Seungmin nods once. Slowly. Like he's been preparing for this moment for years.

"I know."

And then-

He vanishes.

Not like he usually does, slipping out of frame when someone walks in or blinking away for a dramatic exit. This time, it's immediate.

Sudden.

Gone.

You stand there alone in the doorway for a long time.

. . .

You try to move on.

Weeks pass. You keep dating Daniel. You keep waking up. You keep breathing. But everything feels quieter now. Lonelier.

No one's in the passenger seat when you're stuck in traffic.

No one's there to yell at the barista for spelling your name wrong.

No one tells you your date is going to ghost you after two weeks, even though- spoiler alert- he does.

Your apartment, although shared, still feels too big. Your bed, cold.

Jamie thinks you're better. "You've been, like...grounded lately," they say one day. "More here."

You nod. Smile. Lie.

You haven't been here at all.

. . .

You find a paper heart.

It's wedged into the corner of your bookshelf, tucked behind a photo of you at twelve, grinning, gap-toothed, with an empty space beside you that should have been too narrow for someone to sit in.

But in your memory, it isn't empty at all.

You sit on the floor that night and whisper into the dark like a fool.

"I didn't mean it."

You wait.

Nothing happens.

. . .

A week after he disappears, Daniel breaks up with you over text.

It's clean. Respectful. Says all the right things.

"You're great. I'm just not in a place to keep going." "You deserve someone fully here." "I hope we can still be friends."

You don't reply. Not because it hurts- thought it does- but because you already know this isn't the pain you've been bracing for.

You get dressed. Walk home in the rain like a cliche with a half-dead phone in your coat pocket and water in your shoes. You're not sad about Daniel, not really. You're sad about-

No.

You're not allowed to be.

. . .

Your apartment is too quiet. Again. Still.

There's an untouched granola bar on your nightstand. A stupid, small hope from a week ago. He never took it.

You collapsed on the couch, coat still wet, heart still open in all the wrong places. You don't cry. Not for Daniel.

But your voice cracks when you whisper, "I miss you."

No reply.

No soft voice from across the room. No sarcastic joke the break the tension. No footsteps. No warmth. Nothing.

He doesn't come back.

. . .

You start to forget what his voice sounded like.

Not all at once, but slowly. Cruelly.

The edges of his laugh blur first. Then the way he used to say your name- like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Some days, you see someone in a hoodie at the coffee shop, and your heart flutters. But it's never him. It's never going to be.

You stop checking the passenger seat. Stop setting out extra snacks. Stop waiting.

What are you even waiting for?

A ghost?

A dream?

A part of yourself you lost when you finally said out loud that he wasn't real.

. . .

Jamie says you've been doing better.

"You're more present lately," they say. "It's like you've finally...come back to earth."

You nod. Smile. Sip your drink.

They don't know you still whisper his name when you fall asleep.

. . .

You try to move forward.

New hobbies. New people. You learn to fill the space differently. But it never stops feeling like something's missing- like there's a shape beside you that no one else fits in.

You go on dates. You make small talk. You pretend.

No one ever feels like him.

Which is insane.

Because there was no him.

. . .

Months pass.

One morning, you find another paper heart behind your dresser while cleaning. It's wrinkled, yellowing at the edges, carefully folded from a granola bar wrapper.

You sit on the floor and hold it between your fingers like it might pulse with life. Like maybe it's a tether. A promise.

You wait.

But the room stays empty.

. . .

Years later, someone asks if you've ever been in love.

And you almost say yes.

Almost.

But you just smile and shake your head.

"No," you say,

Because how do you explain the kind of love that never existed outside your own mind?

How do you say: He wasn't real, but the ache was?

How do you admit: I still talk to him in my head.

You don't.

You just carry him quietly. Like a secret. Like a scar.

Because even if no one else remembers him-

You do.

You always will.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

[fluffroom]

what’s the best skz album and why is it noeasy

[fluffroom]

"You Remembered Me Wrong" - Felix

Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Fluff, Comfort Wholesome | Felix x Reader

Summary: A gentle, magical story about growing up, holding on, and the kind of love that feels like coming home.

You remember him with bunny ears.

Not literal ones, of course. Just- soft and silly, with cotton-candy hair and a tail made of yarn. In your childhood memories, he bounced around your room, climbing into forts, licking popsicles he said he "borrowed" from the moon.

You named him Lixie.

And for years, he was everything. Best friend, secret keeper, chaos gremlin.

And then he was gone.

You grew up, and imaginary friends always leave eventually.

. . .

Which is why it's insane when a guy shows up at your door at 7:42 AM holding a lopsided mug and a blue bag and says, "You remembered me wrong."

You blink. Still in your pajamas. Hair a mess. There's dried egg yolk on your arm from your failed attempt at a breakfast omelet.

"Excuse me?"

The guy blinks back at you with big eyes and a sweet smile. His voice is soft but playful. "The bunny ears? Really?"

"...What?"

"You drew me with ears. And a tail. And sometimes...glitter wings. I was a forest prince for three months straight."

Your mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

He holds up the mug. I has your childhood name etched on the side- not the one you use now. The nicknamed only one person ever called you.

"Can I come in?" he asks sweetly. "I brought cookies."

. . .

You consider calling the police.

You do check for hidden cameras.

But you let him in anyway. Maybe it's the cookies (they smell like strawberry and chocolate). Maybe it's the way he smiles like he already knows every inch of your living room. Or maybe it's the tiny, ancient part of your heart that still dreams in blanket forts and jelly bean currency.

He flops onto your couch like he belongs there. "This is different," he hums, gazing around. "The couch used to be purple. And covered in glitter."

You blink at him. "That couch was imaginary."

"I was imaginary," he shoots back, teasing. "That never stopped you."

You sit on the armrest, still stunned. "Okay, wait. Are you saying you're Lixie?"

He brightens. "You do remember!"

"Barely," you mutter. "You were, like, a chaos bunny gremlin. With a soda addiction and weird dance moves."

Felix gasps. "First of all, that soda saved the Realm of Sour Patch once. Secondly, my dance moves were and still are elite."

"You also licked my door knob."

"One time!"

. . .

You talk for three hours.

He doesn't leave, and you don't ask him to. He tells you stories from your childhood- the things you half-remember and the you didn't know you'd forgotten. How you used to wear mismatched socks on purpose to "confuse the shadow monsters." How you once made him a birthday crown from foil and purple pipe cleaners.

"You cried when it ripped," he says softly. "I fixed it with duct tape and dragon scales."

"You told me glitter was dragon scales."

He beams. "Exactly."

His eyes light up every time you laugh. And yours sting a little every time he says something you didn't realize you missed.

"So...how are you here?" you ask eventually. "Aren't you supposed to be a figment of my brain or something?"

Felix shrugs. "You hit your head last week, didn't you?"

Your stomach drops. "How did you-?"

"Some imaginary friends vanish when their kids grow up. Some of us...stay sleeping." He leans closer. "Your brain shook loose the part of you that remembered me."

"So now you're back?"

"I guess?" He shrugs again. "Maybe not forever. But for now."

. . .

He stays.

Not permanently. Not officially. But he starts showing up at odd hours. Late at night when the power flickers. Early mornings when your coffee burns. Afternoons when your thoughts spiral and your apartment feels like a too - loud echo chamber.

Felix appears like a sugar in tea - quiet, warm, dissolving into ever corner of your space.

He brings old memories like gifts.

"Remember this?" he says, holding a band-aid with a glitter bumble bee. "You used to stick these on my face."

"You let me?"

"You were seven! You ruled the entire world. I was just the idiot prince following orders."

"Pretty sure you invented the glitter war."

"Touche."

. . .

He's different now- grown, yes, but still unmistakably him. The mischief in his smile. The sparkle in his gaze when you pout. The soft way he says your name when you're quiet for too long.

He dances in the kitchen while you cook. Tangles himself in your blankets on movie nights. Tries every single snack in your pantry and gives them star ratings out of five.

He doesn't sleep, but he hums lullabies when you do.

And sometimes, in the quiet between dreams, you swear you feel his hand brushing yours.

. . .

You start to draw him again.

No bunny ears this time. No glitter wings or neon swords.

Just him.

Soft sweaters. Dimples. Freckles. Smiles so warm they melt away your worst days.

"You got me wrong as a kid," he teases, looking over your shoulder. "But this version? I kinda like it."

It all bubbles up one rainy night.

You're curled up on the couch, watching the sky crack open in silver flashes. You're wrapped in two blankets, one of which Felix insists "smells like your childhood bedroom," whatever that means.

He's quiet. Has been all evening. You peek over at him and find him watching you.

"What?" you whisper.

His voice is gentle. "Do you know how long I waited to be seen again?"

Your heart breaks, you can feel it.

"I knew it wasn't your fault," he says, eyes shining. "Kids grow up. Brains protect themselves. But when you stopped believing- when you forgot - I felt it. Like vanishing in slow motion."

You swallow thickly. "I didn't mean to forget you."

"I know." He smiles, soft and sad. "But I remembered you. Every version. Every laugh. Every scraped knee and blanket fort and ugly drawing you stuck on the wall."

You blink fast.

"I used to think...if I ever came back, I'd be enough as I was." His voice wobbles. "But maybe I'm not real enough for you anymore."

You don't think. You just move.

You slide across the couch, cup his cheeks, and kiss him.

It's warm. Comforting. Like remembering your favorite song in a quiet room.

"I don't care if you're imaginary," you whisper against his lips. "You're mine."

He smiles, wide and teary, and kisses you again like he's been waiting a thousand years.

. . .

You fall asleep with your fingers tangle together.

And when you wake up, he's still there - messy- haired, sleepy - eyed, and absolutely real enough for you.

. . .

He stays.

Not because he had to. Not because you believe or harder or wish stronger.

But because something changed. Maybe love does that. Maybe realness isn't about biology or time or logic.

Maybe it's about holding someones hand at 3 a.m. and whispering, don't disappear this time.

And them whispering back, not without you.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

Thank you again!

[fluffroom]

"Only When You Died" - Lee Know

Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Angst, Romance and Bittersweet| Minho x Reader

TW: mentions of a near-death experience, memory loss, emotional themes (abandonment, longing), and bittersweet tone. please read with caution.

Summary: When a near-death experience pulls you into a world between life and dreams, someone from your past is waiting- older, real, and heartbreakingly familiar. But how do you hold onto someone you forgot...and who never stopped waiting?

You don't remember the crash.

You remember the feeling, though. The freefall. The silence. The cold bloom of air swallowing you whole.

And then-

"You're awake."

You gasp as if you haven't breathed in years. Your eyes sting. Your throat burns. Your head throbs like it's been cracked open and taped back together. You reach for something - someone - and your hand collides with warm fingers.

Familiar fingers.

You blink, vision watery, adjusting to the strange light above. The person in front of you shifts, stepping out of the shadow.

No.

Not possible.

"...Minho?"

He smiles- soft and sad. "Took you long enough."

You try and sit up, but your limbs are lead. "You're not real," you whisper, even though your fingers are still laced with his.

"I wasn't," he replies, voice calm. "Not until you died."

. . .

When you were six, Minho appeared.

He wasn't flashy. Not like the glowing-winged companions other kids claimed to see. He didn't wear armor or sparkle or arrive on a unicorn.

He showed up in your closet, curled into a blanket fort, and said, "You looked lonely."

And you were. Your parents argued most nights. You had maybe two friends. But Minho always made room for you in the blankets.

For five years, he was your best friend. He knew your favorite color changed every two weeks. He remembered which teachers made you cry and which ones handed out gummy bears. He'd hum lullabies to you when you couldn't sleep and gently shake you awake from nightmares.

You never told anyone about him.

You didn't want to share.

Then, on your eleventh birthday, he didn't show up. Not that night. Not the next. Not ever again.

You waited. You cried. You yelled into your empty closet of blankets like a fool.

But he never came back.

You told yourself he was just imaginary. That maybe you'd made him up, a crutch, a coping mechanism. You told yourself to forget.

And you did.

Mostly.

. . .

Now he sits beside you, older.

Not just taller, more defined. Sharper jaw. Leaner dream. Same warm eyes. The same hands that once held yours as you crossed imaginary lava rivers.

"You look the same," you murmur.

"You don't," he says, a touch of something unreadable in his voice. "You grew up without me."

You looked down. "You left."

He flinches. "I didn't want to."

You stare at him, feeling the weight of all those empty years settle in your chest. "Why did you disappear?"

Minho exhales and stands. He walks to the window- if it can even be called that. Outside is a strange violet sky, starlit but soft. "You stopped believing," he says finally.

"I was eleven."

"I know." He turns to you, hands in his pockets. "But belief is the only thing that keeps us...us."

You frown. "Us?"

"Imaginaries." He shrugs. "Made from memory, from emotion, from longing. When you stopped believing in me...I faded."

"So why are you here now?"

He looks at you, and the ache in his eyes guts you.

"You died."

. . .

You're not dead, not fully.

Minho explains it while pouring you a cup of something warm and golden. He says this place- the starlit in-between - only touches those whose souls teeter on the edge.

"I was only ever imaginary," he says, quietly. "But the moment your heart stopped, I became real."

"That's not fair."

"I know."

"You weren't real when I needed you."

"I was there," he says, voice cracking. "You just couldn't see me anymore."

Silence. Heavy and full of things neither of you wants to admit.

"I missed you," you whisper.

He closes his eyes like it hurts. "Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because I never stopped missing you."

. . .

Days pass- or something like them.

There's no time here, not like the world you left. But every hour with Minho feels like unraveling an old favorite song. You remember his crooked smirk when you say something dumb. The way he frowns when he's thinking. The softness behind his sarcasm.

You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you're not looking. You pretend not to notice how close he always sits, how often he reaches out like he might touch you, then pulls back.

Finally, one night, you ask:

"What happens if I wake up?"

His eyes don't leave the stars. "You forget me again."

Your chest twists. "Completely?"

He nods.

"And if I don't?"

His throat bobs. "Then you stay."

You look at him, really look. "Would you want me to?"

His voice is barely a whisper. "More than anything."

. . .

He kisses you on the fourth night.

It's hesitant. Soft. Almost afraid.

You feel lit in your bones - how long he's wanted this. How long you've needed it.

You kiss him back, and the world around you glows brighter.

"I don't want to forget this," you breathe against his lips.

"You won't," he promises, forehead pressed to yours. "Even if you forget me."

. . .

But dreams always end.

The world begins to shake.

Light pours in like floodwater.

Minho grabs your hand. "No. Not yet."

You're crying. "Minho -!"

"You have to go."

"I don't want to!"

"If you stay, you die." His grip is tight, shaking. "And I'd rather you forget me again than lose you forever."

"But I love you," you sob. "Doesn't that matter?"

He kisses your knuckles, tears slipping down his face. "It's the only thing that ever did."

. . .

You wake up in a hospital bed.

The machines beep. The light is harsh. You're alive.

But your heart is breaking, and you don't know why.

. . .

You find the drawing three weeks into recovery.

Tucked in an old sketchbook from your childhood - pages yellowed, spine cracked.

It's him.

Minho.

He's not labeled. Not dated. Just sitting under a paper star sky, wearing that same bittersweet smile.

You trace the lines with your fingers, heart pounding.

You still don't remember his name.

But somehow, somehow, you still remember how it felt to love him.

THE END

A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.

Thank you again!