#Literally the entire reason my fic exists

[lucy-literates]

HI IT'S ME AGAIN FROM THE POOL FIC

Can you maybe do a fis w reader and Malachi owning a dog maybe a Husky or a Border Collie(IT CAN BE ANY BREED YOU WANT THOUGH) and they're just having their family time out together and some fans see them and took photos which ended up looking ADORABLE

PLEASE THANK YOU🫶🫶🫶 AND I LOVED THE You, Me & Chlorine fic😩✋

A/N: I'm so glad you love it! This is such a sweet idea. I have 2 maltase shiatzus myself, but I've always wanted a cuddly dog, like a husky. I hope you like this one too. Send in more requests if you have them!

Caught in the Act (of Being Too Cute)

(hehe, another excuse to use this gif)

You always knew Nova, your dog (see what I did there ;)) would be the reason people fell in love with Malachi all over again.

It started with a quiet Sunday.

You were both wrapped up in oversized hoodies, sneakers laced lazily, and Nova’s leash tangled around your fingers as she tugged impatiently at the end. Malachi carried a coffee for you and one for himself — well, half a coffee. He kept sneaking sips from yours.

Nova barked, tail wagging violently as she jumped up on a park bench. She loved the attention. And Malachi gave it to her like she was royalty.

“Sit,” he said gently. She obeyed immediately.

He turned to you, beaming. “Tell me she’s not the smartest girl alive.”

You snorted. “You’re lucky I’m not jealous.”

“You should be,” he grinned, dropping a kiss to your temple. “But don’t worry. You’re still my favorite girl.”

You were sitting together on the grass a few minutes later, Nova sprawled out between you with her tongue hanging out and her head in your lap. Malachi lay back with his arms behind his head, hoodie pushed up just enough to reveal the soft trail of skin under his shirt, sunglasses crooked on his nose. You snapped a photo of him.

“You look like a Tumblr boy,” you teased.

“Do people still use Tumblr?”

“They do when it’s to thirst over you.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, someone else had also been taking pictures — a group of teens with a fluffy golden retriever and sharp eyes.

They whispered. They giggled. They pretended to take selfies while actually catching a full set of adorable candids:

One of Malachi cradling Nova like a baby.

One of you feeding her a dog treat while Malachi pouted that he wanted one too.

One of all three of you laying in the sun, Nova curled between your bodies like she belonged there from the beginning (she did).

And one — the best one — of you kissing Malachi’s cheek while he scratched Nova’s ears, both of them smiling like they had everything they needed.

The photos hit social media that evening with the caption:

“Ran into Malachi Barton and his gf today and their dog is literally cuter than my entire existence 🥺💔”

The internet lost it. Fan pages flooded with hearts, edits, and cries of “I want what they have.”

And you? You just laughed when you saw it.

“Guess we’re viral again,” you told him, flipping your phone to show the photos.

He blinked. “Wait, that was today?!”

You nodded. “We’ve officially been soft-launched as the couple with the dream dog.”

Malachi grinned, wrapping an arm around you. “Good. Now the world knows how lucky I am.”

Nova barked.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “How lucky we are.”

Tag List:

(Thank you to everyone who has made this my longest tag list so far)

@laylayschipzz

@purplerose291

@imnotnotgabrielle

@imnotjadaddy

@23swife

@mysticmarble222

@saphiraelise

@coffeeonvenus 

@casey1-2007

[pastelaspirations]

Good day to you. I hath returned to update you on the current state of my progress. Rereading has begun.

And I am falling in love with Ink all over again.

HE IS ME. How is it that he echos thoughts I have had WORD FOR WORD. It’s scary accurate 😰 /pos

Hehe I’ve decided I’m doing a page of mini doodles and possibly an actual artwork if I have a good idea at some point TvT

Just wanted to say. I love the exposition (again) and I’m reminded why I started loving the fic to begin with <3 (I’m only like 5 chapters in btw-)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCKKK, THANK YOU, I'M GLAD YOU'RE ENJOYING. It always warps my brain to hear that people are rereading. Like. Are you sure. That's a lot to reread, my guy-

But maaan, thank you. I like to think the reason people can relate to Ink so much is because I inject a lot of myself into him lmao. THEY SAY WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW, SO-

Tbh, I slap a lot of myself into both Error and Ink. Ink gets my crippling anxiety, and Error gets my wack, sarcastic sense of humor to cope with the world-

[wxwoobe]

ˋ°•*⁀➷ #1 fanboy

a/n : this is me writing a fic after DAYS.

contains : michael kaiser x reader

synopsis : what could you need more than your absolutely whipped boyfriend?

cw : established relationship, lowk simp kaiser AAHH

you're at a press event with him. just meant to watch quietly, chill in the background.

but that’s impossible.

because the second kaiser steps out and sees cameras, he beelines straight to you.

a mic is shoved to his face by various reporters, all asking different questions.

"michael kaiser, how do you stay so focused with so much pressure on you?"

and he laughs. that smooth chuckle catching everyone by surprise and he looks straight at you.

"i don't. i just think about my girlfriend and focus comes running."

he says it like it's the most casual thing. and everyone is going crazy, feral even.

—

someone tries again,

"any thoughts before the final match?"

he flashes you one of his cocky smirks, and then looks at the reporter dead, "yeah. i told my girl if i win, she has to kiss me in front of all of you. so now i have to win.”

EVERYONE? FERAL. CRAZY.

—

after the match? he wins, obviously. and now he’s dragging your hand up to the mic stand and says with the biggest smirk:

"hi. i'm michael kaiser. or as the streets know me now— mr. her boyfriend." silence.

—

fangirls on twitter :

"i hate her she's so lucky💔"

"why does bro look at her like she hung the stars or smt ☠️"

"WHICH GOD DID SHE PRAY TO 🙏🙏"

—

he doesn't even deny it in interviews now.

"what inspires your game?"

"my girl's ass."

"what's your pre-game ritual?"

"telling her she's pretty and then begging her for a kiss."

—

you try to hide your face in public and he literally grabs your chin like,

"don't cover the face of my entire reason for existing. be serious."

then wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your cheek on camera.

—

AND THE BEST PART?

he’s cocky about EVERYTHING — except you.

"she’s smarter than me. prettier too. actually, she’s the best thing i've ever won."

and you’re just like 🧍‍♀️😭🧍‍♀️😭🧍‍♀️😭.

[applejuicinator]

The LADS men and your jealousy.

TW: Angst that is very easily resolved, misunderstanding, Zayne fucking up just a teeny bit.Our baby is only human. Also my first fic in years so it’s probably garbage. Tumblr is now my fic dumping ground.

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

Green isn’t your best colour

Whilst jealousy isn’t something completely unknown to you, the situation in front of you seemed to stir an unbridled fury deep within your gut.

❄️ Zayne ❄️

Your beautiful and caring partner in crime was a literal angel when it came to your needs, whims and wants. He had never given you any reason to doubt him or his faith in your relationship, it was something entirely foreign in your mind, as though your brain couldn’t even compute a possibility of him cheating.

But when you walked into his office, well into the night mind you, to see a beautiful young doctor shoulder to shoulder with your boyfriend as they sifted through papers… something horrible and cold came to rest on your shoulders.

You knew nothing had happened, even with the surprising contact Zayne was sharing with another person. He normally didn’t tolerate people in his presence for very long never mind them touching him. He looked up from the report in hand, a look of surprise skimmed his sculpted features, but the sparkle of joy in his expression was hard to miss.

The young woman next to him rolled her chair away from him slightly, as though she had been caught red handed. Zayne, you trusted with your whole heart, your entire physical and mental being.

But this woman, this gorgeous, tall modelesque doctor who tracked your partners movements subtly with her body, was a different story. She probably didn’t realise you saw through her easily, the nervous ramrod straight posture was evidence enough. You had spent years fighting wanderers, watching closely and intensely to shifts in the world around you meant you were very adept at picking up on the small things.

You walked over to his desk with a perfect practised grin, learned through your many undercover missions. Zayne’s small smile disappeared however when he noticed the stiffness to your lips, the unusual tightness in your gaze. He was attuned to your every emotion, knowing perfectly how you felt even if it was a quiet exhale. In fact he was oblivious to pretty much everything except you and his patients, so a hot woman trying to hit on him probably flew straight over his head. .

This was both a blessing and a curse.

“Darling I was just checking up on you before I headed home” He leant into your touch as you delicately kissed his cheek, cooing internally at the red tint to his ears.

Your gaze now shifted to the doctor next to him, who had rolled a few more inches away, papers clutched tightly between her fingers. She didn’t look at you though, instead focusing on the words in front of her, willing you out of existence.

“This is Lillian, a new junior doctor from Skyhaven” Zayne introduced you both matter of factly, unaware of the silent battle ensuing. Lillian smiled at you kindly but it didn’t quite reach her eyes which irritated you even more. If you’re going to be so clear with your fascination for someone else’s boyfriend at least have the decency to look a little shameful.

“I didn’t realise the time; I’ll finish looking through these reports with Lillian quickly. Do you want to wait for me?”

For some reason the way he said her name rubbed you the wrong way, as though they were old friends. His other colleagues simply received a title or their surname, but she had somehow received the privilege of being on first name basis.

Had Zayne ever witnessed you being outwardly jealous before? You think back through your loving five year relationship, filled with some ups and down like any other, but never had you experienced an intense pang of jealously like this. There were times when women had hit on him but… look at the man! He was ethereal, heaven sent. Zayne never spared them even a single glance, barely registering their existence. You were so confident in him that the jealousy never reached more than surface level.

But this felt different, she wasn’t just a random woman who blipped by. This was a woman who held his gaze even if it was just a professional one; he was aware of her.

It didn’t help that Zayne was one of the most beautiful and kind hearted people you had ever laid eyes on. It caused people to flock to him despite his icy atmosphere, because they knew he genuinely cared.

“Darling?” You’re startled from your thoughts by a gentle hand taking yours, Zayne fixing you with a concerned look. “Why don’t you head home without me?”

You subconsciously pulled your hand from his grip, the interaction leaving him more confused.

It was only reports, he was only looking through reports with a fellow colleague. Nothing more you told yourself. The thought of leaving him alone with this woman made your stomach church.

Just colleagues. Heck, even if they were friends, it’s not in your right to tell him who he can and can’t mingle with. You’re not so old fashioned that you don’t think that men and women can’t be friends.

But you could see the gleam in Lillian’s eyes, from the way she angled her whole body to hang on every word he said all the way to her tongue coming to nervously dampen her lips whenever he spoke.

You trusted Zayne. And you couldn’t really find any excuse to stay behind to wait for him.

“Yeah I think I’m just tired. Please don’t stay too late” you clipped, giving him a rushed goodbye kiss and hightailing it out of there without sparing Lillian a second glance. He’s just showing her the ropes whilst she gets used to Asko.

If Yvonne noticed your grimace as you hurried from the building, she doesn’t mention it.

However, you should have known things never go that smoothly.

Lillian continued to rear her ugly head for the next few weeks, subtly at first but then more and more you saw her almost glued to Zayne’s side whenever you visited. You were biting your tongue the whole time, wondering when and if you should even say something. After all they weren’t crossing any boundaries and Zayne was still enamoured with every breath you made.

You scoured forums and advice columns about what to do – how to handle jealousy. Nothing of note ever came back, mostly just people venting how they felt and never really any solutions. You felt too ashamed to talk to your friends; it was such a new feeling and what if they confirmed your fears that you were being vindictive? A horrible nasty woman green with envy.

So you bottled it all up and pushed your complaints into the pit of your stomach. Even when Zayne mentioned her in passing at home, even when he told you not to come give him lunch because he needed to show Lillian some things.

But things came to a head, all things snap and break under pressure eventually.

You blinked down at the Asko hospital official account on Linksta, the page opened to their most recent picture which was a glimpse of the ‘Esteemed Medicine Gala’ which aimed to give due credit to hardworking doctors and allowed them to share tips and stories. The picture was a snapshot of golden hues and ornate declarations, with a group of well dressed people gathered in the middle posing elegantly. There you could see Zayne’s solemn figure, his face impassive aside from the slight upturn of his lips in the ghost of a smile. Lillian, hair professionally tousled and dripping with decadent jewels stood beside him. She wasn’t touching him, in fact she was stood quite far from him but it made your blood boil nonetheless.

You had debated bringing this up with your boyfriend for the past week, ever since you had stumbled across it. This Gala was something you attended with him every year but the event was delayed and you had ended up being at a conference in Skyhaven when it was finally reorganised. Absolutely typical timing when your emotions were a fraught storm of unease and jealousy.

You very much know that a junior doctor like Lillian wasn’t privy to the gala, unless she had attended as a plus one. Zayne’s plus one.

He confirmed it when you first mentioned the photo, just in passing so it seemed casual enough. He was upset it wasn’t you beside him, he said as much, but that was it. And it felt like a punch to the gut. Why had he even brought her in the first place? Surely Zayne, who was incredibly emotionally intelligent under normal circumstances, must understand how bringing another woman to a public event like that would look to your significant other.

Or did he notice and he just… didn’t care? Had he grown tired of you? You were at war with yourself, with your own thoughts pushing you further and further into this spiral of negativity and suspicion.

What did ring true is that you couldn’t keep this to yourself anymore.

When Zayne entered through the door close to midnight to find you staring blankly at the tv which was off, he immediately knew something was wrong. He had noticed your shift in mood and demeanour for the past few weeks, but when questioned you had waved him off with it being due to the back and forth hunters conferences. With your new promotion at work… he believed it without question.

But this was new.

“Darling?” He questioned gently, he placed his keys in the entry way bowl, cringing as the metallic clinking echoed through the quiet apartment. You hummed to confirm you heard him but didn’t move to greet him, your eyes remained glued to the empty tv screen. Zayne came and sat beside you, he shrugged off his coat and laid it on the arm of the plush setae. The silence stretched on for a few moments before Zayne shuffled closer, resting his hand on your thigh in quiet comfort.

“What’s the matter? Has something happened?” Had it been work again? Were they pushing you above and beyond your boundaries, you often did overtime to help out others. Your caring nature was something he adored about you, but not when it came to the detriment of your health. He supposed you were both a pair of workaholics.

You bit your lip, inner turmoil obviously painting your features. Zayne waited patiently, calmly and lovingly as he always did.

“Something has been bothering me lately and it isn’t work” you glanced at him from the corner of your eyes, his face beautifully bathed in the orange glow of the side table lamp. “I really don’t know how to even… say this” you inhaled, then exhaled.

“I’m uncomfortable with how close you’ve gotten to Lillian, and I probably should have told you earlier but I didn’t want to come off as possessive” You rambled, your voice hitched with nervousness but you kept your gaze trained on a spot in the corner above the cute potted plant he bought you recently. You couldn’t look at him. Your voice tapered off quietly, and when Zayne didn’t respond immediately you felt your hear beat stacatto, the thumping loud in your ears.

“My relationship with Lillian is entirely professional, I don’t believe I would even qualify us as friends” Zayne sounded confused, if you turned to look at him you bet he’d have that cute scrunch to his brow that always appeared when something baffled him. Which you did. Often.

His statement was composed and matter of fact, that should have made you feel better. But it didn’t. It was evident this man didn’t feel a shred of anything for the bright eyed, bushy tailed junior. But his statement was dismissive, even though you know he wasn’t trying to be. It sorta fucking hurt.

“I know I know, and I trust you wholeheartedly but there are just some things that don’t sit well with me” You expected Zayne to maybe ask what made you uncomfortable and how you could both try to come to a solution, or at least comfort you but instead your boyfriend did the opposite.

“She’s a fellow doctor, someone I have to work with for the care of my patients. I can’t just ignore her” Your head snapped to him so fast, as though it was on a swivel. First of all you hadn’t even suggested such a thing, second of all he didn’t even ask what was making you uncomfortable in the first place. You questioned yourself for a moment; intensely staring into his eyes. You pushed his hand off your thigh, jumping from the couch like a coiled up spring as unease jittered beneath your skin.

“I’m not asking you to ignore her Zayne!” His name left your mouth with more force than necessary. You two didn’t argue often, once in a blue moon and usually about smaller things like your similar habits of staying out at work late but this felt very different. You felt your hands shaking, you were angry, footfalls heavy as you paced in front of him.

“Well, what would you have me do?” Zayne’s voice was level just like normal but this aggravated you like nothing else. It made you feel as though you were blowing things out of proportion.

The two of you continued to swap passive arguments for what felt like hours but in reality was only minutes. Your pitch continued to get louder and louder, you weren’t aware you were shouting until Zayne told you that screeching wasn’t a way to get your point across.

Screeching? Screeching?

Your mouth snapped shut. You looked down at yourself, chest heaving with anger and anxiety, frustrated tears threatening to gush forth like a dam. The two of you stood apart from one another, the distance seemed like an unbridgeable gap. The man you loved more than anything stood the other side.

For Zayne’s part he didn’t really understand what was happening. He had told you that he didn’t even consider the woman a friend, which he didn’t, he couldn’t even remember her face once he stepped past the hospital threshold. Bubbling indigence spilled from him in waves. It felt as though you were questioning his motives, his love and loyalty to you. He gave all he had, everything was for you and you only.

“Zayne.” The cold frost that seeped from your tone made whatever he was about to say die on the tip of his tongue. The name you usually spoke so lovingly, dripped in honey and happiness, was instead replaced with cold venom. “I repeatedly walk in on you alone, with another woman late at night.” Zayne’s eyes widened slightly, as though he didn’t even realise.

You held up your hand, urging him to let you continue.

“Like you said, you’re both doctors and I understand that you can’t just ignore her. I wouldn’t ever ask you to. But the overtime you’re sharing with her, the missed lunches…” you tried to maintain composure, words coming out coherently to communicate your thoughts and feelings, he is right in the fact that raising your voice isn’t helping either of you.

You fought back tears instead, the reality of this argument stifling the atmosphere of your usually warm apartment and pressing down on your chest.

You know that if you started crying, Zayne would panic and fold immediately, his anger dissipating like a summer breeze in winter. But you didn’t want him to feel bad. You just wanted him to understand what was going through your mind. To work to a solution.

“And the final straw.” You looked him in the eyes, and hurt seemed to reflect back, it almost made you pause, give up on this whole tirade entirely. But this wasn’t something that could be buried deep in the recesses of your mind anymore. “You took her to the Esteemed Medicine Gala” You choked on the last word, your hands coming up to wipe at the stray few tears that slipped over your cheeks. You had tried, but saying it out loud that your boyfriend had gone to that gala without you, another woman grasping his arm, made bile rise in your throat.

“Just think how you would have felt if I had taken Xavier to the Hunters’ Ball. Of if you had even told me beforehand so it didn’t blindside me”

Zayne opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to come out. He looked panicked, a look that was rare on him.

You should have told him how you felt earlier, about how uncomfortable their closeness made you feel, Zayne isn’t a mind reader. You had become so accustomed to him putting your every need first, you relied on him unfairly, Zayne was only human.

And you expected so much from him, too much

At the same time, you were also only human. Someone flawed who loved the man in front of you so deeply it hurt.

“I don’t want to do this anymore” your words came out quietly, you had meant it in the way that you didn’t want to fight anymore but to Zayne, the words implicated something horrendous, something he couldn’t contemplate. You flinched as he grasped your hands, his palms which were normally cool and dry felt clammy with nerves.

“Please- I didn’t -…” Zayne stuttered, but words died when he saw your crumpled expression.

“Just forget… just forget I said anything” you mumbled lowly before hastily retreating to your bedroom, and once the door had clicked shut, everything hit you all at once. It started off as silent flow of billowy tears but it wasn’t long before you were hiccuping and groaning into your pillow. Your heart hurt.

Regret began to replace anger and sorrow.

It was pointless now, why had you even mentioned it. Was your trust in him so brittle? No wonder he looked so wounded, that beautiful face that gazed at you with adoration normally, looked so distraught.

He didn’t come after you either, you had truly fucked it.

You woke to a cold hand cupping your cheek, the touch so gentle and tender that it made your heart quiver. The grogginess made you slur as you reached out for his other hand to clasp within your own. The skin around your eyes itched from dry tears, you bet that they’d look like two baseballs stuck to your face at this moment in time.

“Whatsh the time” you shifted towards him, head resting beneath his chin as arms came to pull you in even closer to him.

“Early, go back to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning” His voice seemed far away and distorted, the throws of sleep and the comforting embrace lulling you back to deep needed slumber.

You blinked clearly as warm rays of sun filtered through the blinds you’d forgotten to shut. The memories of last night seemed to rush back to you like a hurtling freight train with no brakes.

You always said never to go to bed angry with each other. What a hypocrite.

Ugh.

You patted the bed beside you, wondering if you had imagined Zayne’s presence last night, but the tell tale twisted sheets were definitely him all over. The muffled sound of the tv playing reached your ears at the same time the earthy scent of roasting coffee graced your nostrils.

You sat up, the sheets pooling at your waist. You needed to apologise, at the very least for raising your voice at him. Shouting never solved anything.

At this point you just wanted to forget this ever happened, forget about Lillian and just fall into his embrace.

You left the warm bed and freshened up in the bathroom, splashing your face with some cold water and brushing your teeth to feel less like the living dead. Your reflection looked haggard, eyes bulging and red.

You headed to the living room with soft footfalls, the chill of the laminate raising goosebumps on the backs of your arms. And there he was, your ethereal boyfriend busying himself in the kitchen as the news channel garbled on about stocks and wanderers. He glanced over his shoulder at you, the skin around his eyes was blotchy and puffy.

“Sit down and I’ll bring you some coffee”

You swallowed the guilt and did as he said, nestling yourself in the confines of the blankets and pillows like you were in a cocoon. You felt a dip in the couch moments later as a steaming coffee made in your favourite plush mug was handed to you.

Your hands grasped the mug tightly, the nerves didn’t fade even with the kind gesture.

You didn’t want him to break up with you.

“Darling” Zayne spoke first, shattering the barrier. “Can you please look at me?”

You did as he said, shifting to face him. He looked tired, more haggard than when he’d worked a 24 hour shift. He put his coffee to the side, elegant fingers brushing against your knee featherlight. It was as if he was coaxing a small and frightened animal.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”

“No Zayn-“ you began, placing your coffee cup next to his on the table. You needed to touch him, feel his warmth.

“Please let me continue” he moved closer, taking your face in his hands. You felt each ripple and ridge of his scarred palms against your cheek, even the subtle tremble to his hands. “I reflected on what you said, how my actions and attitude must have come across.” He held your face tighter.

“You came to me with legitimate concerns and I just brushed them aside without even thinking.” He inhaled shakily. “I love you so much, the world for me spins only because you’re by my side”

“Oh Zayne..” you sniffled, vision beginning to blur once again with tears.

“It is no excuse, however I only took Lillian at the directors request so she could network with other doctors. But I should have told you this, rather than just expecting you to be okay with it.” You knew there would be a story behind her attendance, but jealously picks at the threads, pulling at them until everything is coming apart.

“And the lunches and late nights… I’m such a fool.” He looked ashamed. “Even if I didn’t see it that way I should have realised that it wasn’t appropriate”

You placed your hands over his, exhaling a deep breath of relief that had been stewing for weeks.

“I love you, more than words can describe. More than I thought was possible” He repeated again.

Your heart clenched, the sincerity and adoration in his cadence made everything feel right.

“Will you forgive me? For being so so stupid”

You nodded as you flung your arms around his neck, nuzzling your cheek against his, his scent immediately calming your frayed nerves. Like a sailor coming home to dock.

He pulled you into his lap, grip ironclad as he nosed against your neck, peppering light kisses to the soft skin.

“I’m sorry too” he pulled back to look at you, confusion painting his features. “I should have told you earlier about my concerns and I should never ever have shouted at you.” Zayne shook his head, not dismissively, but in disagreement.

“Sweetheart, you were not in the wrong for sharing your concerns with me.”

“But I could have handled it better and for that I’m sorry.” Zayne didn’t think you needed to apologise at all. Your partner postponing lunch dates to spend time with another woman? What sort of fool was he. How could he have made you cry, the woman who loved him to his flawed core.

“I love you” You kissed him, his body slotting against yours like the perfect puzzle piece. You peppered his face in loving pecks, murmuring words of adoration in between each one. He received each touch, each statement happily, responding to every single one with his own declaration of love

You stayed glued to each other for a while, head resting on his shoulder. This closeness you both craved settled into pure bliss on a lazy Sunday morning. His rough hands brushed up your sides softly, the touch making your legs quiver. You huffed against his neck, the gasp and shiver not going unnoticed.

“Why don’t we go take a shower and I’ll show you how sorry I am…”

You looked up at him, pure reverence in his gaze as you brushed your thumb against his lips, a dark red flush blooming across his pale neck.

“I want a long, hard apology” You watched him shudder.

“Anything for you” He kissed you hard, grasping at you like you were his only reason for living.

❄️

A good old short fic to get me back into writing, so please be aware that this won’t be a masterpiece. I’m probably going to place all the fics that don’t make it to AO3 on here.

Also I’m going to do one for each of the boys. I picked Zayne first for this because why not, and whilst I recognise he’s incredibly emotionally intelligent I think that sometimes he forgets to make his internal thoughts known. Do I think he’d be as oblivious as I portray him… probably not. He is a man infatuated after all.

This was way longer than I expected - also probably filled with errors and waffling. Feels nice to finally write again tho.

[ducksido]

I LOVE YOUR WORKS Practically going to tumblr to see it, I wanna request a houswardens having s/o who has unreal beauty? And has soft melodic laugh, I am just liking the trend of unreal beauty AHHHH I wanted to do myself the fic but you will do it better[sry just love you fics they look like canon]

(thank yew ❣️❣️)

Riddle Rosehearts Riddle was raised on rules, not daydreams. But when he looks at you? Logic flies out the window. You don’t just look beautiful—you’re unreal, like a fairytale vision spun from silk and moonlight. The first time he hears your laugh—soft, chiming, and full of genuine warmth—he forgets his entire sentence mid-way.

“I-I… you’re… no, I mean—ahem! You shouldn’t laugh like that in public—it’s… distracting…” His ears are as red as his hair. He gets flustered trying to enforce rules around you, but deep down? He loves that he’s powerless to your smile.

Leona Kingscholar Leona’s seen plenty of beautiful people, but you? You're on a whole other level. He calls you “Herbivore”, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some mythical creature who wandered into his den—is pure reverence.

“Tch. With a face like that, you’ll give the sun a complex.” He pretends to nap through your laughter, but his tail always flicks toward you when you laugh—like it’s trying to chase the sound. You're the only one who can make him willingly move from his nap spot… just to hear you laugh again.

Azul Ashengrotto You’re his Achilles’ heel. Azul, ever-calculated, tries to maintain composure around you—but when you walk in, glowing like ocean pearls with that melodic laugh that ripples like waves? He short-circuits.

“W-Would you mind… not laughing like that during meetings? It’s hard to think straight when you sound like a lullaby.” He fantasizes about bottling your laugh like a potion—something precious only he can hold. No business deal could ever compare to the way you smile just for him.

Kalim Al-Asim Kalim adores you. He's stunned every time he sees you—like he forgets you're real. Your laugh? It’s his favorite song. He claps, spins, and cheers when he hears it.

“You're like a genie’s wish come true!! Even your laugh sparkles!!” He shows you off like a precious jewel—not out of pride, but pure awe. He throws lavish parties just so others can see what he sees: someone too beautiful for words, with a voice soft enough to tame storms.

Vil Schoenheit Vil is the standard of beauty. And yet—even he can’t help but pause when you walk into a room. He studies you with a critical eye at first… but soon finds himself breathless.

“You’re… quite literally dazzling. And that laugh? It’s like perfume for the ears. How am I supposed to stay composed?” You’re the only one who could make the Queen himself stumble over words. Vil admires your grace, your softness, and the way your beauty is effortless. He won't admit it out loud, but you make him feel insecure—in the best way.

Idia Shroud He thought ethereal beauty only existed in RPGs. But then you appeared—with that glowy, surreal aura and a laugh so gentle it makes his chest ache.

“You… you’re not like a ghost or a simulation, right? B-Because you look like you phased in from another dimension or something…” His hair flares hot pink whenever you laugh. He replays your voice in his head like a cherished OST. He’s convinced you're some kind of mythical NPC that accidentally wandered into his world—and he's not letting you glitch away.

Malleus Draconia To Malleus, who has wandered centuries alone, you are a vision he never thought he’d witness outside a dream. Your beauty transcends mortal standards. He doesn't just admire you—he worships you.

“Your laughter… it soothes the thorns in my heart. You must be a forest spirit, come to enchant me.” He finds himself smiling whenever you’re near, your presence brighter than even his beloved gargoyles. You’re his lullaby. His light. His reason to want the company of others—for once.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Actually so attached to the mental image of team ro Tenzo, Shisui and Itachi trailing after team captain Kakashi like a trio of lost ducks.

Tbf, it's mostly Tenzo and Itachi projecting the lost duck energy, but Shisui also delights in being there. So it's like,

Itachi and Tenzo: Genuinely trailing behind Kakashi like lost puppies.

Shisui: Trailing behind Itachi and Tenzo projecting the same aura but mostly because he thinks this is the funniest thing ever

Kakashi: Denying to his dying breath that these guys are wet eyed ducklings trailing behind him like he's their mother (except Shisui, who he will occasionally acknowledge the behavior of only because he KNOWS Shisui is doing it to fuck with him. However he knows the other two are serious about it and will thus refuse to admit this is his reality ever.)

I think when they hang out or train out of masks together, it's in secluded or private places (probably in compliance with whatever ANBU privacy/subtlety rules have to exist about what context teams can hang out together under) So very few people have the proper context of seeing them all together. Especially bc, during this time, Kakashi is in that 16-18 year old doom spiral. He's starting to ease out of the depression, but his title of Friend Killer Kakashi still follows him, and he works overtime to avoid people and crowds.

So anyways that means no one really knows ab his little entourage, which means funny realization moments when people DO see them in public together.

(Someone remind me later to do a '5 times someone realized Kakashi had become a teen mother + 1 time Kakashi realized himself' fic later, that'd be so fucking funny)

The only one to be fully aware of Kakashi's little ducklings is Gai, who's been lucky enough to spot them all together more than once (mostly bc he's one of the only people Kakashi will willingly exist around for more than 10 minutes at a time when out of uniform) Otherwise, there's a handful of people who know of team Ro's attitude towards KKS (separately) Like Genma (subject to Shisui and Tenzo) and Kurenai (subject to Itachi)

"Kakashi," Kurenai asked. "Why are you hanging out with a toddler?"

Kakashi cocked his head. "I don't know. Itachi, why am I hanging out with a toddler?"

"Mother asked you to give me advice on working with my elder teammates." Itachi responded without missing a beat, and Kakashi nodded in approval.

"There you have it."

In general, I think Kakashi is probably spotted with Tenzo the most out of anyone on the team. He's like, basically his handler once he's out of ROOT, very invested in his personhood and general existence for several (political and personal) reasons, and has taken to trying to teach him how to be a real boy and whatnot now that he's in the real world. They're also close in age, and unlike Shisui (who's also close in age), Tenzo is very quiet and genuine in his respect for Kakashi. So Kakashi can genuinely just enjoy existing near Tenzo in silence without worry.

Tenzo is probably the lowkey favorite, which Itachi and Shisui are NOT bitter about, they promise.

(Shisui is actually p ok w that, he thinks Tenzo deserves it after all the shit he's been through and is happy for the clear comfort Kakashi brings to his life.

Itachi refuses to admit he's jealous ever, but years later when he is an actual, literal terrorist who hasn't seen his teammates in years, when he sees Tenzo again, he will hit him extra hard w a genjutsu special with a vague sense of satisfaction and the specific thoughts of, 'being captains favorite won't save you now, will it.')

Anyways the entire point of this post was that I want someone (possibly Genma) to refer to the members of team ro as "Kakashi's ducklings" because it'd would be funny to me personally.

That's it, end of post. Thank u for ur time.

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part two

Info : Reader is a healer, canon typical violence, slow burn, one sided beef to lovers type beat W / C : 1.6k.

A / N : silas actually uploading an entire fic??? this is unheard of!! uncharted territory!!!!! jk though. i was burnt out for NO reason and suddenly got a surge of spite against my depression and wrote this. lol. it WILL in fact be a series, this is only part one i fear

The first time Mark meets you is after the fight with his dad.

Cecil had told him he’d be fixed right up—in the physical aspect, at the very least. “The kid hates sob stories. Try not to say too much.”

So, he took the old man’s advice, and hadn’t said much to you while you were healing him. He’d argue that the silence was awkward. Foreign and strange, and he didn’t know how to not sit there and manage to not look out of place. The room you primarily worked in wasn’t like a hospital room, no.

It didn’t have those weird posters of kittens with something that said ‘believe in yourself,’ or something dumb like that, it wasn’t just pristine white walls with blinding fluorescent lights that gave patients headaches, and it didn’t smell like pure bleach and chemicals. No. It smelled of something floral and sweet, almost like fruit; but not quite there. The walls were more a peach color than anything, easier on the eyes than the standard American hospital. Not to mention that the walls were decorated.

All in all, it was strange. Like someone as bruised and bloody as Mark didn’t belong in there. Somewhere sweet and almost gentle, and the wounds that had made him feel as though they’d stay forever—stay etched into his skin, down to the bone, alongside the blood that wasn’t just solely his—mended themselves back together. The bruises and aches faded away.

The smell of blood lingered.

“Well,” the sound of your voice nearly startled Mark off the bed you’d had him laid across. “Take a shower and do a rain check with Stedman, and you’re all good to go, Invincible.”

“. . . What? Just- that’s it? That’s all?”

You’d stared blankly at him, arms crossed in the chair you were seated in. Though you were a healer, you did look as though you belonged amongst the official medical staff that’d be seen literally anywhere else. The slightest tilt of your head had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Did you want there to be more?” The question comes across as somewhat annoyed. Mark could see why you’d probably be agitated—but it was a genuine question!

“It’s just, uh,” he starts, swallowing nervously. “I expected it to take longer or something. Like an actual healing process, precautions I’d have to take and stuff.”

The hum of acknowledgment you let out as you nod your head makes him look at you again, and you speak. “Not when I’m the one healing you. My power is called that for a reason, and it’s so heroes like you can get back out on the playing field. To skip the healing process. If I hadn’t been here, it would’ve taken you months.”

Right. A healer. Mark himself had never really thought someone like you could exist. He’s seen powers like that only in his comics, and there weren’t any other supers capable of doing whatever you just did. The way you move is skilled and practiced, years of experience and heroes in and out of your ward showing through it.

“Huh. Okay, wow. Thanks?”

“Go home, Invincible.”

“Invincible.”

Mark grimaces. “I am begging you—literally just call me by my government name.”

He doesn’t miss the way your nose scrunches ever so slightly as your eyes never leave the clipboard in your hands, clearly focused; but not too focused. “You and I are not on friendly terms. We’re associates by definition.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up slightly in mock surrender, contemplating his response. Over the past few months, he’s noticed that you don’t quite like him. At all. You’re annoyed by how thick his file has grown in such a short amount of time, annoyed by all the times you’ve documented the amount of injuries he’s had, how much energy it takes you, and whether or not you want to quit working for the GDA after making his acquaintance all those months ago.

“. . . But hear me out.” Mark adds on, noticing the way your hands clutch even more at the wood and paper. “We’re associates when we’re on duty. By definition.”

“And I am on duty,” you retort, setting your papers down and pressing a hand to the bridge of your nose. “Constantly. The same way I’m on duty while watching you get your ass beat on live television, all because you seem to love pulling your punches. Like a fucking idiot.”

He winces at that, unable to deny the blatant distaste in your tone as you remind him of all the times Cecil has sent him your way, all the times you’ve scolded him and downright berated him because you watched as he actively held back.

“Your strength went up over one hundred percent, and you don’t even use it properly. Every fight you have, your file gets ridiculously thicker, Markus.” The way you say his name—

“Don’t say it like it’s a slur.” Mark pleads, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, “and it’s Mark. Just. . . Just Mark.”

“Get. Out.”

“Markus.”

“Mark.”

“Why are you here?” You sigh out the question with exhaustion, annoyance, and a dire need to rip your own hair out as Mark sits there on one of the patient beds, uninjured this time—shockingly. He’s sitting there like a lost puppy, just. . . Much larger, more awkward, and disgustingly pathetic.

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his response carefully. “I’m benched for a while. At least until Cecil figures out what to do with me.”

The sound you make is unsurprised. “Good. Sick of seeing you bleeding whenever you come here.”

“I know.”

“So stop doing it.”

Mark’s lips purse into a thin line. You’re so mean, and it’s not like he can’t see why. But you haven’t asked him to exactly stop talking to you (yes you have), and it’s not like you genuinely hate his guts. . . At least, in his eyes, you don’t. The Teen Team would beg to differ after seeing the way you speak to him.

“I’m just wondering,” he starts, unwilling to leave. “Are there like, any other heroes you’re sick of seeing? Besides me?”

You pause at that, and turn your head towards him. As always, your eyes are narrowed and tired, a little scrunch in your brow and a slight frown on your lips as you look at him. He’d really give anything just to see you smile—just once. He wonders if you have dimples. What your laugh sounds like, what you look like when you’re peaceful and calm for just a moment.

“Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Mark states simply. And to be fair, it is just that. Surely you don’t just dislike him and solely him, there has to be another hero you hate. Maybe even multiple. Mark likes hearing your voice, even if you’re just talking about the things you dislike.

He wonders what you do like. What you find solitude in.

“Hm.” For a moment, you exhale, and push away from your desk to think about your answer. “. . . Immortal,” you hum, thinking about it. “Can’t seem to keep his head on. Or stop charging into fights he can’t handle.”

“Like me?”

“No,” you shake your head and go back to focusing on your work. “You can handle your fights. It just seems to be a deliberate choice of yours not to handle them.”

“Ouch.”

“I hate it when Rex comes in here.” You ignore his little comment and continue, actually giving some thought to your responses. Usually, your conversations with Mark consisted of you insulting him endlessly before telling him to go home and sleep it off. Rinse and repeat.

“He can talk someone’s ear off. It’s sickening, really,” the last part is a mutter as you sort through a barrage of papers, clearly going back to focusing on what you were doing before he’d come and interrupted your rather quiet day. He’s been dropping by more often, and over time, you’ve began to hold actual conversations with him that didn’t involve you telling him how you should let him heal on his own, and him begging you to not leave him stranded in such a state—

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

You pause for a second, pretending to not have heard, before ultimately you set your papers down again and turn your swivel chair to face Mark. “What?”

“Your favorite kind of food,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “Like, do you like spicy, or?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” You grumble, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. Just for a moment, you glance back up at him, watching him pout ever so slightly at your answer.

“I’m serious. It’s just a genuine question, y’know?” The two of you enter a staring contest of sorts when you glare at him, looking genuinely offended at the fact he was asking about something so minuscule and stupid. As though the two of you were friendly. . . .

“Fruit.”

Mark blinks at your response, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again, gears turning in his head. “Okay. . . So, sweet stuff?”

“Sweet stuff,” you mutter, turning back around. “Not artificial sugar. Natural. It’s better for my energy, helps me heal better.”

He nods as though that makes sense. You seemed the type to prefer natural things over the overproduced, sickeningly and overly sweet candies that left a bitter aftertaste. It makes sense in Mark’s mind—as though he should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell. The room you work in smells soft and sweet, just like honey and strawberries.

You smell like strawberries. Ripe, sweet. Tinted a dark red and soft when bitten into.

“Okay.” Mark whispers, more to himself than anything. A confirmation. A new alignment in the stars, the very universe itself as a whole. “Yeah, that seems like you.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Invinci-Boy.”

“Oh my god.”

TAGLIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @koilikesthefishy @tokoyamisstuff @pookiei-bookie

[the-music-maniac]

It is very exhausting being in western fandom spaces sometimes. Tell me why I just wanted to enjoy a cute oubing ship vid on tiktok, and half the comments section was about people saying you can't ship them???

I wanna complain into the void, so here's a comprehensive of why Oubing/藕饼/Lotus Root Cake is fine (and even if it wasn't, why I don't give a shit):

(Spoiler warning for Nezha 2)

1. "You can't ship them cause they're brothers'": No, they are not brothers. Not by any definition of the word. Not by blood - not even sworn brothers technically, because they only refer to each other as best friends. They each have their own parents - those parents are not related to each other in any way, shape, or form. One of them is a freaking dragon, an entirely different species. Also, they're technically made of lotuses now. They weren't raised together either. Clarifying this point feels ridiculous.

2. "But they used to be part of the chaos pearl": If you wanted to define them by any type of relationship, they are soulmates. This is not me trying to spin them romantically, I mean they are literally soulmates. Their spirits are each half of a single Chaos Pearl, and they each represent opposite halves. They are literally soulmates and yin and yang.

3. "But they're children!": Are they three years old? Yes - and also no. (this is edited: I saw an official post that did say their ages were 3, not 6). They've been alive for centuries as a chaos pearl. I need you to understand that the original entity we saw at the beginning of Nezha 1, IS a creature that has been alive for thousands of years. They had personality too while they were fighting Taiyi. They were made into the pearls by the cauldron. Now, their mortal bodies as we understand it, is 3 (again edited. I originally said 6 cause I wasn't sure whether or not to count the 3 years of pregnancy). But because they're not really human, and their developmental stages therefore don't mirror a human, the movie shows them maturing into an adult form in the span of about 3 years. How do we know this? Ao Bing is the same age as Nezha, and he went from a baby to his adult form in those 3 years. The only reason Nezha is still in a child form is because he has the qiankun circle suppressing him. This is also the reason that putting the circle on his wrist releases his adult form. Also it's sort of maybe implied by the end of Nezha 2 that he may stay permanently in his adult form, since he reformed his body into it while he was in The Soup™. I dunno how accurate this part is so I suppose we'll see by Nezha 3. I would like to point out further that no three year old talks or acts like they do. Ao Bing and Nezha have very complete vocabularies, and are able to understand the complexities of their circumstances. They're both new to the world in this form, but they're not at the mental capacity of a 3 year old. It's like if you were dropped into a new form of existence with an adult brain.

4. "Nooo, why are you shipping them now": This ship is NOT NEW. It's been around since at least 2019. It is WILDLY popular in China. Back when Nezha 1 first came out, oubing literally won an award for best couple. I want you to understand the scale - from my understanding, they beat wangxian in cql. Y'all can correct me if I got this part wrong because I can't find the source of where I read this information, but if it's true, that's wild. I know the award part is correct. There was an official shampoo ad that reads like a shipping comic. Now that Nezha 2 came out, it is still one of the most popular ships. Every other post on my social media has been about Nezha 2 and at least half of that has been Oubing. There are over 2000 chinese fics on ao3 currently. Stop with this "why are you shipping them now", WE'VE BEEN SHIPPING THEM.

5. "It's not canon.": Not that I give a shit what's canon or even what the original creator thinks about shipping usually, but Jiaozi, aka the director of the movie, has stated that while he wrote Nezha and Ao Bing to just be a friendship that he thinks it is fine if people ship them. I'm pretty sure he also said something along the lines of 'people can interpret things how they want' or something.

6. Even if all of the points I made were not the case, I cannot stress enough how little I care about what someone should or should not ship. If you don't like it, just block the fanart/fic/video and move on. I promise society will not crumble because someone decides to ship two fictional characters from a mythology movie. We will be fine.

(Also if you see anyone in the chinese fandom write 藕饼cp, the cp stands for "couple". Just to clarify. They use different terms for shipping in chinese fandoms, they'll say they "ke CP" aka ship a couple)

Some of the comments I've seen make me wonder if people have even watched the movies. 'You can't ship them cause they're brothers', god don't make me laugh.

Don't let them find out that the chinese fandom is also shipping Ao Bing and Nezha from the 1979 cartoon, they'd lose their minds.

[a-hermit-pining]

I saw this on Twitter (i forgot the @), but it really got me thinking. What would your hc be if the boys were playing the game and you were the mc? I hc that Caleb would save every "y/n laughing compilation" he comes across, rafayel would edit y/n's face on random fish and make crack edits and from his alt account he would drop the most gorgeous fanart, and for some reason I feel like sylus would use "quality time" religiously

Hi anon, thank you for sending this in ^^

I completely agree with your takes. Here is my take to compliment yours.

Rafayel: Is the undisputed Fanart King, sketching your character from every angle, in every possible outfit. If an art contest exists, he has already submitted three entries before anyone even knew it was happening. But beyond his artistic obsession, he is also the cursed glitch hoarder. While normal people would be horrified at a headless version of you appearing in-game, Rafayel takes screenshots for exclusive content, considering it a divine blessing from the tech gods. Despite his god-tier art skills, he has zero patience for level locks that force him to wait before progressing, so instead of playing at a normal pace, he rage-quits for months, then returns to binge the game in one sleepless week. His camera roll is half fanart, half stunning in-game scenery that he edits like it’s going in an art gallery.

Xavier: Does not play games for casual enjoyment. He plays for answers. He is a speedrun menace, hitting the first dialogue option before the text box even fully loads. If he gets stuck, he immediately transforms into a lore-devouring beast, reading every spoiler possible just to figure out how to proceed. The only thing keeping him from fully losing his sanity is his refusal to buy premium currency, his pride dictates that he must grind every last diamond by sheer willpower alone. And so, he hoards gems like his soul depends on it, progresses at breakneck speed, and once he’s finished all available content, he descends into 3 AM theory rabbit holes instead of doing something sane like, you know… sleeping. He probably has a color-coded spreadsheet tracking all the route impacts.

Zayne: No one would ever suspect that the infamous, critically acclaimed AO3 writer Frozen Seal, master of soul-crushing angst and tender, breathtaking romance, is actually the stoic, overworked cardiologist Zayne. His fics have a reputation for being so emotionally devastating that readers leave essays in the comments. His update schedule? Completely dictated by his hospital shifts. His author’s notes? Usually something like "Sorry, a patient coded. Will update later." Writes the most heart-wrenching, steamy romance scenes with surgical precision, leaving readers sobbing and sweating in equal measure. Has the smut writing skills of an ace author- which are god tier. Daydreams about you constantly, except when he’s actively resuscitating someone (Even he has limits.)

Sylus: Sylus owns everything. Every premium outfit, every pose, every CG. His entire paycheck is funneled into this game, and no one will ever know the full extent of his power. If questioned about how he maxed out every possible feature, he simply smirks and says, “Skill issue.” But despite single-handedly funding the dev team, he is infuriatingly secretive about his content. His in-game gallery? Locked. His premium screenshots? Hidden. Some speculate he has developers tied up in his basement feeding him exclusive content, but according to Sylus, it’s simply the fruit of his labor. Strangely enough, despite having literally everything, he still has beef with the gacha system and will cuss out the algorithm if he doesn’t get his way.

Caleb: Is cursed with abysmal gacha luck, pulling three-star memories every single time without fail. He suffers, but at this point, he embraces the suffering like a tragic hero. His nights are spent watching crack compilations at 2 AM, laughing silently to himself like a man on the verge of losing his mind (he is this 🤏🏻close). By all accounts, he plays the game rationally until your character appears, at which point all logic is abandoned. He has every single one of Zayne’s fics bookmarked, and he doesn’t just skim he analyzes them like scholarly literature, leaving long, heartfelt comments. And, of course, in the quiet solitude of his room, a freakishly realistic body pillow of you sits on his bed. If questioned? He doesn’t even blink. "It’s a limited-edition collector’s item."

[fairyhaos]

yeoubi. // chwe hansol

여우비 (yeo-u-bi) : noun. literally “fox rain” — when sunlight filters through rainfall, creating a golden shower.

PAIRING : vernon x f!reader

INFO : east asian historical fantasy(ish. i kinda made up my own mythology), fox demon!vernon, silver!vernon, immortal!witch!yn, fluff, magic, strangers to lovers

WORD COUNT : 22.3k+

WARNINGS : blood mention, injuries, slight discrimination against yokai, cursing

NOTES : for the @camandemstudios winter with you collab! i had so so so much fun writing yeoubi and it's genuinely one of the best things ive done this year. writing a fantasy au soft vernon fic was never something that i thought i needed to write, but now i have, and i love him and i love this and i hope everyone loves yeoubi just as much as i do too <3

SYNOPSIS : living as a magic, immortal healer in a rural, human mountain village means most of your existence has been rather peaceful. that is, until one cold winter when an injured yokai stumbles into your life; and though everyone else is terrified of him, you take him in, nurse him back to health, and show the others that some demons aren’t that scary after all. (...and maybe, just maybe, you end up falling for the pretty fox yokai too.)

For the first time in years, the river freezes over.

During winter, it’s often a lot harder for you to notice things like this, as the cold dulls your senses and numbs your fingers, so you’re only informed of this fact when the village children come to your cottage in the morning, their high-pitched voices blending with the mismatched beats of their fists knocking against your door.

“Miss Witch! Miss Witch! There’s something wrong with the river!”

“The river is all solid, Miss Witch!”

“Miss Witch, we can’t play in the river! Can you fix it for us, Miss Witch?”

Blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you open the door with a groggy smile, squinting down at the children on your doorstep.

“Hello, little kids. What are you doing here?”

“Miss Witch!” one of the children chirps. “Good morning!”

Despite being half-asleep, you can’t help but laugh a little at their chipperness. The children are, undeniably, your favourite people in this entire village.

“Good morning,” you say, bemused. “How may I help you?”

Their voices rise in volume again, all of them clamouring to be heard over each other. It can’t be any later than five in the morning, and your fingertips prickle with the cold grey of the mist as you blink down at them, surprised at their energy.

A girl tugs at the end of your blanket, wide-eyed. “Miss Witch, the river is all hard. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“Ah,” you say gently. “I see.” Crouching down so you’re at eye level with the kids, you ask, “If the river is hard, solid, and cold, what do you think that means?”

The children blink at you. 

“What else is hard, solid, and cold?”

One of them brightens. “Ice!”

“Exactly,” you say, smiling. “The river has turned into ice. It’s nothing to worry about, but it does mean it’s very, very cold right now, so why aren’t any of you wearing any hats or scarves, hm?” 

You ruffle the hair of the nearest child, and she shakes her head, giggling. “We were helping the grown-ups, of course! Something happened at the river, an’ they told us to go away.”

“So we came to you,” another boy pipes up. “They said something’s wrong!”

You tilt your head. Whilst it’s certainly been several decades since the river last froze over, it’s no reason for the villagers to worry that much about it. It’s also not something that your magic can fix, or something that needs to be fixed, so—

“Y/N!”

You look up at the call, and see a man in the distance, jogging down the pathway towards your cottage. It’s still far too dark to see clearly, but you smile at the familiar voice.

“Soonyoung,” you call back. “Good morning! Are you here to tell me about the frozen river, too? Don’t worry, it’s completely normal and not dangerous at all.”

His reply, if he has any at all, goes unheard as one of the children suddenly cries out, as if he’s had an epiphany.

You look down at him, amused. “What’s wrong?”

“I just remembered, something else happened at the river,” he says brightly. His remark makes some of the other children perk up too, as if they also remembered this other thing that had happened.

The kids are all at the age where something like a leaf falling onto their heads would be remarkably significant, so as you wait for Soonyoung to come closer and deliver the actual news, you decide to humour them, smiling and tilting your head interestedly. “Oh, really? What was it?”

 “There’s a man in the frozen river, Miss Witch!”

“A—” The smile turns to stone on your face. “A what?”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung says. He’s finally reached your doorstep now, and you notice that his usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen. He frowns down at the children, displeased. “What are you all doing here? We told you to go home, not to Y/N.”

“They thought I could help,” you say placatingly. “It’s okay. And if there’s a man stuck in the river, you might need my help after all.”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung repeats, his face darkening. “It’s not a man.”

You raise an eyebrow at the graveness in his tone. “Well, then you certainly do need my help, it seems. What is it?”

Soonyoung sighs. His exhale clouds the air, and your fingers prickle even more at his next words, like invisible icicles piercing through your skin.

“It’s a demon.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

You are not exactly a human.

Certainly, you look and dress like one—and you have to eat and sleep like one too, otherwise terrible things happen to your energy levels—but that doesn’t mean you are human. There are some things which make you slightly different.

One of those things being that you live forever.

“What do you mean you don’t know if it’s hostile?” Soonyoung demands, struggling to match your strides as you hurry towards the river. “Of course it’s hostile. It’s a fucking demon!”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you come to realise that some yokai aren’t hostile,” you respond, frosted-over leaves crunching under your feet. Soonyoung squawks back something unintelligible, too out of breath to make an argument. 

After encouraging the children to return back to their homes and sleep—since it really is five in the morning, and none of them should be awake—you and Soonyoung began making your way to where the rest of the villagers were. 

The river flows down from the mountain that the village is located near. The further up you go, the more dangerous the terrain becomes, and you pause on a jagged rock to frown down at Soonyoung, who’s gasping as he tries to keep up.

“Did you really find the yokai over here? Why were any of you up here in the first place?”

“We didn’t,” Soonyoung said hoarsely. “I’ve been trying to tell you for ages. The demon was found near the edge of the woods.”

“Oh.” You blink. The two of you had marched past the woods a decent while ago. “Okay.” And then you float down from the rock, lightly hopping over frozen patches of land, past Soonyoung again. “Come on, let’s turn back, then.”

Soonyoung sighs, turns around, and begins his clumsy, human descent. “You could at least use your magic to help me down too, you know.”

And that’s the other different thing about you. Magic. It’s such a flimsy, weak word for what you can do, but it’s also the best way to describe it. There are certain things about you, certain things you’re capable of in the way that no human can ever truly be.

Without even looking back, you wave a hand, and a glowing stream of wind nudges Soonyoung’s feet towards the easiest path down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And hurry up before those villagers aggravate the yokai even more.”

Demons, or more traditionally, yokai, aren’t something you’ve encountered in countless decades. As technology and weapons developed, and the human population expanded, many yokai simply faded out of existence, unable to sustain themselves in the less wild, less natural environment that humans created. Others were smart enough to recognise they now had less of an advantage over humans, and tended to stay away from densely populated areas, preferring to target any lone travellers who ventured too far into their territory.

Yokai values and morals are vastly different to humans, and they are so incomprehensible to mortals that yokai gained a reputation for being vindictive, vicious, vile, and all other negative ‘v’ words. That doesn’t necessarily make them so, however, and over your lifetime, you’ve encountered some who don't quite fit the stereotype that humans are all too eager to place on them.

It takes you and Soonyoung long enough to get to the river that the sky has lightened ever so slightly, but the lacey edges of morning mist are still blurring the edges of your sight, and you can only barely see what the villagers are looking at, especially with them all crowding around and pushing against each other to get closer to the river.

You crane your neck, standing on tiptoe, before huffing. Scratch that, you can’t see anything.

“Move out of my way, please,” you say sharply, adding a little volume magic to your voice so that it carries over the whole crowd. 

Most of them instantly look back at that and clock your presence, eyes widening. Some of them begin rushing towards you, looking almost like their children as they begin talking over each other all at once.

“Y/N, there’s a demon—”

“Absolutely vile creature, is there any way—”

“—river’s all frozen, how did it even get here—”

“Okay, okay, okay!” you interrupt, adding even more volume to your voice to be heard. “Minah, yes, I know there’s a demon. Soonyoung told me. And no, Joongseok, we don’t know if it’s truly vile yet. And Woongri, yokai often work with magic, so it could’ve gotten here in a variety of ways. But if you want me to do something, you have to let me through. Yes?”

You’re tired, and cold, and dealing with stressed adults is not the best way to start the day, so you're more blunt than is perhaps necessary, but it gets your point across. The villagers look sufficiently contrite and finally shuffle to the side, making way for you to get through. Seungcheol, the village leader, nudges his way through the crowd until he’s by your side, face solemn.

“Good morning,” he says. “Sorry about the chaos.”

“Good morning,” you say back, voice now normal volume once again. “It’s okay. Everyone’s scared. You don’t call me at ungodly hours unless it’s serious, so I don’t mind.”

Seungcheol nods, looking both grave and apologetic. “We only ever want you to use your magic for good.”

It’s a terribly human thing to say, and you  smile dryly. “Of course. What can I help you with this time?”

“Well… You can help with that.” Seungcheol points to a mound of warped ice a little ways down the river. “How can we get rid of it?”

You squint in the direction Seungcheol’s pointing at, peering through the tendrils of mist, and then gasp. Half-buried into the ice of the river, you can make out a blurry, pale-coloured figure clothed in pale silk. Dark liquid pools in all directions surrounding the motionless body, and anyone can tell the yokai is very badly hurt. 

“It’s already bleeding half to death, so it shouldn’t be too hard to finish— wait, Y/N!”

Ignoring Seungcheol’s shouts, you step onto the frozen surface of the river and rush towards the yokai, and your blood runs cold as you take in the sight before you.

The yokai is a fox demon, you notice, with white ears and soft silver hair and a gorgeous white tail, which is partially being crushed by a river’s worth of ice. He’s waist-deep in the frozen water, and a thick layer of more ice has begun to form around the yokai’s torso from where he’s slumped against the surface of the river at an almost unnatural angle, causing his poor tail to be twisted and buried both in the river and the new ice.

“Oh, darling,” you whisper, kneeling down beside him, tracing a finger across the yokai’s cheek. Your finger comes away stained dark with blood, and you swallow thickly, heart constricting.

The crushing ice isn’t the end of the damage: there’s blood pouring from seemingly unknown sources, matted into the fox demon’s hair and streaking down his neck. He must have been in some sort of fight before getting stuck in the river. 

Gently, you thumb over the yokai’s cheek, taking in the pale skin and delicate eyelashes. This fox demon is devastatingly pretty, and seeing him so badly injured makes your heart hurt even more.

Something rustles near the riverbank, and you look back to see some of the children hiding amongst the leaves, peering curiously at you as you kneel next to the yokai. Further up the river, Seungcheol is approaching you, wanting to know your thoughts on the demon, and his eyes widen as he also notices the children in the bushes.

“What are you doing here?” he says in their direction, the disapproval clear in his tone. “It’s dangerous! You shouldn’t be looking at this. Where are your parents? Didn’t Soonyoung tell you to go home?”

“But we wanna see Miss Witch,” one boy says, eyes wide. “Please, can’t we stay?”

You frown and open your mouth, preparing to reprimand them, but then the yokai makes a soft, pained sound beside you, and you instantly return your attention to him, bending down even closer to his face.

Seungcheol cries out, this time in your direction as you lean towards the yokai. “Y/N, what are you doing? Stay back!”

You ignore him, reaching out a hand to brush matted hair out of the yokai’s eyes. “Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”

The yokai scrunches his eyes up, whimpering in pain. The moment he’d returned to consciousness, he’d started shivering intensely, struck by the cold of the river. 

“Hello?” you repeat, gentle. You move your hand away from the yokai’s face, directing it towards the ice surrounding his back instead. Silently reciting an incantation, the ice begins to glow orange under your palm, slowly beginning to melt away. “Can you tell me your name?”

The yokai shivers, mumbles something unintelligible. Then he looks up at you, golden irises shuddering in fear, every movement of his face telling you it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 

One of the children lets out a shriek, and you whip your head up in alarm. They don’t look hurt, but the yokai notices the sound too, raising his head to look at them with wide, unsettling eyes, and the children shriek again, all of them frozen in fear. You can kind of understand why: the fox demon is covered in blood, and anyone unacquainted with the supernatural would find his slitted golden eyes petrifying. 

But before you can say anything, do anything to reassure them, the ice around his back makes a cracking sound as it melts under your hand, and the yokai’s mouth drops open in pain. He coughs, splattering blood over the ice, more of the black liquid dripping from the corners of his lips as he starts writhing and scratching against the river, hauling himself up onto his elbows, eyes fixed on the children in the distance, and all hell breaks loose.

The children are screaming, ear-piercingly loud, and Seungcheol is screaming too, and the yokai starts writhing even harder, yipping and gasping like a distressed fox, his hands sticky with his own blood as he tries to push against the ice. 

“No, it’s okay— don’t do that—Cheol, let me think!” 

It’s obvious Seungcheol wants you to kill the demon, especially with the way he’s screeching at you right now, but the yokai looks so pitiful, ears shaking, eyes wide, still bleeding from gashes all over his body.

“Think about what?” Seungcheol yells, children cowering behind his legs, and he shields their eyes from the river. “Y/N, please, you have to get rid of it!”

You look at him, and then down at the helpless yokai beside you, and really, it takes you less than a second to decide what to do.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, getting to your feet. Seungcheol tenses, sensing something wrong in your tone as you look down at the yokai again, leaning down with your hand outstretched. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your fingers come into contact with the yokai’s forehead, and there’s a golden glow before his eyes flutter shut and he freezes up, before collapsing against the ice.

Hidden safely behind the village leader, the children stop screaming. Seungcheol also doesn’t make a sound, still staring wide-eyed at you, and now the yokai is no longer moving, the early morning air is frozen still once more. You look back at Seungcheol, and he blinks, his face unreadable.

“Please tell me you killed that thing.”

You smile weakly, dried-up demon blood on your fingertips. At your feet, the yokai’s shoulders move up and down ever so slightly with every shallow breath he takes, unconscious.

───────────── ‘✽, 

“Bad idea,” Seungcheol admonishes loudly from outside your window, and even though there’s a whole wall and a thick pane of glass separating him from you, his disapproval is crystal clear. “This is a bad idea. Y/N, let me in. We have to talk about this.”

You don’t look up from the boiling pot on the stove, simply lifting a hand and giving Seungcheol the finger.

“How dare— Y/N, you cannot let that thing live. It’s a danger to us. Especially the children! Y/N, think of the children, please, it could hurt the children.”

Seungcheol raps against the glass insistently, but you ignore him, humming to yourself as you ladle some of the boiling concoction into a wooden bowl. Gently, you blow on the steam, inspecting the lilac colour of the liquid before nodding, pleased, and heading over to the yokai asleep on your couch. 

It’s been some hours since that moment on the frozen river, where you’d decided to save the yokai trapped in the ice rather than kill him. None of the humans agreed with your decision, however, so you’d had to make the tiring trek down the mountain yourself, a heavy, unconscious yokai in tow. That’s partly the reason you’re so tired right now, arms aching as you set the bowl down on the coffee table, where you’ve laid out bandages and various dried bags of poultices and face towels to help clean up the yokai. 

Said yokai is still unconscious and bleeding all over the fabric of your sofa, the golden threads of magic you’d used to briefly staunch his wounds already beginning to fray open once more. You sigh, settling down beside him, and begin inspecting the more serious injuries on his forehead and down his arms.

“What happened to you, hm?” you say softly, ignoring Seungcheol still rapping against your window. “Why are you so hurt?”

Living as the only magic user-slash-competent doctor in a rural village means that you have plenty of experience in patching up the particularly nasty injuries that the villagers sustain, and your hands are careful and practised as you dip a towel into the warm, disinfectant potion you’d made, swiping it over the yokai’s skin. He’s injured practically everywhere: deep gashes are scored along his arms, his hands, and there’s one slashed across his chest. Not to mention his definitely-broken tail, the still-bleeding head wound and, judging by the way blood had been pouring from his mouth out on the lake, some internal injuries you can’t see. 

You wince, taking a towel into your hands. “Sorry,” you say, heart twinging in sympathy for the yokai. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Ideally, you’d run a bath first and scrub the yokai clean of all the grime and blood before getting to tending his wounds. But he’s a fox demon—ridiculously tall and with a fluffy tail and delicate ears, so he won’t fit in your tiny tub and it’ll end up being more troublesome than anything else.

So, you’ve resorted to magic, dipping a cloth in the potion you've made to melt and dissolve all the dirt into thin air.

The wounds are all worryingly deep, most notably the still-bleeding one on his forehead, and if he were human, you’d be concerned that he’ll suffer a serious concussion afterwards, along with an inability to use his hands for a long while. But as it is, the ancient demon-magic that he’s made of will mean that he’ll heal pretty quickly, and there should be no grave threat to his life.

Hopefully. As long as he doesn’t develop an infection from the open wounds. 

You finish cleaning up the blood and then wipe down his face with a cool cloth, frowning slightly at how his skin still feels unusually hot. Infections will make his healing process much longer and much more arduous. The poor yokai looks like he’s already been through more than enough, so you really hope the fever dies down soon.

Seungcheol is still yelling at you from your window when you finish your preliminary clean-up, and you sigh heavily, beginning to develop a headache from how annoying he's being. So you walk over to the window, wrench it open, and jab a bloodstained finger in his direction.

“Seungcheol. Kindly, please, fuck off.”

Seungcheol blinks, both startled by your abrupt confrontation and a little affronted, but before he can say anything, you carry on. 

“Currently, this yokai is injured, and it’s my job to take care of injured people, regardless of who they are, so you can take any thoughts of me killing him and shove them up your ass. It’s not happening, and it’s never happening, and you’re also disturbing my patient with the racket you’re creating, so please go away.”

If it were anyone else talking to him like this, Seungcheol would have blown up with anger a solid thirty seconds ago—as it is, he simply stares at you, still looking affronted, before he sighs, and all of the energy drains out of him. He knows how headstrong you are, and when you get like this, he knows there’s no way he can sway you. He’ll have to wait until you’re no longer brimming with obstinacy to get his thoughts across.

His gaze drops from yours to your bloody finger, and then he sighs again, folding his hands behind his back.

“Give the demon my wishes for his speedy recovery,” he says at last. “But we still have to talk about this later, Y/N. Okay?”

You huff, and lower your hands. “Fine. Later.” With a resolute swish of magic, you shut the window once again and turn your back on Seungcheol to return to your patient.

As village leader, you can understand why Seungcheol may have concerns regarding a yokai entering a human village, but that doesn’t mean you like how he has no qualms with telling you to just kill it in an instant. Discrimination against magical creatures is half the reason they’re so hostile to humans, anyway, and you’d know firsthand how painful it is to be targeted and attacked purely for being who you are.

It’s not like you ever asked to be magic. And yet, people end up hating you for it.

You look down at the unconscious yokai, with his silver-white fur and gentle eyelashes and those heart-wrenching injuries. Then, wordlessly, you pick up one of the poultices and get to work.

───────────── ‘✽, 

Hansol wakes up to the strong, warm smell of chrysanthemum.

It’s an unusual scent to wake up to, and his ears prick up, alarmed—only for him to cry out a few seconds later, upon realising the action sends a sharp bolt of pain throughout his entire body.

“Oh!” 

A voice sounds from somewhere above his head, and he startles even more, trying to open his eyes and locate the sound, before realising he can’t see.

He cries out again, panicking at the pitch black that surrounds him, flailing around before realising that that action also causes him debilitating pain, and he begins panicking even more. How did he end up here? What happened? All he remembers is being chased through the forest and then tripping and crashing into a river, and then hard ice and the cold water and the throbbing in his head and then— and then—

Something damp and heavy gets lifted from his eyes and he gasps, freezing up as bright white light almost blinds him.

“Sorry, sorry,” the voice from before says, sounding terribly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you before doing that.” 

Hansol scrunches his eyes, and then squints, vision all blurry from having been unconscious and now being blinded by bright light. He can’t see who’s speaking, but whoever they are, they carry on, the words steadily flowing out faster and faster as the person rambles. He can barely keep up with the onslaught of noise, twitching confusedly and trying to see what’s going on. The world feels like it’s spinning. He’s pretty sure the world isn’t meant to spin this fast.

“That was probably really scary when you woke up, huh? I’m so sorry. The towel slipped from your forehead and covered your eyes, and I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I didn’t expect you to wake up now, but I guess that’s a good thing, ‘cause you’ve been out for a whole day, and any longer and we’re veering into coma territory, which would mean that you were really, really hurt. Which is, like, definitely not good, you know? But you did wake up, thank goodness, so that means there’s a chance you’ll get better very soon. Plus, your fever isn’t that bad anymore, so it seems you really are on the road to recovery, which is all very—oh, wait. Sorry. It’s still too bright, isn’t it?”

Another wave of chrysanthemum hits Hansol’s senses and a hand comes up to his face, creating a shadow over his eyes so he’s no longer squinting furiously up at the disembodied voice.

“Sorry,” the voice says, apologising yet again. “Is that better?”

Hansol blinks, slowly opening his eyes fully to look up, and then, the whole world abruptly stops spinning as he finds himself looking at the most beautiful being in the entire history of the universe. He doesn’t say a word, mouth falling open in shock.

You smile down at him, made anxious by his silence. “Hello,” you say, hand still shielding his eyes from the brunt of the winter light. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”

Hansol squeaks, a small, high-pitched sound that instantly floods him with mortification when it accidentally slips past his lips, and he screws his eyes shut and curls into himself, knocking your hand away hurriedly in his rush to hide his face. He tries to bury himself into the couch, shaking. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, gently, worried you've scared him. “I promise. I want to help.” Perched on the edge of the couch, you lean over and slowly lower the yokai’s hands from his face, coaxing him to look at you again. “Can you please tell me your name?”

You smile, again, and Hansol feels a little faint as he looks up at you. His vision is still slightly blurry from his eyes being shut for so long, and the way you’re backlit by the light makes you look like you’re glowing, a gentle halo of silver light surrounding your form. That, coupled with the way you have the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, is making him feel all dizzy. And a bit warm. The air feels like it’s suffocating him, actually, but all of that is made irrelevant by how pretty he thinks your smile is.

There’s a possibility he’s still in the process of getting rid of his fever, because he blinks slowly, focused, and when he opens his mouth to speak, the next words spill unbidden from his lips.

“My name is Hansol,” he says, “and I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Your eyes widen at his words, a flush rapidly creeping up your cheeks. Hansol looks at you, worried that you’ll suddenly hate him for what he’s just said, but you just laugh, flattered, and bring your hand up to his forehead. The touch is cool against his skin, like a soothing balm.

“Thank you, Hansol,” you say. “Your fever seems to still be pretty high, if you’re saying stuff like this, huh? I’m currently brewing some chrysanthemum tea, and I think it’ll be a good idea for you to have some too.”

Hansol blinks slowly again. “Chrysanthemum tea,” he muses. He looks up at you. “That must be why you smell so warm and pretty.”

You laugh again, flustered, subconsciously brushing his hair back from his forehead and cupping his cheek, your fingers feather-light. “Perhaps. So would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Hansol says. “I’ll have anything… you… give m…” His eyelids and ears slowly droop, and before he can even finish his sentence, he drifts back off to unconsciousness once again, head leaning into your hand.

Open-mouthed, pink-cheeked, you look down at the one-more unconscious yokai in your hands. 

“Wow,” you breathe out. And then you smile. “You’re adorable.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Over the next few days, the yokai—Hansol—constantly drifts in and out of consciousness, his fever fluctuating in intensity the entire time.

It’s difficult to pull coherent sentences out of him, and anything he says is a mixture of your name, his name, and also how pretty he thinks you are.

You chalk it up to his fever.

His demon-magic must have taken a serious blow from the extent of his injuries, as it takes him a lot longer than you’d like for him to finally shake off the infection. A whole excruciating week goes by, and you almost cry with relief when, as you get up to check his temperature in the middle of the night, you find that his fever has finally broken, and he’s able to breathe easily once more.

When the weak sun finally peeks out from over the horizon, you enter your spare room to check on Hansol. Sometime after his first bout of consciousness, you’d gathered enough energy to move him from your couch to the spare bedroom in your cottage. It had taken a lot of work, and a lot of magic—weakened by the stress of taking care of a dying fox demon and trying to fend off any curious and judgy villagers, it takes a lot of energy for you to do anything strenuous lately—but you managed. And it certainly seemed to help, as he slept a lot better in an actual bed.

Humming absentmindedly to yourself, you make your way over to the guest room, fingers dancing and causing golden threads of magic to tidy up the state of your house as you go along. 

To your surprise, the yokai is wide awake when you enter the room, and he startles when you noisily open the door and step inside. The moment you make eye contact with Hansol, you freeze, the song dying off your lips at the same time as your magic drops a partially-fluffed up cushion in the living room.

“Um.” You blink, hanging off the door handle, staring at the yokai picking his bandages in bed in the middle of your guest room. “Good morning?”

Hansol doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at you, wide-eyed.

You cough, feeling terribly awkward, attempting to adjust your stance and take your hand off the doorknob in the most natural way possible. “Hello. I’m, uh, Y/N. How are you feeling?”

There’s another beat. Then Hansol finally opens his mouth, only to completely ignore your question to say, “You’re the one who smells like chrysanthemums.”

“I— Sorry, what?” You blink, taken aback by the abrupt and unrelated question, before nodding. “Oh, yeah. I guess you remember the chrysanthemum tea I made you?” You smile slightly. “I can’t believe you remember that. That was when you were the most unwell.”

“Oh.” Hansol’s ears twitch, and he continues to look at you with his golden eyes, somewhere between bewildered and amazed. (Amazed by what, you aren’t entirely sure.) “I do remember, though. I remember you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to push down the blush that threatens to rise up your face. Having a handsome yokai stare at you with such focus, saying that he remembers you even when he was deep in the throes of a fever is such a heart-fluttering thing to experience early in the morning. You aren’t nearly awake enough for this conversation. If you aren’t careful, you could accidentally fall in love right then and there.

“That’s nice,” you croak, and then shake yourself. You have a job to do. Hansol’s a patient under your care, and you need to check his condition. “Um. Sorry. But, uh, I do have to check if you can remember anything else,” you say, slipping into healer mode as you step further into the room, walking towards the bed. “Do you remember your name?”

Hansol nods, intently following your movements as you draw closer. “My name is Hansol,” he says.

You smile, relieved by the coherency of his answer. The fact that the yokai remembers his own name is a very good sign. “Yes, you are. Do you remember how you got here?”

“Yes,” Hansol says obediently. “I was in a river. Trapped in the ice. And you… saved me.”

That makes you smile a little wider. “I took care of your wounds, yes! It’s really good you’re finally awake and able to answer questions, ‘cause it’s a sure sign there’s no lasting internal damage. I do have to check your bandages, though, so… may I?”

You make a gesture towards Hansol’s bandaged arms, and the yokai obliges, raising his arms to let you see. 

You take Hansol’s hand in your own, preparing to lift his arm up higher—but the moment your palms brush, you gasp, fingers tightening around the yokai’s at the sudden sensation. Hansol, too, lets out a small noise of surprise, looking up at you.

The yokai’s hands are firm, strong, and perfectly healthy, but they also thrum with magic. You can feel every spark and fizzle of the magic as it dances under his skin, spinning and zipping back and forth like a cloud of hyperactive fireflies. Like the magic can talk, and when it noticed the magic that lives inside you, it seems to yip with recognition, spinning itself around in excitement in the yokai’s hands.

“It’s so strong,” you say, amazed. “I didn’t realise magic could be this powerful.”

Hansol’s also staring up at you, similarly in awe. “You’re magic too?” he asks, looking like he’s never fathomed such a thing is possible. “You’re like me?”

You laugh slightly, made a little giddy by the feeling of how alive the magic is under Hansol’s skin. “Not exactly,” you say, releasing Hansol’s hand to finally reach for the bandages, feeling around to see whether his skin is still tender underneath. “I don’t have the ears or the tail, do I?”

Hansol’s ears flick. You’re decidedly focused solely on the yokai’s bandages, but you can feel Hansol looking at you intently as you work. 

“But you’re very pretty,” Hansol says. “Are you sure?”

Fuck. Hansol has to stop saying things like that, because they’re very bad for your poor heart. Very bad.

“I’m sure,” you say with a smile, straightening up once again. “I think all your wounds are healing nicely. Now your magic’s come back to its full strength, it’ll help you heal the rest of the way in no time.”

You can’t help but reach for Hansol’s hand again, once more feeling pleasantly surprised by the light zap of magic when your hands touch. Now you can feel the thrum of it under Hansol’s skin, it’s easy to realise how unwell the yokai was before, when his hands had been deathly cold with no fizz of magic in them at all. You’re just endlessly relieved that you can feel that fizz once again.

Hansol looks down at your intertwined hands, and then up at you, a smile lifting up the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he says, so very sincere that it melts your heart. “Thank you for looking after me.”

You can’t help but smile back, squeezing Hansol’s hand once. “Of course. It’s my pleasure. Really.”

Hansol smiles even wider, ears twitching pleasedly, and you once again have to try and valiantly fight away your blush. Fuck. This yokai really needs to stop making you blush so easily, and fast, else you’re going to start having problems.

───────────── ‘✽, 

It turns out, the blushing thing ends up being the least of your problems, because later that day, Hansol tries to leave.

Sometime after bringing Hansol a breakfast of soup and chrysanthemum tea (since he really seemed to like the tea), you’re drying away the breakfast dishes when a blast of cold air slices through the cottage, and you look over to see Hansol holding open the front door, looking like he’s about to step out.

“H—wait! Hansol, what are you doing?”

The yokai looks over at you, still holding the front door, confused. The bottom half of his tail is still bandaged, making it difficult for him to move it around, but it still sways from side to side unsurely as he blinks at you.

“I’m leaving,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “You took care of me. And I’m now better. So I’m going to go.”

You gape, jaw almost dropping to the floor at the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Like hell you are,” you say, marching over to the front door and firmly shutting it with your still-soapy hands, and then ushering Hansol back to the guest room and into bed. “You are very far from being better, Hansol. Your tail is still all bandaged up! I’m not letting you leave until you’re back to full health, so don’t you dare think for a second that you get to go before then.”

Hansol makes a noise of confusion as you fussily tuck him back into bed, fluffing up the pillows behind his head and arranging the covers around him. “What? Why would you let me stay?”

“Why wouldn’t I let you stay?” you counter, patting down the duvet and absentmindedly brushing away the strands of hair that fall in his eyes. “I want to take care of you. I want you to get better. I can’t exactly do that if you go off into the woods all by yourself and get up to heaven knows what, can I?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, you smile and pat his head. 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long while yet, mister,” you say, the faux-scolding adding a light playfulness to your tone. “You’re going to stay with me and get better until I say so.”

Hansol looks up at you, tilts his head, and scrunches his nose just slightly as he smiles, shy. “So you’ll let me stay as long as I like?”

“Obviously,” you say, smiling back. “However long it takes you to heal, and then some, if you want. Of course, unless you have somewhere else to go.”

The yokai hesitates, ears flicking unsurely. “Not really,” he admits, lowering his gaze. “I’ve never actually had anywhere real to stay.” He looks back up at you again, golden eyes glinting hopefully. “So if it’s okay…”

“Oh, of course you can stay here,” you rush to reassure him. And then you pause, deflating a little. “Although…This is a human village, so they don’t really like… your kind. It might make life a bit difficult, but since you’re with me, they shouldn’t bother you too much. Though I understand if that makes you hesitant to stay.”

Hansol shakes his head, smiling slightly. “That’s okay. I like it here, so I don’t mind staying with just you.” 

“I’m glad,” you say sincerely. “Seriously, you can stay here for however long you want.”

Hansol ducks his head shyly. “Thank you. Genuinely, thank you.”

You awkwardly pat his hand where it lays on the covers, a little embarrassed in the face of his obvious gratitude, and instruct him to rest up before exiting the room. You’re glad that the brief misunderstanding had been cleared up, because you don’t want Hansol to feel anything less than welcomed. Being a yokai, he won’t have received similar acts of kindness in the wild, and as a magical being yourself, you know how that can feel. No one deserves to feel unwanted, least of all an injured yokai who’d obviously been hurt intentionally before you found him.

Unfortunately, though, the trials of Hansol’s first weeks of consciousness do not end there. Some days later, at some point during the afternoon, Seungcheol comes knocking on your door.

You hadn’t intended on inviting Seungcheol in. But afternoons are always a miserable time during winter, when the sky darkens far too early for anyone’s liking, and it’s difficult to find one’s way through the cold, barely-lit paths. That’s why you often get people coming to your door during the late afternoon, lost or confused or panicked because they’ve lost their way, and your cottage, shimmering with gold magic and warm lights is the only beacon they recognise.

So that’s the only reason why, when Seungcheol turns up, you accidentally open the door for him. Not that you have anything against the village leader, but—Hansol’s only been awake for a week at this point, and you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with a talk about getting rid of him.

Unfortunately, when Seungcheol already has one foot in a door, he will not go. Literally.

“Get your foot out of my door,” you say exasperatedly, struggling to push the door shut as Seungcheol pushes back. His foot is still wedged in the doorway.

“Let me in,” Seungcheol says. 

“No. You’re gonna tell me to hurt the yokai again.”

“I’m going to tell you to get him out of here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Seungcheol says, finally giving up on the little game and pushing his way through the door like it’s no difficulty at all, making you let out an indignant hey!. “We need to talk about this, Y/N. You cannot harbour a demon in our village without discussing this with anyone. He needs to go.”

“He’s hurt,” you say. “He can’t go anywhere! And he won’t hurt anyone, I promise.”

“You can’t know that.” Seungcheol furrows his brow, his tone grave. “He’s a demon, Y/N. You don’t know what he’s capable of. You can’t keep him here.”

“Yes I can,” you insist, “because he’s a fucking real-life being with feelings, not this scary, evil harbinger of doom that you’re making him out to be, and I know this, because he’s been here with me, in my own home, and he’s quite possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Over the last several days, Hansol has been healing rapidly, so much so that most of his bandages have been removed and he practically glows with magic every time you see him. It’s incredibly relieving to see, and it’s also allowed you to get to know him better: sometimes unintentionally, as a natural side effect of living with him now, but also, sometimes quite on purpose. Because he’s pretty, and he’s interesting, and you want to know who he is.

Turns out, one of the key things about Hansol is he’s the most adorable being you’ve ever met.

He’s adorable, in an awkward sort of way, from the way he hovers hesitantly in doorways to the way his tail always fluffs up with contentment when he feels the tendrils of your magic brush across the room.

Unlike yokai, who simply have ancient magic embedded in them from birth, you are born of magic and made entirely of magic, so the stuff practically spills out of you wherever you go. The magic can’t only be felt from under your skin, but extends out and away from your being. You’re not used to having guests in the cottage, so you weren’t aware of the extent of how much you let your magic run free when in the safety of your home, until you noticed how Hansol reacted. He always blinks in surprise, lifting his hand palm-up, fingers curling inwards, as if your magic is some elusive silk strand that constantly evades his grasp. It’s as if he can truly feel it, and he always seems to like it.

“Can you actually feel my magic?” you ask one day, and he looks up from his hand, surprised. His tail is all fluffy and big, lazily waving from side to side and creating static against the decorative pillows on your couch. You’re sitting on an armchair next to him, smiling at him amusedly from over the book of hexes you’re reading. He doesn’t even seem to notice what his tail is doing, too occupied with the invisible tendrils between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Hansol says after a moment, closing his hand and resting them both back in his lap, a little awkward. “It feels warm. Nice.”

“Really?” 

You can’t help but smile at that, oddly flattered. To you, your magic is just… yours. It doesn’t feel like anything in particular, nothing more than a familiar tingle in your hands and a weight against your skin. Though you like describing it as gold, in reality, your magic doesn’t have any colour or any real tangibility to it apart from a fleeting pressure. The idea of it being “gold” is just how you feel about it. It never occurred to you that others could feel it, let alone feel differently about it—living amongst humans, your magic has always subconsciously curled tighter around your arms when you interact with the villagers, not wanting to weird them out with your abnormality or make them feel intimidated by you.

Hansol nods, tail swishing once more. The static has caused all his white fur to stand on end, making him look even more fluffy and adorable. “Yeah,” he says again. “It’s so much calmer than the way my magic feels. It’s really cool.”

He’s looking at you earnestly, as if expecting you to totally agree that your magic is “calmer” than his. And even though you’ve only felt his magic twice before, you nod along in agreement anyway, and Hansol nods back, satisfied with your assent. Then he lowers his gaze back to his lap, opens his hand again, and goes back to playing with your magic.

An endeared laugh bubbles up into your throat, and you smile at the top of Hansol’s head before turning back to your book. Goodness, Hansol is so ridiculously cute.

That interaction only happened some days ago, and whenever Hansol smiles at you or stiltedly asks if he can help you around the house, the surge of affection comes back even harder. So you cannot stand Seungcheol standing here, right now, frowning at you like you’re being unreasonable in your decision to treat Hansol like a normal being.

Seungcheol continues to frown, and you simply stare defiantly back, arms crossed. You don’t let him walk further into the cottage, and a stare-off commences there in the front hallway, neither of you willing to back down.

That is, until there’s a loud crash from further inside the house, and both of you flinch in alarm.

“What was that?” Seungcheol asks, and you look back to where the sound had come from. Connected to the living room, behind a door disguised as an unassuming bookshelf is your own personal library, filled with all the tomes and books on magic and alchemy you’ve collected over the centuries. That’s where the sound’s originated from, which is definitely a cause for concern, but you don’t say so, lest Seungcheol uses this to fuel his argument against Hansol.

“Probably nothing,” you say, though you still glance over in the direction of the library. “You know my cottage. Everything’s old and falling apart.”

Seungcheol looks at you suspiciously. “That’s a lie. You always keep everything in perfect condition.” He begins to move past you. “I bet it’s that demon, isn’t it?”

“No, I—” You try to stop Seungcheol from investigating, but it’s a futile effort. “Cheol, come on, you shouldn’t go see him, he’s still unwell and you could end up distressing him—”

Hurriedly, you trot after Seungcheol through the bookshelf door and into the library, only to end up slamming face-first into his back when he stops abruptly, stunned at the sight before him.

You’re quite proud of your library. It’s an open secret that the bookshelf in your living room leads to it, which is cool all by itself, but your library is also made of magic. What appears as a normal, small study behind the bookshelf turns into a large and sprawling library with high ceilings and mahogany shelves and rows upon rows of books when you step inside. 

You’d allowed Hansol access to the library when he’d asked what was behind the bookshelf, and as far as you know, he’s been peacefully situated there the entire day. But, as you peer over Seungcheol’s shoulder to see why he’s suddenly stopped, you realise you can’t see the yokai at all.

In the middle of the floor, there’s a large… fort of books. A book fort. With four walls built of books piled on top of each other, complete with battlements made of upright books and towers with open books as turrets, it’s actually quite amazing to see. The only drawback is how some of the walls are falling down, books tumbling from where they’re piled up. 

Also the large spread of ice coming from under the fort, that’s very slowly continuing to pool further and further outwards.

Seungcheol blinks. “Uh… Y/N… you wouldn’t happen to be doing this, would you?”

You shake your head. “Weather magic is my weak point.”

Suddenly, two white ears and a head pop up from behind one of the crumbling walls, and Hansol’s eyes widen when he realises you’re here with a guest.

“Oh!” He ducks his head down, and then straightens once more so he can fully see over the walls of the fort. “Hello. I was just building a castle. One of the walls fell down, ‘cause I sneezed, but I can fix it.”

The tip of his nose is slightly dusted with glittering frost, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that or the ice that’s creeping across the wooden floor. His eyes are shining as he looks at you, infinitely more relaxed than when you’d first seen him, and he inclines his head respectfully in Seungcheol’s direction, looking as humble and polite as possible even when half his face is covered by his book fort. 

“Hello to you too. It’s nice to meet you.”

You’re not sure what Seungcheol is most flabbergasted by: Hansol’s gentle manners, or the book fort he’s quite amiably making in your very respectable-looking, very grandiose library, or the circle of ice that’s very clearly coming from the yokai. Hansol is very close to giving the village leader a heart attack any time soon, it seems.

“I— This is— You’re using Y/N’s books to do this?” Seungcheol eventually manages to ask, looking both confused and horrified. “She let you?”

Hansol’s ears droop just slightly, but there’s no obvious change to his expression. “Well… no. But none of the books are damaged, and I’m going to put them back once I’m done with them.”

“It’s fine,” you interject. “I could probably fix a few ripped pages. You can do what you like.”

You couldn’t, probably, fix a few ripped pages, because each book is nearly as old as you. But you’re not going to say that, because you don’t want the confusion on Seungcheol’s face to turn into grim disapproval, and you also don’t want Hansol to feel guilty for what he’s doing.

“Although,” you say, looking down pointedly at the floor, “do you think you could stop the ice?”

Hansol peers over the wall, eyes widening when he realises what you’re talking about. “Oh, sorry. It just happened when I sneezed, I think. Everything is still going haywire… I think I’m still sick.”

The movement of the ice slows to a halt, until only a spattering of frost manages to creep over to where you and Seungcheol are standing. It covers the whole expanse of the floor, now, and there’s not a single patch of the warm brown that’s not frosted over, but it’s okay. That is definitely something you can fix.

Ignoring Seungcheol, who’s still standing there like he can’t believe he’s looking at a walking, talking yokai, you move forward and make your slippery way over to the fort. Hansol moves away a column of books, allowing him to step out of the fort and meet you.

“Is this one of the humans?” Hansol asks in a low voice before you even say anything. The sweetness in his face has disappeared, replaced with an icy look of anxiety. “He’s one of the mortals who don’t like me, isn’t he?”

You try not to wince. “Yes. He’s Seungcheol, the village leader here. He… wants me to get you out of here.”

Hansol regards you for a moment. “You make it sound a lot nicer than what he actually means,” he says. “He wants me killed, doesn’t he? At the very least, badly injured and banished from here.”

“Well… no,” you try to say, but yes, that’s actually exactly what Seungcheol wants. “He doesn’t want you badly injured. He’s just… scared. Of your kind.”

“Hm.” Hansol nods, expressionless. “Same thing, really. He wants me out.”

“Okay, Y/N, stop whispering with the… him,” Seungcheol says, and you look up to see the village leader making his slow way across the ice towards you. “We need to talk. Discuss what you’re going to do, because you are going to do it, for the safety of our village.”

You frown, frustrated. “Hansol’s not a threat to our safety,” you argue. Seungcheol continues to slide gingerly across the ice, and he sighs and shakes his head as you carry on. “He doesn’t have anything against humans. And if he did, he’d have been dead long before we found him at the river, because—Hansol. Tell him why you ended up there.”

Hansol hesitates, looking at you unsurely. The other day, you finally managed to ask him why he’d been so injured and how he’d gotten trapped in the river. It was nothing unexpected, but it still had broken your heart, and hopefully, hopefully, it’s enough for Seungcheol to feel a little bit of empathy towards the yokai. Seungcheol’s a good man, a kind man, and all he needs to do is realise Hansol’s not evil, and he’ll warm up to him faster than anyone could think possible.

“Some other yokai attacked me in the forest,” Hansol says slowly. “Really old yokai. Older than me. And… I got hurt.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, looking at you like he doesn’t get the point of this. You simply glare at him, silently telling him to continue listening.

“It wasn’t bad. Just a broken tail and some scratches,” Hansol says, and Seungcheol blinks, surprised at Hansol’s nonchalance. “But then some demon hunters found me, and tried to get me to… attack them? I dunno. They were picking a fight, and when I didn’t give it to them, they also hurt me.”

Almost imperceptibly, Seungcheol’s face softens a fraction, and you feel a flicker of hope. You know he’s weak in the face of innocently victimised stories like this.

“And so I was trying to run away from them, but everything is kind of in pain at that point. So I end up tripping down the mountain and into your river. My magic goes haywire when I’m sick,” he adds, “so that’s how I end up accidentally freezing ice all over me, too. It kind of responds to my feelings I guess? So when I’m scared, it starts acting up even more, which is why the ice was so thick, too. Like it was trying to protect me, ‘cause it knew I was scared of someone hurting me.”

It’s the most that Hansol’s said in one go, uninterrupted, before. Seungcheol’s face softens even further, and he straightens slowly. He’s been standing still, a few metres away the entire time Hansol’s been talking, like he’s been frozen by his tale.

“And yeah,” Hansol finishes awkwardly, ears twitching. He’s sensed the change in atmosphere, Seungcheol’s empathy tangible in the air. “Then I ended up here.”

“After several, painful weeks of healing,” you add, and Hansol nods jerkily.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Seungcheol says gently. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were so scared. But…” And then he sighs, straightening up further, the softness melting away from his face. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a harm to the others, now you’re all better. Who knows how you might feel when you’re hungry, or angry. You said your magic acts up according to your feelings, and I can’t have it acting up and hurting people here.”

Hansol’s face scrunches up in confusion. “When I’m hungry?”

It’s a bit absurd that’s the thing he’s focusing on, so you feel indignation over Seungcheol’s whole speech on his behalf, crying out at the injustice.

“What do you mean?” you argue. “You’re saying that like he’s some mindless beast.”

“He may as well be, for all I know,” Seungcheol sighs. “He’s not human, Y/N. We don’t know how he’ll act. And I need to think about the villagers. They’re… they’re like family to me, you know that.”

“I’m not human either,” you point out angrily. “And yet I’m also a part of this village. What are you saying, Cheol? Do you not consider me family?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head instantly. “No, you are. But still, you’re more human than he is. And… there are days where I’m a bit wary of you too, Y/N.” At your outraged look, he rushes to continue, “Because you’re so powerful! But you’ve been with us for so many years, during the time of my father and his father, and his father before that, so I know you’re good. You’ve saved their lives. Saved everyone’s lives. Hansol, on the other hand…”

You scoff, beyond furious. “That’s absurd. There’s no such thing as being ‘good’, just as there’s no such thing as being ‘evil’. We don’t live in a fucking fairytale, Seungcheol.”

“I know. Maybe if you’d made different choices, I’d think of you as less good, too, but…” Seungcheol trails off, shrugging helplessly.

You stare at him, eyes so impossibly wide that it’s actually hurting your eye sockets, astounded by what he’s just said. Seungcheol? Thinking of you as evil? Just because of your power? 

Beside you, Hansol stiffens just slightly, and during the course of the conversation, he’s somehow ended up so close to you that you can feel his magic simmering frantically under his skin. You don’t know why he’s so worked up, and distantly, you wonder whether it’s on your behalf.

Seungcheol, noticing how irate you’re getting, takes a step forward to try and placate you. But he misjudges his balance on the ice surrounding the fort, leg twisting and his eyes widen and he yelps as he falls forward, on course to crashing face-first onto the hard, frozen ground. Your eyes widen, and you reach out to him, before then—

There’s a blur of white fur and Hansol catches him before he falls over and breaks all the bones in his knees, gripping him loosely around the torso, getting to Seungcheol before you can even blink. He gingerly helps him back into an upright position, and you wave a hand to whisk away the rest of the ice with streams of gold before another accident like that happens again. Hansol’s still holding Seungcheol when you’re finished, but by the shoulders now, looking the village leader right in the eye, golden irises soft and determined at the same time.

“I get you have a responsibility,” Hansol says. “I used to have one too, in the wild. To keep myself alive. But my rule, and this should be yours too, is to not hurt anything that doesn’t hurt you first. I haven’t hurt you. You shouldn’t hurt me. And Y/N—” He looks over at you, eyes flashing, before looking back at Seungcheol. “Y/N has never hurt you. So don’t act like you’re preparing for the day she one day will.”

Seungcheol’s face doesn’t change, but you’ve known him long enough to detect the minute shifts in the air around him as he digests Hansol’s words and, grudgingly, accepts it.

“I apologise,” he finally says, reluctant but sincere in the way only Seungcheol can be. “That was cruel of me. To you and Y/N.”

He looks at you, and Hansol’s hands fall away, allowing him to walk towards you.

“Sorry. But you have to understand where I’m coming from,” Seungcheol says, almost pleading, and you realise that, whilst his stance on Hansol’s existence has wavered, his overall reluctance over him being here hasn’t changed. “At least don’t let others see him, if he’s going to stay. They’ll be terrified.”

“That doesn’t sound like Hansol’s problem,” you retort. “I know these villagers, Cheol, and they’ll warm up to him, they really will.”

You look over at Hansol as you say your next words.

“Hansol is sweet and kind and really rather funny, and it breaks my heart to hide him from others because he might be seen as scary. That’s just people’s prejudice talking.” You smile. Hansol’s eyes are wide, lips parted slightly, and a fluttering warmth unfurls up inside you as you continue to smile at him. “Because I’ve seen Hansol, and he’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

Hansol’s entire face goes pink, and he looks away.

“Maybe so,” Seungcheol says heavily, and you look back at him. The warmth in your chest fades at his tone, dropping to the depths of your stomach. “But I can’t risk them being near him. Don’t let him out.”

You sigh, disappointed. “No. He can leave the house if he wants to, Seungcheol. He’s not some kind of housepet you can impose rules on just like that and expect me to follow through with them.”

“Y/N—”

“Get out of my home,” you say, evenly. “Go. You can take your rules and go piss off out of my sight.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

You stew in your anger towards Seungcheol for several days. 

He comes to your door every so often, either with a letter or a plea to talk through this, but you refuse to let him in and instead tell him to, not so kindly, fuck off. 

Hansol looks at you with a mixture of affection and disappointment each time you do so. You don’t really understand why he looks at you like that—neither the affection nor disappointment—but he doesn’t say anything and goes back to what he was doing soon after, either playing with your magic, or his own, or reading your books.

Having him around the house is quite like having a very adorable, very shy, fox. You might’ve gotten furious at Seungcheol for treating Hansol like a pet, but you don’t mean it like having a pet fox: it’s just like having an inquisitive, cute being around the house who quite likes following you around as you go about your day.

It’s cute. He’s cute, with his swishing tail and his sudden bursts of frost when he’s fiddling with his fingers, and the way he stays perfectly still whenever you gain the courage to slowly inch closer to him on the sofa until you’re laying on his shoulder, at the perfect angle to peer down at the book in his hands so you can read it with him. They’re all your books, of course, so you know what they’re all about, but it’s quite nice leaning against Hansol, feeling his warmth through the silk of his clothing, and the pleasant hum of his magic under your ear.

He never initiates physical contact, but he seems to like having you near. He’s never protested when you’ve held his hand or laid on his shoulder or (very, very gently) touched his ears, so.

He’s quite like a fox, in that way. But he’s like a fox in other ways, too: namely, how it appears that he’s a bit nocturnal.

Sometimes, you’ll awaken at three, four, five o’clock in the morning to someone clattering around in your house. It always turns out to be Hansol, trying to occupy himself without waking you up, but always failing to do so.

“Hansol?” you murmur blearily, shuffling into the kitchen where the flurry of clatters had emitted from earlier. It’s dark, and all the curtains are drawn; nevertheless, his dim silhouette looks distinctly guilty as he whirls around to face you, pots and pans in his hands. “What’re you doing?”

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I read some potion in your book, and I wanted to try it out.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Five,” Hansol corrects. You fix him with a look, and he winces, demon magic-enhanced night vision meaning he can see you perfectly clearly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It’s cold in the kitchen, and being exposed to the chilly night temperature is gradually waking you up. “It’s okay. I guess you don’t sleep a lot, huh? You’re wide awake, even though it’s so early in the morning.”

Hansol shrugs. “Dunno. But I always just feel like I have so much energy. Like it doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I can’t sleep for too long before it tells me to do something.”

“I see.” You purse your lips thoughtfully, pondering why Hansol’s feeling like this and what could cause it. And then, a realisation strikes you and your eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, I get it. I understand why you’re feeling that way.”

The yokai tilts his head. “Really?”

“Yeah, and it’s totally okay,” you reassure, nodding your head. “Totally understandable, too. But don’t worry, it’s easily fixed.”

You wave a hand and turn all the light fixtures on so you can see Hansol properly. The yokai literally does look like he’s vibrating with extra energy, holding your cooking utensils in his hands, ears perked upright and tail fluffed up to the max. Yeah, he’s definitely understimulated and frustrated with it right now, even if he doesn’t realise that’s what it is.

You smile. This is a good way to help him and piss off Seungcheol at the same time.

“Come on, Hansol. Let’s go outside.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Not even an hour later, you’re making a trek up the mountains in your warmest clothes, lagging behind Hansol even with your magic-aided agility helping you up the hardest of the steps. The yokai is bounding on ahead, nimble and quick-footed even in the darkness of the early winter morning, and you can hear the light crunch of snow under his footsteps as he moves.

This is what Hansol needed. Some time outside, where he can finally breathe.

Some minutes later, as you’re sitting on a log on the path to catch your breath, Hansol comes back down the mountain to meet you, settling down by your side.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers. The air around you is lit with a faint glow, courtesy of a visibility spell you conjured so you wouldn’t fall flat on your face as you walked. It makes Hansol’s face look golden as he smiles at you, eyes shining. “Everything is so quiet out here. I can hear the animals.”

You smile back, finding joy in how relaxed he looks. “Doesn’t that make it noisy?”

Hansol shakes his head, and then looks away from you, ears cocked to the side, listening. “No. This is like a familiar buzz of noise, so familiar that it becomes silent.” He looks back at you again, smiling. “Down in the village, it’s so noisy because of all the people, but up here, it’s all gone.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you say with a smile, and Hansol nods so quickly that you laugh, endeared. “I’m glad. You can go off for a bit, if you want, and I’ll wait for you here.”

Hansol beams. “Okay.”

And like that, he’s off, nothing more than a faint swish of a silver tail before he disappears once more.

He doesn’t come back to you for some time, which gives you a chance to sit there and breathe in the cool air. It’s so cold that it feels like inhaling clouds of peppermint, but it’s… relaxing. 

You haven’t had a chance to properly rest this winter. Winter’s a tricky time for you: the cold numbs your senses and makes your magic more sluggish. This year feels much colder than usual, and now the prolonged adrenaline that came with bringing Hansol back from the brink of death is fading, you’re beginning to anticipate feeling more worn out more often, the warm fizz in the tips of your fingers not as present as it ought to be.

Strangely, though. It hasn’t happened yet. Maybe being around Hansol and his frost-related magic has built up your resistance to the cold.

Or, he’s just so lovely and comforting that you don’t feel the effects of the winter.

That’s always a possibility. You look down at your hands, still glowing slightly with the visibility light you’ve put on yourself. It hasn’t faltered even once, a brilliant gold, and when you think of the colour of Hansol’s eyes, the light seems to glow even more.

You breathe in, and then exhale, kicking your feet out in front of you, looking down the dim mountain. You’ve been up here, thinking, for so long that the weak sunrise is beginning to peek its head above the horizon. Hansol still hasn’t come back. Though, you find you’re not too worried about that: somehow, you know that he will come back to you, though you can’t find ears nor tail of him while he’s gone.

It’s incredible how much you’ve come to trust and believe in Hansol, though he’s only been with you for several weeks. He’s been so reserved, anxious and afraid at times, especially during the early days, when he’d been bandaged up and newly healing in an unfamiliar environment, but now it’s clear how earnest and gentle he is. Something in your chest tightens and then relaxes with happiness whenever you see him smile. He’s just so—genuine, and you really like that about him.

You like him. A lot. He’s certainly an unexpected new part of your life, but now he’s here, and you can’t imagine living without the silver-furred fox yokai by your side.

There’s a rustle in the evergreen bushes to your left, and, as if he’s here answering your summons, a familiar silver head of hair pops out, golden eyes shining when he sees you. 

He blinks at you, ears flicking curiously, twigs in his hair like he’s been rolling around on the forest floor. His tail is out of sight, but you can imagine how it’s waving from side to side in contentment, the morning dew slowly turning into frozen crystals in his fur. You smile.

“Hey,” you greet, the moment you see Hansol’s face. “Are you gonna come over?”

Instantly, he stands up, hops over the bush and makes his way to you. His footfalls are light, looking like he’s dancing over the rocks before he settles next to you once more, looking like he never left your side.

“Hey,” he says. “There are so many rabbits in these mountains, you know? Like I’ve never seen so many rabbits gathered in one place before, because normally they get killed by hunters or there’s just not enough food in that area to sustain so many. It’s actually insane how many rabbits you have up here.” When you just smile, his eyes widen, ears pricking upright. “Oh, is it you? Do you do something to help them stay alive? With your magic and all that?”

Hansol then launches into a flurry of questions for you, so eager and animated that it surprises you a little, before melting your heart.

At the sight of sunrise, you’d taken down your visibility spell, but Hansol is still glowing, looking so alive with his cold-dusted cheeks, shining eyes, wind-fluffed hair and the frost dusting the tip of his nose, which must have accidentally happened when he’d gotten too excited and lost control of his magic.

Hansol’s positively lit up, now he’s surrounded by all this nature. He must’ve been so cooped up and nervous before, when he was just in your house, barely anything to do. Now he’s healed, and outside, and you can tell that being out of the house is where he’s meant to be.

“It’s not me,” you admit after Hansol’s finished conjuring up crazy theories. “Well, kind of. I messed around with the mountains about eighty years ago and did something by accident so we get a lot more winter flowers than normal. The rabbits love eating them, so we get a lot of them too.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, amazed. “That makes so much sense. I saw so many flowers. I thought that was a little bit weird, but I just chalked it up to Mother Nature having fun, or something.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I guess Mother Nature was having fun,” you say, gesturing to yourself, and Hansol grins too. His eyes crinkle as he does so, the corners of his lips spread wide so his pearly whites are fully visible, the tips of his yokai fangs slightly on display. Even his big, bright smile is as cute as he is. You’ve never seen him smile this widely before. It’s… pretty.

Even though he’s all warmed up to you now, even though it’s clear he trusts you, it’s obvious he’ll always be most at peace out here in the big, wide world.

His gaze slides away from yours, looking at something behind you, and he gasps.

“What is it?” You turn to look back, trying to find what had caught his eye, but Hansol doesn’t respond. He jumps up, diving into the bushes without a word.

A moment later he emerges, and in his hands is…

“A daffodil?” you say, amazed. “What’s this doing here? Spring is very, very far off.”

“I guess it’s because of you,” Hansol says, handing you the flower. 

You accept it gratefully, tracing the edges of its buttery yellow petals, such a warm, golden colour in your hands, in stark contrast to the cold white of the snow around you. It’s so pretty, so pristine, and it’s amazing it managed to survive in the freezing winter temperatures. Must be due to your magic, like Hansol said.

“It looks like you,” Hansol says suddenly, and you look at him in surprise. 

“Really? How?”

“You look like spring, to me,” he says. The frosted tip of his nose looks pink, as do his cheeks. A decidedly warmer, blushier pink than they’d looked before. “All warm and gold and pretty. Like the daffodil. And I…” He pauses, and then seems to change his mind, shutting his mouth and blinking at you like he wasn’t about to say anything else.

You smile, so endeared that you’re practically glowing with it. “Thank you,” you say, touched, and look back down at the daffodil in your hands before raising your eyes to the definitely-blushing yokai once more. “That’s so sweet.”

Hansol shrugs, a little bashful, before standing up abruptly.

“I’m gonna go find the rabbits again,” he says, and before you can even reply, he’s disappeared.

You laugh, breathing in the crisp air and then releasing it in a sigh, feeling warm all over despite the cold. You shake your head, fond. Hansol is just so…

That’s it, you decide. You’re not going to let Seungcheol dictate where Hansol can and can’t be. You’ll let Hansol do whatever he wants, and encourage him to do whatever he wants. 

Whatever makes him smile.

───────────── ‘✽, 

From that day on, you make it a point to take Hansol to the mountains as often as you can.

He loves it—he’ll never say it in so many words, extremely shy when it comes to voicing his preferences for reasons you cannot discern, but it’s so obvious that those few hours he gets to spend with you, in the fresh air, away from all the people, are his favourite hours in the day.

It’s another one of those mornings when you’re up in the mountains with him. You can’t come here every day: you’d collapse from exhaustion if you had to wake up at four in the morning every day, but today, it’s a particularly clear-skied day, and you wanted to watch the sunrise with Hansol.

He’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with you, looking silently down at the village below. It’s still not sunrise yet, but the sky’s beginning to lighten gradually, and you can see some of the windows beginning to light up with orange lights, everyone slowly waking. Hansol hasn’t said a word for a while, so you haven’t either, content to just look down at everything in silence.

The entire experience is rather humbling. From the mountain, the village looks so small, like it’s merely a miniscule dot in existence, something that could be missed in a single blink. Like each mortal is worth next to nothing. Like each could be destroyed in a second.

That’s what a lesser immortal would think, anyway. For you, however, rather than how fragile life is, being this high up makes you marvel at the intricacy of it. Every person, every soul, despite being so small, is filled to the brim with so many unique experiences that no one else can ever live through as that person did. They live, and they die, but almost magnificently so. Like a one-of-a-kind snowflake that melts as soon as it lies in your hands.

You look at Hansol next to you. His eyelashes flutter thoughtfully as he looks down at the village, delicate against his pale skin. 

Every life should be cherished, you think. Because if even the fleetings lives of humans are that complex, then what of the immortal creatures, who live forever? No one should tell them to hide themselves away.

“I can hear you cursing Seungcheol in your head,” Hansol says abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s staring at you, now, no longer focused on the village, and he tilts his head bemusedly when you meet his gaze. “You’re still mad at him, aren’t you?”

You blink, and then smile. You were kind of cursing out Cheol in your head, you admit, and it’s kind of funny that Hansol picked up on it.

“I am,” you sigh, looking down. “Well, now I’m more annoyed, really. I know I should be glad that he’s not going to extremes, like some other people in the world, but…”

Hansol nods slowly. “I get where he’s coming from, though,” he admits, and you look up. “What? Seungcheol cares for his village. These people… they all mean a lot to him, and he doesn’t know me, so I guess it’s natural for him to be cautious.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s no excuse. These people all mean a lot to me, too. I watched them all grow up! And Cheol should know I wouldn’t suggest anything that puts them in danger.” You frown. “It’s frustrating. It feels like he doesn’t trust my judgement, even though he’s literally known me his entire life.”

The yokai hums, and reaches over to pat your hand placatingly where it rests in your lap.

“Also, it pisses me off that he’s saying all this without ever making an effort to get to know you, and see if his judgement is right,” you say, looking at Hansol, catching his hand in your own when he begins to move away. “You’re just—you’re just so lovely, and how dare Seungcheol try to hide you away, like you’re something taboo, or something to be ashamed of?”

Hansol’s eyes widen, and he blinks rapidly, before averting his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Oh,” he says, after a moment, clearly embarrassed by your sincere compliments. “That’s… nice.”

You laugh, fond, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “I’m always nice,” you tease. “I’m the nicest person in the entire world, actually.”

To your surprise, Hansol doesn’t smile back at your joke, and simply ducks his head shyly. “You are.” 

And then he keeps lowering himself down until he’s laying in your lap, the tips of his flickering slightly at the contact as he adjusts himself until he's practically lying down in the log, head in your lap. You stiffen in surprise, and Hansol slowly shifts so he can blink up at you with innocent, gold eyes. 

“Can I lie here?” he asks, even though he's clearly very much lying there already, and you smile, relaxing. 

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, and Hansol smiles, closing his eyes as your hand goes to his hair and begins to gently run through the strands with the tips of your fingers. 

You stay like that for some time, running your fingers through Hansol’s hair and over the soft fur of his ears. Abruptly, he playfully flicks his ears as you trace a finger through the fur at the base of them, making you yelp in surprise, and he smiles, pleased at having made you jump. You lightly tug at a few strands of hair, teasing, and he smiles wider, eyes still shut, the slight points of his canines visible.

Too distracted with Hansol’s face, you end up completely missing the full sunrise, and eventually it becomes late enough in the morning that the village fully awakens, bustling with noise as people go about their day. But curiously, you can’t hear a single thing. It’s like your world has narrowed down to you, your hands, and the yokai laid comfortably in your lap.

He really is very pretty. You notice the small spattering of snowflake-like freckles on his cheeks, and smile. He’s so pretty that it isn’t even fair.

You trace a thumb over his cheekbones, opening your mouth to comment on them before Hansol’s eyes snap open, and his ears suddenly tilt towards something down the mountain, listening. Your hand freezes, and you let him turn his head, alert.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, you hear it: the crunching of twigs underfoot, and the telltale huffing and puffing of a human making their way up the mountain. Your hand falls, and you get ready to stand up before—

“Y/N?”

Soonyoung, clad in winter furs and holding a woven basket in his hands, blinks at you in confusion, and then he glances to the yokai in your lap, and shakes his head, his expression becoming even more mystified than before.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” you ask back, equally confused as Soonyoung. “You literally hate climbing the mountains. What are you doing?”

Soonyoung looks at you oddly, lifting up the empty basket. “I’m here to collect wildflowers for you,” he says. “I asked you the other day if you could make some of that non-dangerous magic fire you did last year. You said you needed wildflowers harvested at sunrise to make that potion, so I’m here to get those.”

“Oh. Did you really ask me that?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “You said you’d make them for me. And also complained for like five minutes because I tried to pay you, and you wanted to refuse ‘cause you said I was paying you too much. As if there’s such a thing as being paid too much money.” He rolls his eyes for emphasis, and you laugh.

The conversation comes back to you now, and you shrug sheepishly. “Yeah. Sorry. I forgot about that.”

Soonyoung makes a disgruntled sound, feigning annoyance before his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Don’t worry about it, boo. Just as long as you remember to make the potion, it’s all fine. The children’ll love it for the bonfire tonight.”

Your eyes widen. “You want me to make it for tonight? There’s a bonfire tonight?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “I specifically told you when I asked, as well. Goodness, you’re forgetting everything today, huh?” Then he gestures casually to Hansol, who’s still lying in your lap, looking unsurely at the villager. “Don’t tell me, you also forgot you have the injured demon in your lap, too?”

He points to Hansol so naturally, so calmly that you look down in surprise, as if you really had forgotten the yokai was there. Soonyoung laughs, shaking his head as he bends down near a bush, poking through the dirt to see if there are any flowers. He turns his back on you and Hansol, craning down towards the ground to see better as he continues to talk.

“Cheol told me all about the demon and how he disapproves of you keeping him alive,” Soonyoung says. He manages to find a few wildflowers, and lets out an aha! of pride, putting them away in his basket. “Not gonna lie, I agreed with him a bit. But then I come up here and find him in your lap as you pet him like a cat, and now I’m thinking, maybe not so much.”

Soonyoung turns back to face you once again, and somehow, during those thirty seconds, he’s managed to get dirt all over his nose.

“Plus, you seem to like him,” he carries on. “So he can’t be bad, can you? Because you’d kick his ass if he was.”

You quirk a grin at that, proud. Then you nod down at Hansol. “He has a name, though, you know. And he can hear you.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widen in realisation, and he stands up quickly, brushing down his clothes. “Oh, sorry, you’re right. Sorry. Hi, I’m Soonyoung, one of the villagers who live here. It’s nice to meet you.”

He extends a gloved hand towards Hansol, and Hansol looks at the hand for a long moment. Then he slowly sits upright again, and grasps Soonyoung’s hand in a firm handshake, the corners of his mouth relaxing slightly.

“Hansol,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And then he must do something, because Soonyoung lets out a small yip in surprise, withdrawing his hand quickly as Hansol observes him amusedly, eyes glinting. 

“Did you…” Soonyoung starts, wide-eyed. “Did you just. Give me an electric shock? On purpose?”

Hansol cracks the slightest smile, evidently pleased with Soonyoung’s reaction. He’s in a playful mood today, you muse, smiling as Soonyoung stutters, clearly not sure what to do when a yokai plays a prank on him like this. It makes you smile too, amused.

“You have to show me how to do that,” Soonyoung eventually says, going from surprised to confused to full of amazement. “Can you show me? Is that something which can be taught?”

That makes Hansol smile properly, lips curving upwards. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being serious!” Soonyoung says, but something about Hansol’s smile must make him smile too, because eventually he laughs, shaking his head. “Goodness, you magic people need to stop messing with me. One day, I’ll accidentally set myself on fire, and it’ll be your fault.”

“You’d do that anyway,” you tease, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have to get going, I think. Jeonghan’s coming over for a poultice for his back pain, and I need to get to my cottage before he does.”

“Okay,” Soonyoung says. “This is a hell of a way up the mountain, by the way. I might go down with you as well, and see if I’ve missed any flowers.”

“Cool.” This is definitely not that far up the mountain, and even though Soonyoung hates climbing, it shouldn’t have taken him more than twenty minutes to reach where you are. It’s clear he wants to walk with you for a moment to tell you something, so you look at Hansol, and offer him the chance to stay up in the mountains by himself for a bit.

He agrees, so you and Soonyoung begin your slow descent.

“What do you want?” you ask, when you’re out of Hansol’s hearing range.

Soonyoung just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing bad,” he says. “I meant it when I said Hansol seems like a cool guy. I just…” He pauses, thinks over his words, and then leans in closer. “Bring him to the bonfire tonight.”

You reel back. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Hey, if you’re worried about him getting hurt, you shouldn’t be,” Soonyoung says placatingly. “Hansol’s a demon. He can hold his own. Plus, the people aren’t as against yokai as you might think. Cheol’s just overly cautious, and the elderly might have traditional views about it, but it won’t be hard to make them like him. He’s cute.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“He is!” Soonyoung argues. “I saw him in your lap, Y/N. He’s adorable. And very… docile? Like, he’s so quiet. But also very silly. The kids would love him, you know. So would everyone else.”

“Even Seungcheol?”

Soonyoung thinks about it for a second. The cold air has made his cheeks all ruddy red, and he looks like a very earnest, very red-cheeked schoolboy as he nods firmly. “Yes. Even Seungcheol.”

You hum, still incredibly sceptical. “Well. I’ll think about it. We’ll have to see.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Unfortunately, even though you were slightly swayed by Soonyoung’s words and his instant kindness and all-round chillness in Hansol’s presence, you ultimately end up not bringing Hansol to the bonfire night. It’s not your decision, though: it’s Hansol’s.

“Are you worried about the humans?” you ask, when Hansol tells you that, respectfully, he doesn’t want to go. “You don’t have to worry about that. I could blast them all to pieces for insulting you, if that makes you feel better.”

Hansol smiles a little, before shaking his head. “No. It’s actually just… I’m not really a big fan of all the noise and stuff. And how hot bonfires are.”

“Oh.” You soften, concerned. “Have you been… hurt by fire before?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Hansol says. He shrugs. “I just don’t like being too warm. Makes me uncomfortable.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. Because even as he says this, he’s cuddling up into your side, head on your shoulder, his tail curled comfortably around him. “Really?” you say. “You don’t like being too warm?”

Hansol’s ears flick. “Yeah. My magic originates from winter, as you might have noticed, so…”

“Oh, I hadn’t realised,” you say teasingly, tapping the tip of his nose lightly. “I thought the white fur and random bursts of frost on your skin meant you were a summery fox.”

Hansol scrunches his nose, and you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it does mean I don’t like being all warm, so fires are a no-go for me. Especially bonfires, where there are many people. That’s way too much warmth for me, for sure.”

“I see,” you say, reaching a hand up to tuck some of his silver hair out of his face as he nestles closer into your side. “That’s cool. But I am going to have to go, even if you aren’t. Will you be okay if I leave you here by yourself in the evening?”

“Yeah. Can you make me dinner before you go, though? Last time I tried, I almost destroyed your kitchen.”

“What? When was that?”

“Oops. Did I not tell you?”

Anyway, the bonfire night ends up being a bit of a disappointment. Several of the villagers have cottoned on to the fact you’re housing the yokai, and express their concerns to you over the matter several times over the course of the night. You love these people, you really do, but hearing so many of them advise you to send him back off into the woods for your own safety really wears you down after a while.

“I think Y/N understands what you’re saying now, imo,” a gentle voice butts in, right when you’re in the middle of having a particularly exhausting conversation. This tricky older woman’s insisting you let the yokai go… only, she’s using much more unkind words.

You were very, very close to losing your cool with her—respect the elders be damned because hell, you’re way older than she is—before she’s interrupted mid-sentence by a villager appearing over his shoulder, and you smile in relief as you recognise him.

At the call of “auntie”, she looks up and comes face-to-face with your saviour, Joshua, and all it takes is another gentle smile and some sweet words before he successfully convinces her to leave your side and rejoin her friends on the other side of the bonfire.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joshua says when you thank him for his help. “You know how they are. Once they latch on to you, it’s impossible to get them to leave without using some sort of witchcraft to pry them away.”

You laugh at that. “And yet, it seemed to be you who helped get them off me. Maybe you’re the real witchcraft user out of the two of us.”

Joshua laughs, light and melodious, magical fire reflecting in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything to your joke, however, and nods into the distance behind you, down the darkened paths that lead to your cottage. “You need to bring him out, though,” he says. “Whilst he’s still unknown, they’ll continue conjuring theories that become wilder by the day. They need to see the yokai so their suspicions can be wiped away once and for all.”

“Wh—Hansol?” You blink. “It’s dangerous, Shua. They might hurt him.”

“They’re hurting him now,” Joshua says. “They’re hurting you and hurting him by making stuff up. Just introduce him to them, okay? He can’t become part of our village if he never meets our villagers.”

At your stunned look, Joshua smiles. 

“What? I know you, Y/N. You’re attached. You want him to stay. And honestly…” His smile turns a little more secretive, a little more knowing. “I think he wants to, too. The yokai will stay for you, but to truly bring him in, you have to bring him out to us.”

Joshua smiles again, the colours of his irises swirling together, before he pats you on the shoulder and gets up, leaving you there speechless.

He isn’t… wrong. But hearing it like that sounds insane.

You shake your head. Hansol will have to meet everyone sooner or later, you suppose. You very much do not want to go ahead with Seungcheol’s idea to let him be hidden, like a secret, so of course, you need to bring him out into the open.

You shake your head again, mystified. Joshua’s correct, but how does he know so much?

Honestly, you really do think he’s more of a witchcraft user out of the two of you. His incredible timing, his knowledge of all your thoughts, the fact he’d called Hansol a yokai rather than demon…

Also. How old even is he, anyway? 

Too confused and befuddled by all the thoughts in your head, you end up playing with the children and run through the fire all night instead. It’s a lot safer than having to deal with all the grown-up stuff of thinking about things.

───────────── ‘✽, 

Both Soonyoung’s and Joshua’s words linger in the back of your mind for days after that, and you contemplate how to get Hansol out of the house. Hansol had never really shown signs of wanting to be part of the village, which had made you reconsider this whole thing, wanting to brush away the villager’s words, before you actually asked the yokai, and—

Hansol shrugs. “Yeah. I’d like to get to know everyone. I want to be part of the village.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he says again, smiling at you. “This village is your village, and I want to be with you.”

Oh. You smile back, touched. Hansol smiles wider, brightening at the eye contact, all sweet and lovely and really quite cute, before ducking his head and disappearing back through the shelves of your library once again.

So Hansol turns out to be not as against the idea as you thought, which makes you feel a lot better about thinking of how to get the villagers to trust him and how to get Seungcheol off your back for taking care of Hansol in the first place.

However, it ends up not being you who makes the first steps into getting him known. Oh, no.

Instead, Hansol does that all by himself.

It happens during the first snowfall of the year. You’d woken up to the beautiful sight of the white crystals floating down and covering the entire village with a soft, muffled coat, and the equally beautiful sight of Hansol, who had already woken up, practically pressing his nose against the window to look at the snow in awe.

He’d clearly wanted to go out and be in the snow—as a winter yokai, that made sense—but you’d had some errands to run that day, so you’d told him he could stay only in the front yard of the cottage and go no further.

Hansol had smiled at you, an amused quirk of his lips that acted as all the reassurance you needed.

So he’s sitting in the snow in front of your cottage, legs out in front of him, the silk of his clothes getting damper the longer he sits on the cold ground, but he hardly notices, more focused with tracing a finger through the soft white that is steadily building up.

Snowfall is Hansol’s most favourite wintry thing. It’s a perfect, wondrous phenomenon: the intersection of the perfect time and the perfect weather and the perfect temperature that makes the sky release soft handfuls of the white stuff down on Earth. Even nature falls silent when the snow falls. In Hansol’s opinion, that’s proof enough that it’s something to be appreciated beyond belief.

His robes, his old robes, used to have silver snowflakes embroidered into them, intricate and sprawling patterns that he could run his fingers over and almost feel the cold gust of wind that accompanied the snow. They’re not on the robes he’s wearing now—he’s wearing ones you’ve given him, after his old ones were ruined by his own blood—but he traces his fingers gently over the sleeves, letting frost spread out from his fingers like the feathery patterns that used to adorn the cloth he wore.

He quickly grows bored of that, though, and turns to the real snow in front of him, ears flicking absentmindedly to get rid of the small pile-up gathering on his head. He absentmindedly gathers the stuff in his hands, patting it into shapes and then leaving them out on the lawn. 

This carries on for some time, and eventually there is an army of misshapen snow clumps in your front yard, all frosted over with a touch of his magic, and he grins, satisfied. And then his ears twitch again, and he feels… eyes. Watching him.

Hansol turns around, and some houses away, peeking from over a well-trimmed, leafless hedge, he sees three children clad in fluffy winter clothes staring at him, curious.

He doesn’t have much experience with human children. Or any children, for that matter. But he’s pretty sure that, when a yokai makes eye contact with them, they’re not meant to light up with glee and come running over with absolutely no regard for the icy paths or the danger that said yokai could present.

Surprised, Hansol jumps up to his feet, reaching out hands to steady the little kids as they skid over the snow and come to a stop right in front of him, eyes shining, expectant. He doesn’t know what they’re expecting, and being so close to these mini humans is a very awkward experience for him. He’s not sure what to do.

So he lifts a hand, and waves. “Hello?”

The three children beam, and one of them, the girl, practically vibrates with happiness when he speaks.

“Hello!” she chirps, and waves back. “I’m Yeowon! What’s your name?”

Hansol blinks, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I’m Hansol.”

“Hansol!” Yeowon keeps speaking in exclamation marks, and it’s honestly kind of amusing. “It’s nice to meet you! This is Junghoon, and this is Minjun!” she says, gesturing to the boys on either side of him, who also give Hansol equally enthusiastic waves.

“Hello,” he says unsurely. How old are these kids? He doesn’t know much about human years, but they look… very young. Where are their parents?

He doesn’t get to voice his concerns before Yeowon starts speaking again, going a mile a minute and he can hardly get a word in edgeways.

“We were watching you from Minjun’s house,” she says, and picks up one of the snow balls that Hansol was making, lifting it up so he can look at his own handiwork. “These are so pretty! We wanted to come over and play with you, ‘cause we’ve never seen you before, but you live with Miss Witch, right?”

Hansol opens his mouth, but it’s apparent that wasn’t an actual question when Yeowon barrels on.

“So you must be a good guy! So we wanted to come say hello and play.”

She blinks big, innocent eyes up at him, as do the two boys, evidently begging him to play with them, or something. He doesn’t know what play entails, but… there’s no harm in entertaining these fun-sized humans, right?

So Hansol nods, says they can play with him, and sits down in the snow again. And then, before he knows it, they’re all shrieking and climbing over him and asking him to make figurines out of ice and snow and patting his hair in amazement and asking if his ears are actually real.

Children are very overwhelming, Hansol quickly learns. But he also kind of likes them: likes the way their eyes light up when he makes them the little ice characters they want, likes their fascinated smiles and the way they very gently touch his ears and accidentally get damp suede of their gloves in his mouth in their excitement. They’re bubbly, full of life, and so friendly with him that it honestly makes him so delighted that it surprises him.

“Make me one too! Make me one too!”

“Your ears look super fluffy! Can I touch your tail?”

“Why are your eyes yellow?”

“Can you make me something out of magic too, Mister Fox?”

“Mister Fox! Mister Fox!”

Hansol doesn’t know how it happens, but he blinks and suddenly he’s surrounded by what seems to be every child in the village, clamouring around him and asking if he could play, Please, Mister Fox, won’t you?

Your front lawn is quickly becoming a gathering place for the little humans who had swarmed towards him so quickly that Hansol’s starting to think they were waiting in the background for his very opportunity, and he makes more ice figures and listens interestedly to their babbling as they conjure stories for the figurines on the spot. They’re all so very noisy, but Hansol smiles, brimming with a similar sort of energy as his magic fizzes and pops with glitters of snow and makes the children laugh.

There’s no other way to describe it. He’s feeling happiness, pure and simple.

Unbeknownst to Hansol, there’s one human who’d been watching the entire scene right from the beginning. Coming down the path, on his way to visit the village’s magic-user, Soonyoung had noticed Hansol sitting by himself and had prepared to go over, extend a hand and a friendly word before Yeowon, Junghoon and Minjun had run over.

As a result, Soonyoung retreated a little ways round the bend to watch from a distance, which is where he is now, smiling at the innocent joy of both the children and Hansol.

From the opposite end of the path, he spots you walking back to your cottage, and clocks the exact moment you realise what’s happening in your front yard. Your eyes widen, and you stop in your tracks, before your eyes slowly lift further and you notice Soonyoung standing there too, smiling.

See? he seems to say with your eyes, meeting your gaze. They love him. 

One of the children shrieks with laughter as she grabs Hansol’s tail and he playfully gasps in shock, scooping her up and lifting her into the air until she’s giggling and burbling for him to put her down. At his feet, one child is patting snow into the hem of his robes, and another is playing with a fox-eared figurine that Hansol had made him.

It looks so natural, and you watch them for a moment before looking at Soonyoung again. Soonyoung smiles even wider. You have nothing to worry about.

You laugh, a little bit in disbelief, warmth spreading across your face as you smile back, looking fondly at the sight in your front yard. Finally, you really do believe that that’s the truth.

───────────── ‘✽, 

“Let’s go out,” you say, and Hansol looks up from his book, tilting his head inquisitively.

“Hm,” he says in reply. “Are you sure?”

It’s been a few days since the first snowfall, but the wintry precipitation has not let up, and it continues to softly drift down from the sky even as you speak. The blanket of snow covering the earth has also blanketed your senses, and your magic is nothing more than a gentle hum beneath your skin. A month ago, this would have stressed you greatly, but with Hansol and his winter-attuned magic singing happily around the entire room, you feel nothing but peace. 

Nodding in reassurance, you smile at Hansol. “Very sure. Let’s go out today.”

Hansol blinks, once, and then smiles back, closing the book and getting up from the couch. “Okay. Where are we going?”

You smile wider. “To make you some friends.”

That was the plan, anyway. Ever since the first snow, when Hansol had been accosted by the children and ended up playing with them for a good part of the day, you’ve had several villagers come to your door, either complaining about the yokai or wanting to know more about him. So, you figure, today you should get him out to the village square so he can finally meet everyone. Regardless of their opinion of him. 

Because you have trust in Hansol. Now, you have confidence he can turn their opinion around. 

Hansol, despite having all the appearances and mannerisms of an introvert, doesn't seem to mind leaving the house for so many days in a row, and eagerly agrees as you urge him to get dressed and head out to the village square. There's the daily market taking place, and most people will be there, so it'll be a good opportunity to introduce him. 

But, like you said, that was the plan. 

Unfortunately, you're whisked away by some of the villagers who need help with their sick relative, leaving Hansol stranded in the village square. 

“You don't have to stay,” you insist to him, as you're rushed off to deal with the medical emergency. “Seriously, Hansol, you can go home. Especially if anyone starts throwing insults, then just go, okay? I'll be with you as soon as I finish.”

Hansol watches you go, head tilted, slightly amused. It's kind of cute that you think he needs protecting. You know, since he's an ancient demon, and all. But before he can say as such, there's a small voice near his knee, and he looks down to see a small child, piping up in favour of him. 

“Don't worry about Mister Fox!” the small boy chirps brightly. “We will look after him!”

And as if out of nowhere (seriously, where do these kids come from?) several children come up to him and cling to his robes, waving at you as you leave the market square. Hansol waves too, mystified by the miniature support latching onto him, but also a bit touched by their loyalty. They're really sweet. 

“So what do you wanna do, Mister Fox?” the first little boy says, and Hansol recognises him as one of the first children to come up to him a few days ago. Minjun. “Are you hungry?”

Without even waiting for Hansol's answer, Minjun and the rest of the children start ushering him to the food stalls, fiercely advocating for their choice of what Mister Fox should eat first. 

“Wait,” Hansol says, interrupting the particularly fierce fight over having hotteok or bungeoppang first. “Kids. Do you have any money?”

There's a short silence, and all the children look down, which is how he learns that they don't, and so they don't end up buying anything at all. Except, Yeowon, who joined the discussion partway through, manages to wheedle some of the stall-owners to give her free food with her big puppy eyes and innocent pout.

It’s like a magic trick, Hansol has to give her that. And when she happily tells the vendors that she’s sharing the food with Hansol, the villagers do nothing other than blink in surprise and then smile, polite and awkward, well. That’s also an incredible magic trick too. 

They sit on the outskirts of the village market, pillowed by the mounds of snow all around them as they eat their steaming hot snacks. They’re delicious, and sticky, and very sweet, so it’s not too long before Hansol has several super-hyper, sticky-fingered children on his hands, who are all practically launching themselves into the snow with the bounding amounts of energy they have.

It becomes very noisy very fast, and Hansol starts panicking slightly, before he loudly suggests they ought to go and make some snowmen, and all the children whip their heads around to look at him, wide-eyed, and then—

“That’s such a good idea!”

“Yes! Let’s do that!”

“I’m gonna make the best snowman!”

“No, me!”

“No! Me!”

And then they go tumbling off into the snow, and Hansol slumps back down, relieved. He can still see them, and he can still sense them, too, so there’s no worry in any of them getting lost. At least he can now have some peace and quiet.

Twisting his lips thoughtfully, he gathers handfuls of the white snow, turning it over. He turns it over again, and then begins patting and shaping it in his hands until he has something that resembles a little snow duck.

It’s terribly misshapen, and the beak is a bit too long to be a duck, but it’s cute, and Hansol’s pleased. He swirls his fingers in the air, and uses some magic to add finishing touches, trying to rectify the wonkiness. It doesn’t work, but he still thinks it’s cute. You’d probably find it cute, too. Right?

Probably. Hansol hums to himself contemplatively. You like everything he does. It’s very sweet, he thinks, that you’re always so receptive to him, and it’s even sweeter that you genuinely enjoy his company. You brighten like a blooming chrysanthemum, spring-like in your warmth whenever he says something to you, and it makes him feel all warm too. Ever since the first time he woke up on your couch, out of his mind with a fever, and he’d noticed your floral chrysanthemum tea scent and accidentally called you the prettiest person ever, you’ve always been so gentle and kind and oh, Hansol likes you so much.

You’re just—lovely. You’re the loveliest being he’s ever met in his entire life, and that’s saying something, because Hansol’s been alive for a really fucking long time.

“Hello.”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a light, melodic voice coming from over his shoulder, and Hansol looks up in surprise to see a villager bent over him, warm brown eyes glinting and the corners of his lips curving upwards in a seemingly permanent smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I just saw you, and thought I’d say hi,” the villager says, smiling properly, extending a hand. “I’m Joshua. You’re the yokai, right?”

Hansol manoeuvres his body around awkwardly and shakes Joshua’s gloved hand. “I’m Hansol, and yeah, I am the yokai. How could you tell?” His ears flick pointedly as he talks, and Joshua’s eyes immediately go to them before he smiles wider.

“Yeah, I guess it was a silly question,” Joshua says, and his fur boots crunch in the snow as he climbs over a mound and crouches down next to Hansol. “But I don’t wanna seem impolite, you know?”

Hansol shrugs, but he understands. “Yeah. I get it.”

Joshua smiles.

They say nothing for a moment, and Hansol lifts his head up briefly to check on the children. He can still see all of them, actually, dotted about the edges of the market as they build their snowmen. He watches them thoughtfully, and then down at the snow at his feet.

It only takes a moment for a snowman of his own to begin to form, aided by his magic as the snowballs roll themselves to become bigger and more round.

“That’s really cool,” Joshua comments, and Hansol had almost forgotten he was there. He’s so quiet, feather-silent, but when he catches Hansol’s eye and smiles, there’s a twinkle to his presence that makes him wonder how he could have ever forgotten him. “I’ve never seen anyone other than Y/N be able to do that.”

“Hm?” Hansol looks at the snowman that’s slowly being built. “Oh, well, it’s nothing, really.”

Even as he says so, his tail fluffs up in pride at Joshua’s words, and he begins adding more and more intricate frost details to the snowman. The feathery patterns wind through the body of his creation, like embroidery, and Joshua whistles, amazed.

“It’s very cool. Your magic is very cool.”

Hansol shrugs, bashful. “Thank you. But really, it’s nothing.” As the snowman continues to construct itself, he leans over to Joshua as if confiding a secret. “In the wild, there are yokai who can create literal monsters out of ice. In about five seconds flat. But I mostly just deal with frost and snow, so it’s a lot more difficult for me.”

Joshua tilts his head, genuine interest written all over his face. “Oh. I didn’t know there were differences in yokai magic.”

“Of course there are,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “Like there are differences in humans’ skills, there are differences for yokai, too. We are not unlike you, you know.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Joshua says thoughtfully. And then he looks Hansol in the eye again, smiling. Joshua is honestly so friendly, and even though they only met two minutes ago, he feels like he’s known him for years. “So you won’t object to being friends with a human, right?”

Hansol blinks, surprised, and Joshua’s smile just widens. It’s obvious what he’s asking, and Hansol feels… touched, that he’d even suggest such a thing.

“Yeah,” Hansol says, and his magic finishes off the snowman with an intricate flourish of frost. “I’d love to be your friend.”

“Joshua!”

The calling of the human’s name makes both Joshua and Hansol turn around, and they see one of the elder villagers coming over to them, the skirts of her robes swishing as she walks. She’s terribly intimidating, greying hair pulled back into a bun with a pointy hair stick, marching over with incredible grace even through the ankle-deep snow that has gathered. She squints at the yokai and how close Joshua is sitting to him. 

“Mrs Choi,” Joshua greets, apparently oblivious to the sharpness of the woman’s gaze. “Hello. It’s very cold today, isn’t it?”

She eyeballs Hansol for a moment before nodding at Joshua. “Very. Frightful weather, but at least the children are enjoying the snow.” Mrs Choi lifts her gaze and squints into the distance, where the children are playing. “I hope someone is supervising them.”

“Oh, well, Hansol is, so don’t worry about it,” Joshua says with a smile. 

Mrs Choi snaps her gaze back to them. “Is he really?” Hansol nods, doing his best to look as earnest and trustworthy as possible, and she hums. “I see.”

“He has them doing a snowman competition, actually,” Joshua says. “He’s very good at making them himself, too. Look. Don’t you think his creation looks amazing?”

He points to the snowman in front of them, glistening with frost and embroidered with thin ice, clearly a work of his magic. Hansol swallows, expecting Mrs Choi to fly into a tizzy over the presence of such witchcraft, but she just scrutinises the snowman, and then—

She smiles.

“It’s very pretty,” she says, and in the blink of an eye, her expression has turned warm. She’s smiling so nicely at Hansol, and then she leans down and brushes a hand over the top of his head, gently dusting away the snow that had landed in his hair. “Just like you, my dear.”

Hansol blinks up at her, open-mouthed. “I— thank you, ma’am.”

She chuckles, straightens, adjusts the skirt of her robes. “No need to thank me. I’m simply telling the truth.” Mrs Choi nods in the direction of the children, before turning away. “Thank you for taking care of the children, also. Keep up the good work.”

Hansol watches her go, feeling a little dazed. She had looked so sharp and stern at first, but something about him sitting there harmlessly and making a harmless snowman with harmless snow gathered in his hair must have done something to convince her that he’s, well, harmless. Which is good. Very good. Hopefully she’ll let everyone else know, too.

“Yeah, she looks scary, but Mrs Choi is anything but,” Joshua says with a laugh, when Hansol directs his wide-eyed gaze to him.

“She’s terrifying.”

“Her son takes after her,” Joshua chuckles. “Choi Seungcheol. He looks scary, but he’s a right softie on the inside, trust me.”

Hansol’s eyes widen further. “She’s Seungcheol’s mother? The village leader?”

“The one and only,” Joshua affirms. He laughs. “Don’t worry about him. His own mother found you cute. I’m sure he’ll be won over by you in no time. Especially if you keep making snowmen that rival Y/N’s in their intricacy. Seriously, I think yours are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Shua, I hope I didn't just hear you dissing my amazing snowman building skills.”

Hansol looks up at your voice, and sees you slowly treading over to them, a drawstring bag dangling over your shoulder as you pick your way through the snow. The tip of your nose is red from the cold, cheeks a pretty pink with an amused smile on your face, and the moment he sees you, it’s like you’ve stolen his breath away.

Whilst Hansol’s too busy being starstruck, Joshua laughs, leaning back on his hands.

“So what if I was?” he teases, and nods to Hansol’s snowman. “Doesn’t it look amazing?”

You look away, directing your gaze to the snowman. Humming thoughtfully, you eye Hansol’s creation, and he begins to grow a little nervous under your critical silence, fiddling with his fingers and digging them into the snow, wisps of cold air seeping from his skin.

And then you smile, a lopsided smirk that makes Hansol feel a little dizzy.

“I can certainly do better.”

Before he can say anything, you set down your bag, and with a flick of your wrist the snow begins to swirl and gather itself before you. Under your command, golden streaks of magic begin to press the snow together, creating larger shapes that you obviously plan to sculpt into a showstopping piece.

You look almost relaxed in your movements, the entire process taking nothing more than a slight twitch of your fingers as magic sparks zip around the sculpture that’s gradually beginning to form. Hansol can only watch in awe, amazed at the fluidity and effortlessness of your power. By his side, he thinks he hears Joshua chuckle softly.

After a few short moments, the three of you are staring at a large, smoothly finished sculpture of a winter fox, and you smile and cross your arms, satisfied.

“What do you think?” you say, smug, confident in your belief that you’ve proved yourself.

Hansol’s jaw is on the floor. Delicate pointy ears, a fluffy-looking tail all made out of snow, and wow, are those whiskers? Did you really make whiskers?

“Wow,” is all he can say, staring at this lifelike fox that’s made entirely out of snow. “Wow.”

Just then, there are high-pitched exclamations from somewhere in the distance, and the children that Hansol’s been supervising come bounding over, shouting in amazement at the fox that you’ve made. 

“Hi, kids,” you say when they’re close enough, laughing when Yeowon barrels into your legs to give you a hug. “Quick question, which snow sculpture do you think is better? The fox, or the Frosty the Snowman?”

They all look very thoughtfully at the two snow pieces in front of them, before unanimously pointing to your creation, and you grin triumphantly at Joshua and Hansol. Hansol just smiles back, totally expecting such an outcome. You’d beat him any day when it comes to stuff like this, and he’s totally fine with that.

“That’s not even a snowman,” Joshua protests, but it’s clear he’s arguing just for the fun of it. “Y/N, that’s not a fair competition.”

You shrug flippantly. “I’d win anyway.” And then you wink, pleased, and Hansol feels like burying himself in the snow just to try and get rid of his red cheeks.

“Mister Fox, we wanna play with you now,” Minjun says, and he looks up to see the children standing around him, red-cheeked and damp-haired but still eager to play more. “Can we play a game with you?”

“It’s getting late,” Hansol tries to say, but apparently, that had been a rhetorical question, because they’re hauling him up to his feet so they can play with him. “The market’s already closing. Shouldn’t you all go back to your parents now? Joshua? Y/N?” He looks back pleadingly as he gets dragged away, and you and Joshua just laugh, waving him goodbye.

“Have a nice time!” Joshua calls, standing up from the snow and brushing down his clothes. He stands closer to you, smiling as you both watch him begin to play. “He’s good with them, isn’t he?”

You smile too. “He really is.”

“The best,” another voice adds, and you look over your shoulder to see some of the villagers also watching Hansol. They’re all the parents, and yet they seem perfectly content to let their children play around with the yokai, any trace of hostility gone from their faces. 

That makes you smile wider. “I’m glad you think so, Mrs Lee,” you say, and the woman smiles back. “Don’t worry. He’ll keep your children safe.”

Mrs Lee bows her head in acknowledgement, eyes turning soft as you all watch Hansol let the children punt tiny clumps of snow at him. “We know.”

They stay with you for a little longer, chatting about Hansol’s gentle nature and how wonderfully he gets along with the children, before eventually they disperse and begin packing up the market for the day. Next to you, Joshua is also smiling, looking fond, which is really weird because he barely knows Hansol but there’s definitely a clear look of admiration and affection in his face. Before you can comment on it, though, he pats you on the shoulder, and begins to step away.

 “I better go,” he says. “Cheol’s coming your way. I think he wants a talk.”

He bids you goodbye then trudges back through the snow, and you look over your shoulder to see that Seungcheol really is coming your way. Instead of greeting him, however, you look back out at Hansol, and wait until the village leader is by your side.

“Hello, Y/N.”

“Hello, Seungcheol.”

You don’t offer him anything else, and so the two of you stand there in silence, continuing to watch Hansol play with the children. It is an adorable sight, though, and makes the corners of your lips twitch upwards the longer the silence goes on. He’s totally lenient with them, letting them pull his tail and ambush him with damp gloves and shrieking laughter. His head whips back and forth constantly between the two sides of kids that have inexplicably formed, somehow finding himself in the crossfire as snowballs get flung around him.

It’s cute, and it makes you laugh, heart warming with fondness. You can feel Seungcheol watching you out of the corner of your eye, and when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything until you do, you sigh and turn your back on Hansol at last, raising an eyebrow.

“Well?” you prompt. “What’s up? You didn’t come find me just to say hello.”

Seungcheol pauses, and looks down. “No. I didn’t.” A beat. “My mother actually told me you were here.”

“Okay. And?”

“She talked to Hansol,” he says, and both your eyebrows raise this time, in surprise. “She said to me that she liked him, and she wanted me to open my eyes and finally realise how much of a good person he is.”

Seungcheol clasps his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. He looks over your shoulder, at where Hansol is undoubtedly doing something silly to entertain the children, and his eyes go gentle. They don’t soften, and they certainly don’t melt, but his gaze becomes a little more mellow, like a layer of hardness has finally given way.

“And he is a good person,” Seungcheol says, looking at you again. “I’ve been watching him all day. All week, in fact, and even if my mother hadn’t said anything, I would’ve sought you out to tell you this, because I think I owe you an apology.”

You breathe a laugh. “You certainly do,” you say, but there’s no real bite. Seungcheol’s actions were understandable. You’ve already forgiven him.

Seungcheol seems to know that too, because his lips quirk up into a half-smile. Nevertheless, his words are genuine when he says, “I’m sorry. I was too rash, and too harsh. Any worries I had over yokai did not excuse the way I talked about Hansol. Do you think you can also tell him how sorry I am?”

You draw in a long breath, cross your arms and lean back, staring down your nose at Seungcheol. His smile wavers, a little, but then you relax, breaking out into a grin.

“You can tell him yourself. He’d love to talk to you,” you say, and Seungcheol smiles too. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You’re just looking out for the village, like you always do. But…” You shrug. “I was looking out for my kind, also. I was frustrated that you were treating Hansol like that just because he was a yokai.”

Seungcheol breathes out, wisps of white spilling from his lips. “I get that. It makes sense that you felt that way.” His eyes lighten with mischief suddenly, his smile taking on a teasing edge. “Especially considering the fact you’re in love with him, too.”

The world grinds to a halt. You stumble, taken aback by Seungcheol’s words. “I’m sorry, what?”

Nothing else gets to be said about the matter, though, because a small child goes zooming past you right at that moment, brushing against your side. And then, half a millisecond later, a fat clump of snow hits you square in the back.

The child continues running off, bubbling laughter fading into the market square. Slowly, very slowly, you spin on your heel and come face-to-face with the culprit.

Hansol’s still frozen in his throw position, one hand incriminatingly covered with snow. The moment he sees your face, his face breaks into a wide grin, that beautiful, big grin that shows the slight point of his yokai fangs. His eyes are glowing, alight with amusement and another, warmer emotion you can’t quite name.

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing the snow gently tumbling down your back. “Whoops?”

“Whoops?” you echo, breathing a laugh. You look at Seungcheol, as if saying Can you believe this guy? before turning back to Hansol, a handful of snow magically making its way into your hands. “Oh, you’re going to be saying a lot more than ‘Whoops’ in a minute.”

Hansol laughs, holding his hands up placatingly. “Now hold on a minute—”

Abruptly, his head jerks back, and he gets knocked off his center of balance by the force of the snowball you’d just lobbed at him.

You burst into laughter as Hansol, sitting on the ground and with snow in his hair and up his nose, wipes his eyes with a grin. “Now you’re just asking for it, I think.”

Still laughing, you snap your fingers, and several more balls of snow float up around you. “Oh, it’s on.”

Cut to several minutes later, and somehow, the snowball fight between the two of you has devolved into a village-wide thing, children slipping and sliding in the snow alongside their parents as Seungcheol yells at his team to close ranks and you yell at yours to focus their sights on Hansol. The icy air stings your cheeks, and at some point it begins to snow again, hard, blurring your sight, but the whole thing still continues, the square filled with the laughter of the villagers.

And throughout it all, Hansol manages to find your gaze no matter where he is, gold eyes seeking your gold magic, and the beautiful sound of his laughter leaves you breathless every time.

───────────── ‘✽, 

All things considered, perhaps it’s totally expected that you end up falling for Hansol.

You don’t get to truly mull over Seungcheol’s last words until much later, when you and Hansol have both changed out of your sopping wet clothes and are sitting curled up together on the sofa, both of you blinking sleepily at the fire you’ve lit in the fireplace.

The snowball fight ended incredibly amiably, with everyone agreeing that Seungcheol’s team had obliterated everyone else’s, despite the lack of magic users in his group. You’d helped some of the villagers dust themselves off, and used magic to dry off the people who had gotten the most wet. Soonyoung, inexplicably, looked like he’d been dunked five times in a swimming pool, rather than emerging victorious from a snowball fight.

Finishing with Soonyoung, you’d looked back, and of course—Hansol was playing with the children, again, as if he had endless reserves of energy to spare. But in between letting the kids climb his legs and play with  his swishing tail, he was chatting with the rest of the villagers, helping them tidy away their things.

It made you smile. 

And then Hansol had looked back at you, as if sensing your gaze, and his entire face had lit up, brighter than the brightest summer’s day, and he’d quickly said goodbye to the villagers before coming bounding over to you, face so open and comfortable and warm and—

Yeah. You like him a lot. And you’re sure that he likes you a lot too.

Hansol yawns, big and wide and content, his tail flicking lazily as he rests on your shoulder. Outside, the snowfall has increased to a snowstorm, complete with howling winds and dark, looming clouds, but inside, your cottage is warm, and you have a sleepy yokai pressed against your side, and life is, admittedly, kind of perfect.

There’s just one thing, though.

You need to tell him.

Lost in thought, you shift around absentmindedly, and Hansol looks up questioningly at the movement. The warmth of your magic prickles softly in the air around you, and when he takes your hand, you can feel his own magic murmuring softly in tandem with your own. 

He continues to look at you, and then smiles, eyes glowing. Goodness, he really is so pretty.

“I like you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if he’s enchanted you, bewitched you into saying how you truly feel for all to see. “I like you, Hansol.”

Hansol blinks, slow, cat-like. He lifts his head up, pulls away slightly from your shoulder so he can sit up and look at you properly. His eyes are shining, slitted pupils widening and rounding in adoration.

“That’s good,” he says. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

It’s almost a direct copy of the first words he’d said to you, almost a lifetime ago, when he had been out of his mind with a fever, red-cheeked and hazy-eyed and fixated on the way you smelled like chrysanthemums. The memory makes you laugh, heart squeezing with fondness, and you reach forward to cup Hansol’s cheeks, smiling wider when his eyes flutter shut briefly and he leans trustingly into your touch.

“That’s funny,” you say. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, showing those yokai fangs that you adore so much. His ears twitch with happiness, light speckles of frost covering his cheeks as he blushes. He’s so pretty, and you love him so much.

Slowly, you inch closer until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. So close that you can count the snowflake-shaped freckles on his cheeks.

“You forgot to say it back, though,” you murmur. “Hansol, you didn’t say you like me back.”

Hansol breathes a soft laugh. “I thought it was obvious.” His smile widens, so enamoured that it warms your heart. “Y/N, I like you too. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.”

You beam. “You know what? I think I’m in love with you too.”

And then you lean forward, and Hansol leans in too, and your lips meet in the softest, sweetest kiss. He tastes like magic, like love, like soft snow that numbs your senses but leaves your heart alive and alight and oh, this is everything you never knew you needed and more.

Hansol’s silver-white hair is falling into his eyes when you pull away, his golden irises shining brightly through them like dazzling, gorgeous sunlight peeking through the translucent colours of snowfall. The sight makes you instantly lean in to kiss him again, dizzy with adoration because goodness, this happiness is for you. He looks like this because he loves you.

And you love him too.

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @haodore @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit

[clairewritesfanfics]

do you like those fics where the premise is "all the variants are here for y/n but main mark hasnt even dated her"

i like them the most when its a right person wrong time situation on main marks part because im mean

like since highschool theyve never managed to be single at the same time and then he finds out the evil versions of him destroying shit have had her when hes never even got to try asking her out

nobody has written this specific type of thing i want to read yet, but like, the variants getting stuck in main marks dimension and he and y/n keep finding out things about the variants loves with their version of y/n thats excruciating to hear for two people whove been in love their whole lives but have never been in a place to act on it

the only variant who hasnt done anything with her is maskless who was in a very similar situation with his william. like three of the older marks were actually married to her, at least one out of those 3 had been about to have a kid with her before losing her. literally none of them have ever broken up with her of their own free will. at least one of the younger marks had only just managed to start a relationship with her before he lost her.

main mark watching these versions of himself practically swarming someone he also loves and has probably loved before he even understood it but with no right to do anything about it because hes with eve. who he does like. but he asked out after a version of her from the future told him she loved him apparently her entire life and he was her biggest regret.

main mark experiencing never before seen types of emotional pain wondering if he should have read into the eve thing as the universe telling him you were about to break up with your at the time partner just as he was getting into things with eve, or if waiting to see if youd leave them would have prolonged your relationship with them because the universe fucking hates him for reasons beyond his understanding

i would write this myself but im already stuck trying to write like 3 other long projects already. but if i did write it id probably end it as happy as possible because even though i like angst i can only stand so much.

It is truly the writer's blurse to be struck with so many fascinating concepts while juggling already existing WIPs.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

It's an amazing idea with a lot of angst potential. I have encountered a similar but not exact premise a few times, maybe not as fully realized fics but as propositional posts.

I've always loved the idea of the Marks being so obsessed and devoted that they will stop the violence in order to reminisce about their respective Readers aka Y/Ns. (Oh, and this is more of my personal preference as an Invincible fanfic writer: the Reader-sexual crew includes Maskless because, as I have once discussed in gruesome detail, when it comes to Mark it is all or nothing for me. I can't tolerate him being in love with Eve or Amber in my verses, so I can't handle him being in love with William either. I am an equal opportunity "homewrecker." VCS readers, please don't ask me more about this because I might end up spoiling some things about my future plans.)

Honestly, if you have the energy to spare, you should give it a go, it doesn't have to be multi-chaptered. It can just be a short story or a bunch of "reactions" strung together. Heck, just write dialogue for it. Pure dialogue. Maybe you can use this idea as a writing exercise, like trying a different style or POV. Something to come back to and appreciate when you want to take a breather from your long fics.

Tbh, you've given me an excuse to stop delaying and start practicing first person POV again, and I was reminded why it's so hard penning reader insert stories:

I was surrounded. I could take on one or two of them, but twelve of these murderous assholes? My best bet would be to retreat while they were distracted, but there’s one problem: you.

You were the ball in this screwed up game of catch. All eyes were on you and I doubt there was anything that would take everyone's attention off of you at the same time. Even if I did manage to steal you away in a split second of distraction, I wouldn’t be able to go very far, not with that girl version of me here.

I watched as she pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair, black Rapunzel braid falling apart as she placed the hair tie gingerly on your hands. 

You gave her a shaky smile but she didn’t seem to care.

I clenched my fists.

She was fast, faster than the rest, and faster than me. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” The me dressed in my father’s colors watched you with arms crossed. “Don’t even think about trying to take her away, Marcy will rip you apart before you get the chance to take off.”

“Marcy?”

“Long story.”

It was hilarious. Not too long ago, this guy sent my girlfriend to the ER and here we were, talking like old pals. I wanted to punch him in the face but–

“You want to kill me,” he said, not bothering to look at me. “But we both know you won’t do that in front of her.”

“You don’t know anything about me or her.”

“I know that every version of you that came here is because of her.” He finally turned to me. “We all wanted a reunion.”

“I won’t let you take her.”

He scoffed. “We’re not interested in ‘taking’ her anywhere, we just wanted a chance to see her. To talk to her again.”

My fingers twitched. I already had my suspicions but I needed to know. 

“What exactly is she to you?” I asked.

The faintest smile melted all the coldness from his face as he answered, “She was my dove.”

Time slowed to a snail’s pace as my voice betrayed me, “What?”

He met my gaze. “She was my wife.”

“Was?”

The ice returned as he turned away. “She died.” That was all. He continued staring at you, his longing obvious under that veil of composure.

I watched as more versions of me crowded you. Each one had something to show or say to you, each one looking like they have waited a thousand years for this.

The fear seemed to have dissipated from you somewhat, because you were now laughing at the words of my maskless self. He was smiling softly at you, but I could see the cracks in his expression. He looked at you like you were the world, but it was clear to me that he was searching for something.

I didn’t know what it was but I couldn’t help but release my fists, wondering if Eve ever caught me wearing the same expression.

#

I kept accidentally bouncing from third person to first to second. 😭

But it was a fun exercise!

I hope you do write about this someday because it is a great concept. Thank you for sharing it with me and our fellow fans.

PS

I must ask for clarification what you mean by "the Eve thing." Is this a reference to a specific plot point? Or just his relationship with Eve in general?

[strayingawayy]

i've loved you in scribbles and silences...

...the one where the silent creator meets the effortless muse

{ @jeonginsleftcheek requested a fic w/ reader as popular kid in class and hyunjin as the shy piner. i hope i did this justice, sweetheart 💌 word count: 1900 words approx}

hwang hyunjin was not the kind of guy you could just ignore.

even in his silence, he commanded attention, not in an intentional way, but in the way that made people naturally gravitate toward him. maybe it was his presence, lean and elegant, draped in effortlessly cool outfits that looked straight out of a fashion editorial. or maybe it was the way his sharp, expressive eyes always seemed lost in thought, like he was seeing something beyond the walls of the classroom, like he understood the depth lying in the professor's words in a way none of you ever could.

or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he looked like a literal prince but behaved like an artist stuck in his own little world, constantly sketching by the window instead of paying attention. not that your professors minded. after all, he was an art major for a reason.

one thing was that hyunjin didn’t talk much in class. he wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t the type to insert himself into conversations either. people knew him, of course. the hot, mysterious art guy. the one who made lazy doodles look like renaissance masterpieces. the one who unintentionally broke hearts just by existing.

and then. well then there was you.

if hyunjin was the quiet presence in the corner, you were the center of attraction.

popular, passionate, hardworking, you weren’t just well-known, but well-loved too. a lethal combo. you had this energy about you, the kind that made people want to be around you, like standing in your orbit made their lives more exciting. balancing academics, extracurriculars, and a good social life, you made it all seem effortless.

and hyunjin?

he had been hopelessly, pathetically in love with you since the first semester.

but like he’d ever say it out loud.

he wasn’t delusional. he knew how different the two of you were. while you thrived under the attention of others, he was perfectly content sitting in the background, watching you shine from afar, his lips curling and eyes crinkling in the corners when you'd crack a joke that would have the entire class rolling over with laughter.

maybe that’s why his sketchbook was filled with you.

your laughter, frozen mid-motion like a memory, because it probably was. your hands, caught in the middle of an animated conversation. your eyes, wide with excitement when you spoke about something you loved. he'd hoped that one day you'd have that look in your eyes if you'd ever talk about him too.

god. he was so gone for you.

and it was getting out of hand.

because lately, his friends (ahem han jisung and lee felix) had started catching on.

"you're ridiculous," jisung had said one evening, watching hyunjin rip yet another drawing out of his sketchbook, crumpling it up. "just tell them."

"or don’t," felix added, flipping through hyunjin’s abandoned sketchbook like it was a diary. "just keep pining like a tragic 19th century ahh poet."

hyunjin groaned, yanking his sketchbook back from his friends. “they’re way out of my league.”

jisung rolled his eyes. "dude. you do know you're one of the hottest guys in college right?"

"careful ji, your bi confusion is on full display," seungmin says, only dropping into the conversation with a one liner before grabbing a donut off the table and leaving a flustered jisung stammering.

"that aside, yeah, if anyone has a chance with them, it's you mate." felix nodded, as if stating a fact, munching on a donut himself.

hyunjin scowled. “that’s not the point. they’re not just like, cool. they’re brilliant. they’re like, fuck,” he waved his hands wildly, searching for the words. “the human embodiment of shooting stars and ambition and-”

"oh my god" jisung clapped his hands dramatically. "he’s waxing poetic now."

felix gasped. "he's down bad. we need to stop him before he bends shakespeare over with his words."

hyunjin groaned, shoving his face into his ink stained hands and immediately regretting it. “i hate you both.”

but unfortu-fucking-nately, they were right.

maybe it was time he did something about it.

...

hyunjin was NOT going to half-ass this.

if he was going to confess, he was going to do it right.

so, naturally, he spent two hours spiraling over what right even meant, another hour staring at pinterest's idea of proposals for no reason, and then another seventeen hours crafting the most romantic, heartfelt, artistic confession ever.

his plan?

a huge, mural sized drawing.

of you.

obviously.

because, in his mind, there was no better way to show his feelings than through art.

the plan was simple:

1. sneak into the art room where you often kept your paintings too.

2. place inside the room, a breathtaking sketch of you.

3. casually bring you there and let the art do the talking.

4. pray you didn’t laugh in his face and pat his shoulder mockingly.

it should have gone smoothly.

but this was hyunjin.

and nothing, nothing, ever went smoothly when it involved his feelings.

...

the moment he finished the drawing, he knew two things:

1. it was the best thing he’d ever drawn in his life.

2. he was going to pass out from nerves.

but whatever. it was done. he just had to get you to see it.

so, the next day, he walked up to you, heart pounding, palms sweaty, already regretting everything, and blurted out:

“hey-wamma-see-something-cool?”

you blinked, mouth half-stuffed with the infamous campus canteen donuts, bottom lip covered in chocolate frosting (it was still one of the most breathtaking things hyunjin had ever seen in his life, he noted) “uh. sure?”

without thinking, he grabbed your wrist when you stood up (oh my god, he grabbed your wrist, what was he thinking, jisung was gonna scream when he told him this) and practically dragged you down the hallway.

"hyunjin, where are we-"

"just trust me," he muttered, swallowing hard, his cheeks already flushing when you spoke his name so tenderly, as if you hadn't dozens of times before in classes and group projects.

when he finally shoved open the door to the art room, he braced himself for the big reveal as he placed his fingers over the cloth covering the canvas.

"i- w-words fail me when i need them most. that's- probably why you don't hear me talk too often. and probably why i'm an art major instead of like- in mass communication or something. pfft can you imagine- anyway. (god he was rambling, he was rambling and you were smiling). just...just see for yourself yeah? please?" he said almost pleading. when you nodded, he inhaled deeply, like he was about to reveal the meaning of life itself ,and pulled the cloth off in one dramatic swoop.

hyunjin froze, his eyes widening.

no.

oh hell no.

staring back at him was a giant, fat, fucking cat drawn messily. big, googly eyes. a grin that was more terrifying than friendly, and nothing remotely close to being romantic. he can't believe a cat doodle was gonna get him rejected.

his entire drawing was gone and in front of him was a fat ass cat one covered by the same cloth he had used.

hyunjin’s soul left his body.

this was not happening.

you stared at the board. then at hyunjin. then at the board again.

“…hyunjin,” you said slowly. "i mean- it's. it's cool as fuck yeah-"

“nononono-there was-” he turned, searching every corner of the room like his drawing might miraculously reappear. “i drew something else. i swear it was romantic. it was you of course it was romantic-”

“-you drew me?“ you asked, a small teasing, curious smile on your face.

he turned back to you, ears burning, palms sweaty. “yes. i mean. yes.”

your teasing expression softened. “so… you were confessing?” you asked, expression almost hopeful.

hyunjin opened his mouth, closed it, then ran a frustrated hand through his short, blonde hair. "this is not how this was supposed to go."

you suddenly glanced to the side, eyes widening. “wait… is that it?”

hyunjin followed your gaze, spinning on his feet, and there it was.

his drawing.

propped against an easel in the corner, untouched, perfect.

the second you saw it, the teasing stopped.

your expression shifted, eyes widening, lips parting slightly, the kind of reaction that made hyunjin feel like time had paused.

because it wasn’t just a drawing of you.

it was you.

the way you laughed, the way you looked when you were deep in thought, the way your eyes shone when you talked about something you loved, it was all there, put into the strokes and shadows and scribbles like a love letter without words.

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

hyunjin swallowed hard. “…so.”

slowly, you turned to him, something unreadable in your expression.

"i-" he stammered, his voice cracking. "i just- gods-i wanted to do something... something that was real, something that would... show you how much i..."

his throat tightened. there it was again. the words that refused to come. the weight of his feelings choking him with each failed attempt to articulate it. he couldn't bring himself to say it. his head hung in shame, eyes fixed on the floor, desperate to escape the vulnerability that was threatening to suffocate him.

and you weren’t making it any easier. you were still looking at him with that unreadable expression. he felt like he was unravelling in front of you, a mix of fear and hope and something else twisted in his gut. why were you so quiet?

then, finally, your lips parted.

"hyunjin," you murmured, your voice soft, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "this is... the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me."

hyunjin blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he prayed silently.

"really?" he asked, a little too desperately, the hope in his voice clear.

you nodded, stepping forward slowly, and the world felt like it was holding its own breath as you closed the distance between you. hyunjin stood frozen, unsure.

"you really see me," you whispered, your gaze locking with his. "all of me. even the parts i don’t really show...like...the little mole below my lip."

hyunjin’s heart skipped, a new rush of warmth spreading through him as he dared to meet your eyes again. "i do. i see everything. and it’s... perfect. you're perfect."

the words barely left his mouth before you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek with a softness that was foreign but not unwelcome.

his breath stopped, and for a moment, everything in him screamed to pull away, to shield himself, but all he could do was blink slowly and lean into your touch.

"i’m not good with words either," you whispered, and before he could react, you gently placed your lips against his.

the kiss was tender, the kind that spoke volumes even in its softness. hyunjin’s breath caught as he melted into it, his hand reaching out instinctively to touch your arm, as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he didn’t hold on tight enough. when he realised he needed you closer, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

and as you both smiled into the kiss, hyunjin knew that words didn't have to be exchanged further. you understood each other. through brushstrokes and gestures that would take you down the road of life together.

somewhere above the classroom, felix and jisung screamed as they watched it all go down through the cctv camera while the security personnel snored beside them.

[mimikittysblog]

The Princess - Bonus Ending

Full story! ♡

Pairing: Mafia! Husbands! Poly! Ateez x Fem! Wife! Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst if you squint really hard.

Synopsis: You found the traitor.

Warnings: Death, Violence, very slight MxM, some descriptions of gore. ⚠️MNDI⚠️ If I missed anything then please let me know!

Word Count: 1.8k Words

A/N: Hehe surprise! An extra ending 🤭 I wanted to add this on in the actual fic, but I liked where it ended off too much. So I decided to make this into a bonus ending where you could read it if you want, or just ignore it if you don’t. Hope you enjoy this too!

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

It has been a little over a week since your kidnapping. Things also have finally gone back to normal.

Except…

“Joooooooonggiiiieee!!!!!”

The yell for the captain of ATZ can be heard throughout the entire mansion, along with the sound of stomping pretty pink high heels.

“Oh my.”

“Well aren’t you in trouble”

Soon the door to Hongjoongs office was bursted open revealing the little fireball of which they call ‘Their Princess.’

“Oh princess.. whats the matter??”

That question only made your frown grow and eyebrows furrow even more.

“You promised we’d finally go shopping today! You said you wanted to dress me up! I’ve been waiting in the living room for over an hour!”

“Oooohh good luck with that!”

“See ya later our troubled husband! Hope she goes easy on you!”

The boys in the room quickly scatter, but of course not before giving you a sweet kiss and a compliment to your pretty outfit.

“Oh darling.. I’m so sorry!! I got caught up with work! Things have gotten so hectic princess.. there are these idiots that are always giving us trouble! And just….” As he kept going trying to give you reasons he notices your expression hasn’t changed at all, which makes him sigh.

Ever since your kidnapping, your husbands have become too anxious. So now they can’t even put their trust into any new body guards. Especially since the one that has ratted out your existence is still unknown.

So they took it upon themselves to always be your chaperone when you go out. As much of a hassle you thought it would be, it honestly just gives them an excuse to be around you even more. So in the end you just let them do it.

“I’m sorry our princess.. I mean it I’m very sorry…” he says as he gets up and makes his way over to you, pulling you close.

“Do you still want to go now..?”

“Can you go?”

“I have to make it up to you, don’t I?”

“And those idiots??”

“Hmmm well.. why don’t you tell me what I should do to them sweetheart?”

“Hmmmph. Well if they’re giving you guys so much trouble and they’re idiots, I don’t see why you can’t just kill them off and take what you need. We have the resources and manpower, plus you’ve done it before! You did it literally a week ago. You’re ATZ for goodness sake. No one is above you!” You say like it was nothing.

And you were right.

Hongjoong chuckles as he sits down and brings you into his lap.

“While you are correct my love, unfortunately what we need from them, requires them to still be alive. For now.” He explains.

“Ughh fineee…” You groan.

As you opened your mouth to speak again. That’s when a loud shrill screech disturbed the peacefulness of the moment.

“What now?!” Hongjoong barked.

“Oh! That must be my doing!” You said with what can only be described as a maniacal glint in your eyes.

“Oh?”

“Come Joongie! I’ll show you! Then we’ll go shopping!”

“Whatever you desire Princess.” He says with a kiss to your new diamond ring.

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

“LET GO OF ME!! LET GO!! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG?! UNHAND ME AT ONCE!!”

“Then why did you run?”

“H-huh..?”

Here in the middle of your grand foyer, was a girl being held down by two men on her knees. Behind her, every single one of your maids stood their sights straight down.

While in front of her is where you stood. Tall and proud. Wearing a stoic expression however the glint from earlier still in your eyes.

“Princess?? What do we have here?” Seonghwa asks.

Your husbands have all now gathered around you on top of the staircase. Simply enjoying the show.

You spin on your heels to look up at them with a wide cheshire grin. “You’ll see my loves!”

“Sirs..! Sirs please!! Please help me! She’s mistaken!”

SMACK

“Don’t you dare speak to my husbands.” You growl. “Ugh look at what you’ve done! You’ve gotten blood on my new ring!” Your finger now slightly dripping blood from where the diamond cut her cheek.

“Oh no.. No worries sweetheart, we’ll make you a new one.” San tells you.

“Oooh! Alright Sannie Thank you!”

“Please.. why are you doing this?? What did I do wrong?”

Your laugh then rings out throughout the foyer. Echoing beautifully off the walls.

“Stop your pathetic little act.” You say as you crouch down to her eye level.

“I know you were the one that snitched about me.”

At this revelation your husbands became even more interested than before. They all perked up and blood boiling again now that they finally have the culprit.

“What?! Who even are you??!”

They’re so angry they want to just run down and tear her limb from limb. However they know you have something plan. So they just let you have your fun.

You smirk widens at Wooyoungs question. As you know how reality shattering it is to her.

“W-what..? You don’t.. recognize me?? Sir Wooyoung! I’ve worked here for years!! ..None.. of you recognize me?” She asks pitifully.

As she looks up at all of them, she sees nothing but fury and confusion. Not a single one of them having any knowledge on who she is.

SMACK

“I told you. Do not. EVER. Speak. To MY. Husbands.”

You then got up and turn back to your loves above you.

“My darlings. This here. Used to be one of our maids. And she thought that by getting rid of me. She could have all of you.”

“What?!”

“How absurd!”

“How stupid is what that is!”

“No! Its not true! It’s not! It wasn’t me!!! I-I would never betray any of you!” She continues to plea.

“Then why. Did. You. Run?”

“I-I didn’t..”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice your absence ever since I was returned home? Hah! It’s what gave you away! And you actually thought they would? and what?! go searching for you?!” You laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“The day after I returned home from my kidnapping. I realized we were short staffed. It didn’t take me long to realize it was you. When I asked, Kim said you resigned due to health. I didn’t believe it for a second. So I had them search your room. And look what I found!”

At your signal, The head maid Kim stepped forward and gave you a pile of letters.

Love letters.

“Hmm. I’m sure you can guess what these are. You wrote them. Each and every one of them. You didn’t hide them very well. Not sure why you didn’t even just burn or take them with you.” You scoff.

“They’re quite romantic actually… If. They weren’t addressed to my beloveds.”

Her blood has gone cold. She doesn’t know what to do. She can only kneel there looking up at you as she fears her fate.

Unfortunately her fate was sealed the second she began writing these letters.

“I-it’s not.. no… I-I never even gave it to them! Please!! It’s not what it looks like.”

“You thought once you got rid of me. You could swoop in and take my place. However once I came back alive, you decided to run. Thinking I would never suspect you. You then also believed that any of my husbands would realize you stopped being around and come looking for you! Because somehow you have convinced yourself that they’re in love with you! They don’t even know you!!”

“THEY LOVE ME!!!”

SMACK

“Oh. That was the hardest one yet.” Mingi whispers to Yunho. Who nods in agreement.

While on the other side of the staircase Yeosang whispers to Jongho about how this maid is insane to ever think that.

“100%.”

“They don’t. Why would they?” You start then throwing her letters in her face.

“Why would distinguished men like them ever waste space in their brains for a lowly pathetic slut like you? Let alone space in their hearts.”

“…I just..”

“Enough talking. You’ve said far more than you deserve. And frankly I’m bored already.”

You then extend your hand out. One of the henchmen that was holding her down then hands you a syringe.

The girl then panics at the sight of an unknown syringe.

“Wait no please! Whats in that?! What are you gonna do to me?!”

“You could’ve had anything you wanted in this mansion. Anything. And I promise you. I would’ve happily given them to you. My clothes. My shoes. My jewels. My gold. Anything. I’m just that generous.”

You open the syringe cap.

“However the thing you decided to covet? Were the only things that were forbidden. My. Prized possessions. My husbands. And for that. You must suffer the consequence.”

Before she can even let out another sound of protest you injected her straight in the neck.

You and the men holding her down then stepped back as her screams quickly filled the foyer. Her skin and flesh melting straight off of her bones.

“So thats what she ordered acid for.” Hongjoong then mumbles.

“You knew she ordered acid?” Wooyoung asks

“She used my card.” Hongjoong shrugs.

It was a ghastly sight but none of them were even slightly bothered.

Well.

Of course the other maids were.

Once her screams come to a halt. And she was nothing but a pile of goop on the once spotless marbled floor.

You laughed.

Your husbands then descended the stairs.

Once your laughing fit was over you addressed the other maids who were still standing there. Mortified of what has become of their once friend.

“Now all of you. Remember my words. You are free to ask anything you want from me. I have more than enough for multiple lifetimes so I’ll be happy to give it to you. However. If you ever even for a nanosecond think. You could replace me or take any of my husbands away from me. Well. Ask her how that turned out for her.” Fire resonating deep in your voice.

“Thats all. Now all of you clean this up please!” You then say with a bright smile as if the past 20 minutes or so didn’t just happen.

“Come now darling. I believe I owe you a shopping trip.” Hongjoong then says as he puts his hand on your lower back.

“Ah yes!! Lets go! May all my beloveds come with?? Then we can have dinner?”

“Why not?” Yunho says with a bright smile.

Your husband then all lead you out to the car.

“You know no one could ever take us from you. Right Princess?” San says softly to you.

“Of course! I would never let them.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. We wouldn’t either.” Yeosang says.

“They literally can’t our love. You have us all wrapped around your pretty delicate fingers.” Wooyoung adds as he kisses your ring finger.

“I know.”

.✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ✧.

© mimikittysblog 2024

Tagging: @faeprincess777 @starygw3n @bee-gremlin @pinkpearlstar @sweetinsaniiity @puppyminnnie @borahae-reads @spenceatiny18 @justconniez @rosydipity @vtyb23 @beccaskz @boredlol914 @ntlmundy @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @ateezswonderland @peachyy-jooniee @robertsbbygirl @hanniehq @smally97 @pixie0627 @haven-cove @jaerisdiction @btskzfav @bbyunicornbby @tinybada @cecilleasworld @mudent @mortal-advocate @jjcanwrite

Those who are italicized I could not tag for some reason :(

[baphometsss]

I really think that the draw to Solas for me was in his loneliness and the eccentricity solitude fosters. He says himself that he has basically no friends who are not spirits. In Veilguard this is only reinforced when he says it took him centuries to build a rapport with members of the rebellion. Sometimes it just hits me how lonely he was.

I also think it's interesting that, if the Inquisitor romances Blackwall, Solas tells him that he's glad he's found some happiness despite everything. And when Blackwall asks him if he has found someone, Solas says 'no, I find my peace elsewhere'... he's really not all that romantically inclined. One of the reasons I hate most solavellan fic is that people tend to write him as this super experienced fuckboy when the text tells us over and over again that he doesn't form bonds with living people very easily. I get that some people find the idea of being with someone who has thousands of years of experience sexy, but the text tells us repeatedly that he isn't especially invested in relationships with non-spirits, who are non-sexual, so he probably isn't as experienced as people think. I won't get into it too much bc I've already spoken about it, but he never properly learned to bond as a person and not as a spirit. So prior to DAI, he simply doesn't, and we can infer--especially given that he's described as never having been in love before--that he hasn't pursued romance a great deal in his life.

This is probably fed by my own bullshit (it's definitely fed by my own bullshit), but I think I had a hard time figuring out how to romance him bc they would only allow you to romance him with a female elf due to time constraints. This is despite him saying repeatedly that he loves Lavellan's spirit. When you're trans or nonbinary, it's hard to explain how exciting that is; to have characters who say explicitly that they do not define others by their bodies. It's very cool on its own, but for nb players in particular it's especially important. If you struggle with how you're perceived physically, it's nice to be able to make a character who is loved for who they actually are and not for what they look like. To have someone who sees them for who they are and not for what others want them to be. It's something people like me crave and I think this is why I'm so pro-queer Solas, pro-Solas doesn't give a shit about how on fleek your Lavellan's eyebrows are, etc. The physical doesn't factor in to why he loves. He simply loves others for their character, and although he often lets his first impressions colour his views of entire people, he is still willing to listen and learn if you give him a chance to be Wisdom and not Pride. We literally see him begin to question his own convictions re: the Dalish during the balcony scene. Contrary to popular fandom belief, he actually admits to being wrong all the time.

Idk man I just really like having a Lavellan that is an outsider all their life and isn't understood even by their own Clan, only to find her kindred spirit in Fen'harel, the adversary of her people. I'm obsessed with the fact that Solas fell in love for the first time with a mortal, who exists because of his mistake, who he loves enough to throw away his plans and only doesn't follow through because of his guilt. I need to write more fic jsdkdfhkjsg

[cuephrase]

as someone who loves comics, hell as someone who got into this fandom because of comics, the comics-reading fandom commentary i keep running into that seems set on villainizing non-comics reading and fanon-enjoying members of fandom by complaining about the fic that gets published is seriously exhausting at best and deeply frustrating at its worst.

and let me preface this by saying, if you actually want to try and analyze perceived trends in good faith, by all means, do your fandom meta, so long as you are not treating other people like problems that require solutions. the solution starts with you. focus on changing your mindset from that of entitlement to appreciation. you are not owed quality fic- whatever that looks like to you. a fic not being to your preference doesn’t make it any less a labor of love, a creation that someone spent their free time putting together and sharing.

also i do scroll/block. i am not being “forced” to engage with this rhetoric. still, the prevalence disheartens me because this attitude runs in direct contradiction to what my understanding of fandom/ao3 is.

is fandom not the space to have fun with our blorbos? to share headcanons and art and analysis and connect with those who share our love and vision? do you forget that the A in AO3 stands for Archive? that the T in OTW stands for Transformative? why is it so offensive for someone to write and post a fic, to an archive, that is OOC to you that you have to complain about it in a public tumblr post? why does seeing someone enjoy and/or create something you dislike warrant you going to the town square and bitching? what gives you the authority to tell someone whether or not they deserve to exist in the fandom? are we not all guests?

just because we’re all in one fandom doesn’t mean you are the target audience for every creation. especially in big fandoms, where the breadth of interpretations is vast. like. you do know that even if every person who posted a batman fic read the comics, you still wouldn’t like every fic? something not being canon to you, while perfectly valid, doesn’t change the fact that it is or was canon and therefore may very well be canon to someone else. and vice versa! not to mention that someone can read the exact same comics and reach an entirely different conclusion. they can love the same character and see them totally differently.

y’all stroll up to a sprawling potluck, see some dishes you dislike, and start crashing out like. pause for a second. damn. you don’t have to eat any of that!! i don’t really care if you have a hard time finding fic you like, because, what? you think that makes you special? do you want a medal or consolation prize for doing what literally everyone who uses ao3 has to do to find fic they like if they’re picky? should i marvel at your commitment to only consuming that which has the finest of characterization, the most artful prose, the deepest, most esoteric insights? give me a break. what a first world problem.

“but they’re not even really fans of-” shut up. just shut up. keep that stuff in dms or the appropriate discord servers. private places where someone can’t accidentally stumble across them and get hurt. people come to fandom for so many reasons, why risk ruining something that is bringing someone comfort and community just because you dislike seeing blorbo written that way?

yes, it is up to individuals to curate the experience they have in fandom. it is their prerogative to block/scroll/not click on that fic that is clearly tagged with something they dislike. but it is not up to you to try and curate the Fandom itself. do you see the difference? you can make your own discord server and decide the rules, you can make your own archive and decide the TOS, you can and should make your space a space you enjoy being in. but the Fandom as a whole? that’s not yours.

like tagging is a very important part of good etiquette on ao3 imo, but the discourse over what fic can/should be has gotten so out of hand that my friend, who loves superboy and reads his comics, worries about what fandom tag to use for their fics that aren't canon compliant. hell, i tag all my fics that do not directly deal with a comics canon incident as "Batman - All Media Types" and not "[Character] Comics", even though i've read tons of comics and they are solely what i base my characterization off of because i'm paranoid about someone coming into my comments and giving me grief about it not being canon accurate enough, or being the inspiration of a vaguepost. what a sad environment that has been built. why should there be any stress over whether a transformative work belongs under the applicable fandom tags? what a bastardization of fandom etiquette to push for people to only tag with X fandom if they've "earned" it, if the fic is something that a Real fan would want to read. dgmw, i'm grateful that the Batman - AMT tag still exists, i think it's an extremely useful catchall, but the way that people weaponize the fandom tags is just so disappointing. and also? honestly? a little chronically online. because it presumes that ao3 authors will also be present on other fandom spaces to know the "rules", which is absurd. someone should not need to be involved on tumblr, or any other site, to know how to tag on ao3. following the rules as outlined on ao3 itself should be sufficient.

“well i enjoy venting-” yes, okay, i’m sorry that you lack the empathy to understand why your actions are discourteous. and like, to be crystal clear, i am strictly opposing vent posts/vagueblogging that calls out/complains about fic specificially. stuff like “i’m so sick of seeing people write X fic” or “saw this fic, why would anyone write a fic like this?” it’s not a legitimate question. it’s not a legitimate question, because the answer is simple even if you dislike it. they wrote it because they wanted to. that’s the only reason anyone needs to write a fic. and guess what, the great thing is that there’s an equally simple answer for why someone may not want to read a fic- because they don’t want to!

not that it matters, but i’m not saying this because i just love every single part of fanon and every fic is right up my alley- no. not only am i incredibly picky, but my tastes have shifted over time. past me adored some fics that i would scroll right past now- and those fics aren’t bad, i can re-read the ones i remembered to bookmark and see why i liked them. and i read fics now that past me would/did scroll past. i just don’t think my personal enjoyment of a fic should have any bearing on whether or not that fic should be allowed to exist- unless ofc, it’s my own fic. and even then, i, personally, orphan stuff, i don’t delete akdhfkdhf.

we are all guests. we are all playing with IP we don’t own. we do a disservice to ourselves and others when we forget that.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #1

character: Keegan P. Russ words: 5601 cw: 18+, drinking description: AU in which Keegan is an F1 pilot (requested anonymously). (part 2) a/n: my first cod fic on tumblr!! I tried to incorporate the recent 2025 results for the race in Montreal, but I know nothing about F1 lol but please let me know what you think! :))))

This was, without a doubt, the best terrible decision you’d ever made. Or maybe the worst brilliant one. Either way, the wheels were already in motion — both figuratively and literally — as your Uber crept through downtown Montreal traffic, each turn ushering you deeper into a city you’d never been to.

It all started when your best friend called you two weeks ago, her voice almost vibrating through the phone with excitement. She’d landed a summer job working concierge at the Ritz-Carlton — the Ritz, the marble-mouthed, chandelier-draped fantasy lodged deep in the heart of the Golden Square Mile.

You were on your couch nursing the bruised ego and scalded pride of a breakup that hadn’t even earned you the dignity of a phone call. Just a text. Four words: this isn’t working anymore. Delivered casually at 2:16 a.m., right before he blocked you. No reason. No chance to ask why. And just like that, the person you’d planned to spend the summer with vanished into digital vapor. You didn’t even cry.

Instead, you booked a flight.

One week. That’s all you let yourself take. Enough time to see your friend, to lose yourself in a city you didn’t know, and maybe — just maybe — pretend to be someone else entirely. Someone with no missed calls or half-drunk wine bottles littering their nightstand. Someone who stayed in five-star hotels like it was second nature. Someone who didn’t feel cracked down the middle.

But nothing — absolutely nothing — could’ve prepared you for the scene outside the Ritz when your car finally pulled up.

The sidewalk was chaos. Branded banners rippled in the summer breeze. Girls in crop tops and oversized sunglasses leaned against metal barricades, iPhones tilted at perfect angles, searching for someone. Security guards in sleek black suits moved with controlled urgency, redirecting guests and herding back the crowd. There were flashes of cameras, glimpses of men with lanyards and cameras, murmurs of he’s here, I saw the car.

It hit you slowly — this was Grand Prix weekend.

You’d vaguely heard of the Canadian Grand Prix before — maybe in the way you’d hear about Coachella or New York Fashion Week. Background noise for rich people and influencers. But this? This felt like something bigger. The air itself was buzzing, electric. You stepped out of the Uber and immediately felt underdressed and overwhelmed.

The lobby was worse. A museum of marble and gold, instantly swallowed by a sea of people. Branded team gear was everywhere — Mercedes hats, Ferrari polos, Red Bull puffer vests. You ducked around a man holding a camera on a gimbal and nearly collided with a group of guys in matching polos speaking rapid-fire Italian. You clutched your papers like a lifeline, holding onto your printed email confirmation like it was a golden ticket.

The receptionist didn’t even flinch. “Reservation under…?”

You gave your name, trying to smile, trying to appear like this wasn’t the most absurd situation you’d ever walked into. You were painfully aware of how long it took to locate your booking — just long enough to convince yourself they’d lost it, or worse, that it had never existed at all.

But then you saw her.

Your friend emerged from the side hallway like some kind of celestial body, perfectly poised in her Ritz uniform. Her smile split wide the moment she spotted you.

“Finally,” she said, wrapping you in a hug that smelled like hotel soap and citrus. “I’ve been counting down the hours.”

You exhaled, tension easing from your shoulders all at once. “I didn’t realize half the city was going to be here. What the hell did I just walk into?”

She pulled back and beamed. “Oh, babe. This is the biggest weekend of the year. F1 royalty. The teams, the drivers, the media — everyone is staying here. You’re lucky I snagged you a room.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, the drivers? Like the guys everyone on TikTok is obsessed with right now?”

She laughed, clearly enjoying your naivety. “Yes. That exact breed of demigod. Don’t worry though — they’re used to girls swooning.”

You snorted, hoisting your duffel over your shoulder. “Good thing I’m emotionally immune right now.”

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re not immune, you’re just temporarily disillusioned. Big difference.”

You gave her a look but accepted the room key she handed over. It was heavier than expected, like it belonged to a different world. A better one.

“I get off at eight,” she said with a wink. “We’re going out after.”

You smiled, for real this time. “Remind me to buy you several drinks.”

The elevator opened behind you with a soft ding, and you stepped in, suddenly aware of how tired you were from the flight — and how wired you felt despite it. Your reflection in the gold-trimmed mirror stared back at you: a little sun-flushed from the Uber ride, a little windswept, but something else too. Something more awake than you’d felt in weeks.

Outside, the city pulsed.

You pressed the elevator button for the ninth floor with a tired but satisfied little sigh, your luggage at your side and the soft ping of the doors closing offering a fleeting moment of calm. Ninth floor. Your friend had promised a city view, and you clung to that detail like a talisman — somewhere up there, behind a pane of glass, was the skyline of a city that didn’t know your name. It felt like freedom.

But the moment the doors began to slide shut, a hand shot between them — broad and tan, with long fingers and short, clean nails — halting the motion with a mechanical groan. The doors stuttered open again.

He stepped inside without a word.

Brown hair, a little messy at the edges. Thick brows set low over eyes so blue they almost startled you, cool and sharp beneath the fluorescent lighting. The kind of blue that wasn't soft but cutting, like ice under pressure. The lower half of his face was hidden by a simple black surgical mask, but somehow that only made him more enigmatic. He didn’t look at you — just thumbed through something on his phone, seemingly unfazed.

You shifted your stance subtly, keeping to your corner as he claimed his own on the opposite side. There was a quiet to him. Not just in sound, but in presence. Like he could fold himself into the background without really disappearing.

His black duffel bag thumped softly against the elevator wall. That was the only sound.

He pressed the button for the tenth floor. You tried not to notice the way his broad shoulders moved beneath his fitted t-shirt when he did.

You stared at the little LCD floor indicator above the door instead, willing your heart to slow. You weren’t looking for anything. Not tonight. Not after your stupid breakup.

Still, something in you stirred. Some leftover ache of confidence trying to reanimate itself.

If not now, then when?

You cleared your throat gently. “You here for the racing stuff?”

Your voice sounded a little smaller than you'd intended — throaty from travel and disuse — but at least it wasn’t shaking.

He let out a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a hum of amusement. When he answered, his voice was deep. Not forced-deep, not affected, but naturally resonant in a way that caught you off guard. It lingered, smooth as bourbon.

“You’re not?”

You blinked. “God, no.” A soft laugh tumbled from your lips. “My friend works here. She booked me in for a vacation and kind of left out the part where the entire hotel would be under siege.”

You gestured vaguely upward, as though the paparazzi were currently scaling the building like a horde of glamorous zombies.

His eyes — sharp and glinting — crinkled slightly at the corners. You were pretty sure he smiled beneath the mask.

“Good to know,” he said simply, and tucked his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

You weren’t sure what you were doing. This wasn’t flirting — at least, not technically. But the elevator was small, and he was magnetic in the way people often are when they know exactly who they are and don't care if anyone else does. He had that grounded stillness that made you feel like he could say more but chose not to.

You didn’t want the silence to swallow the moment just yet.

“So,” you ventured again, “you’re into cars, then?”

“Something like that.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider him as if he were just some guy you might have met in line at a café. You weren’t that naïve, though. His body language, the soft authority of his presence, the way he barely had to speak to be heard — something told you this wasn’t just a mechanic with good bone structure.

“Cool,” you said instead, casual. “Must be nice, I guess.”

He shifted slightly, one hand resting on the duffel. “I take it you’re not a fan.”

You smiled wryly. “Not past the occasional thirst edits I scroll past online. Y’know, the kind that make you wonder if the helmets are compensating for something?”

He let out a quiet breath that was definitely a laugh. You weren’t sure if it was the way you said it or the way you didn’t say more, but suddenly he was watching you more directly now. Not intensely — just aware. Like he’d noticed you in a new way. Like you were no longer just background noise to his evening.

The elevator slowed with a chime.

“This is your stop,” he said, his voice lower this time, like he’d let it dip a little just for you.

“Yeah.” You hesitated a beat longer than necessary. “See you around, I guess. Enjoy the racing.”

He looked at you, and you could feel the smile behind his mask again. “Sure will.”

The doors opened.

You stepped out into the hallway, the carpet plush beneath your boots, and forced yourself to keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t look too interested. This wasn’t that kind of trip.

And yet—

As you turned the corner toward your room, you caught the briefest glimpse of the bag he’d been carrying.

Black canvas. Worn leather strap.

And stitched neatly along the side in silver and teal:

MERCEDES-AMG PETRONAS.

⟡

“I swear to God, he was a driver,” you said for the third time, leaning across the scratched, varnish-worn table as your friend laughed into the lip of her pint glass, unconvinced but entertained.

“You think he was a driver,” she corrected, mock-serious. “Or maybe he was just some tall dude with a cool duffel bag and a good skincare routine.”

You narrowed your eyes, a playful glare settling on your face. “No. No way. The way he carried himself — like he’s used to walking into rooms and immediately being the centre of attention. And the duffel said Mercedes. Mercedes, babe.”

She snorted and leaned back in the cracked leather booth, crossing her arms over her chest. “Then you should’ve asked for his number.”

You groaned dramatically, dropping your head back against the wall behind you. “Yeah, right. Me, ask him? The guy who probably has a million unread DMs from girls who look like models and talk like PR reps? No way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Simple logic. Those girls didn’t end up alone with him in an elevator.”

You blinked. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re literally the devil.”

“Imagine,” she went on, grin devilish now, “just making out with him in that elevator. Like full-on, movie scene shit. You pin him to the wall, the duffel slides down his arm — very dramatic. Hot.”

You choked on your beer, nearly spilling some on your shirt. “Jesus. Yeah, I’ll totally just stalk the lobby for hours until he comes back, throw myself into the elevator with him, and be like, ‘Hey, do you mind if I assault you with affection?’”

She raised her glass. “That’s the spirit.”

You clinked your pint gently against hers, still laughing as you took another sip. The pub was warm and dim, low amber lighting casting soft shadows on the scuffed wooden floors and aging Union Jack flags tucked into corners like lazy afterthoughts. The air smelled like beer, malt vinegar, and nostalgia. And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, you felt okay. Not perfect, not fixed — but looser somehow. Softer around the edges.

You missed this. You missed her.

You dipped a fry in ketchup, savoring the salt. “I can’t thank you enough for this,” you said. “Really. Inviting me here, letting me crash in your universe for a little while. I know you’re working like crazy, but all of this means a lot.”

Her expression softened instantly, the sarcasm momentarily fading. “Babe, don’t get sentimental on me. You’re the one who needed this. And I’m glad you came.”

Then, without missing a beat: “But if you really want to thank me, hook up with mystery driver man. Do it for both of us.”

You groaned again. “I don’t even know who he was.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say his bag had a Mercedes logo?”

You nodded, half-laughing. “Yeah. All black, silver and teal stitching. Big duffel. Designer-looking.”

Immediately, she reached for her phone, thumbs already flying across the screen. “Dark hair?”

“Yep.”

“Blue eyes? Like – Cillian Murphy blue? Serial killer sexy blue?”

You paused. “I guess so? I didn’t stare into his soul or anything.”

She turned her phone around with a wicked grin.

“Was it him?”

The photo hit you like a punch.

You hadn’t expected to recognize him — at least, not like that. Not with his helmet halfway off and his eyes locked on something beyond the camera, mouth curled in a smirk like he knew exactly how dangerous he looked. But it was him. Or close enough to make your breath falter.

Same tousled hair. Same thick eyebrows. Same bone structure that bordered on unfair.

Your fingers curled around her phone before you realized what you were doing. You stared at the screen like it might blink back.

“What the fuck?” The words came out quiet. Dry. Stuck in your throat.

“That’s Keegan Russ,” she said, her voice smug with glee. “You just met the Keegan Russ.”

“Is he, like—”

“A big fucking deal?” She barked out a laugh. “Girl. He’s massive. He’s one of the top drivers on the grid right now. Drives for Mercedes, obviously. Crazy fast. Calm under pressure. Doesn’t really do social media so he’s even hotter. You, my love, literally ran into an F1 unicorn.”

You stared down at his photo, heartbeat skipping like a scratched record.

There was no way a guy like that could ever—

“Mind if I join you?”

You dropped her phone like it had burned you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked up — and there he was.

Keegan.

Dressed in head-to-toe black, clean and casual, surgical mask still tugged over his face but unmistakable. His eyes — those fucking eyes — were already creased with amusement, like he’d caught the whole conversation from across the room.

Which, horrifyingly, he probably had.

Your friend immediately sprang to her feet, all false innocence and theatrical urgency. “Oh my God — yeah — actually, I was just leaving!”

You stared at her, betrayal in your eyes.

“Early day tomorrow,” she said, grabbing her bag. “You know how it is!” She mouthed something on her way out — call me later — and then she was gone, the door of the pub clinking shut behind her with a gust of warm summer air.

Keegan moved with quiet confidence, sliding smoothly into the booth like he belonged there. As if this wasn’t strange at all. As if he hadn’t just caught you thirsting over a photo of him two seconds ago.

He tugged down his mask and rested his hands on the table.

You stopped breathing.

His jaw was sharp, almost unreal under the warm light, and his mouth — those lips — soft, plush, the kind of mouth that made stupid thoughts short-circuit in your brain. The photos hadn’t done him justice. He wasn’t just hot. He was composed, statuesque, dangerous in that subtle way men are when they don’t need to try.

“You following me now?” you asked, managing a light tone even as your cheeks burned.

He met your eyes, steady and unreadable.

“I’m not the one with pictures of you on my phone.”

Your face went up in flames.

“Oh my God — I’m so sorry, that wasn’t — she pulled up the picture, I didn’t—”

“Relax.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “It’s cute.”

You blinked. Cute?

“So,” he continued, voice smooth and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be. “You’re really not into the whole racing thing, huh?”

He leaned back in the booth, one arm stretched along the top of the cracked leather seat, casual and confident in a way that made it hard to tell where the performance ended and the real Keegan began. The lighting in the pub flickered softly above his head, catching in the faint flecks of gold in his dark hair. The longer you looked at him, the more it felt like staring into the sun.

You shook your head, smiling guiltily. “No, sorry. I find it kind of boring, honestly. Just a bunch of cars going in circles, right?”

He let out a sharp, mock-injured tsk, his expression exaggerated. “Pity. And here I was—” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart “—ready to offer you and your friend paddock passes for the weekend. Exclusive. VIP. All-access.”

You blinked. “Wait. Passes? You’re joking.”

“Nope.” He sighed the way one might when recounting a great, tragic loss. “But since you’re not into cars, and you think it’s all terribly dull—”

“Well, now,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter, suddenly very interested. “I didn’t say that. I just meant I haven’t really given it a fair shot. Yet.”

His gaze sharpened like a spotlight narrowing its beam. “Mm. That’s what I thought.”

He reached forward and — without asking — plucked a lone fry off your plate. Cold. Limp. You watched him eat it anyway.

“You think you could try for me?” he asked around a lazy smile, like he already knew the answer. His tone was low and quiet and dangerous in the way it slipped under your skin, that velvety softness wrapped around something heavier.

“For you?” you asked, fighting the flutter in your chest. “You don’t even know my name.”

He tilted his head, those pale blue eyes catching yours and holding them like they were something he’d claimed already.

“[Name],” he said.

Your blood ran warm in your ears. “Okay — what? How the hell did you know that?”

He just blinked, calm and unbothered. “It was on your reservation,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were holding the printout in the elevator. Real tight. Big bold letters.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“In the elevator,” he added, too innocently. “Where your friend was telling you to kiss me.”

“Alright,” you groaned, putting your face in your hands. “Shut up.”

He laughed — a real one this time. Warm and low and real enough to tug something loose in your stomach.

He leaned forward again, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of cologne on his jacket — something sharp and clean with a hint of smoke. You hated how good it smelled. You hated how your pulse responded before your brain caught up.

“Passes still on the table,” he said, popping another cold fry between his lips. “But only if you promise not to fall asleep at the track.”

You looked at him, deadpan. “No promises. I might bring a pillow.”

“Ruthless.”

“But I will take the passes.”

He raised his glass toward you, just water, but the gesture made it feel like something ceremonial.

“To corrupting the uninitiated,” he said, voice dry with amusement.

You clinked your beer glass against his water, smiling despite yourself. “To being corrupted.”

⟡

You didn’t know what to expect — not really. You’d tried to imagine it in the days leading up to this, but nothing could have prepared you for the visceral reality of race day. You knew there would be crowds, yes. Screaming, of course. That kind of electrified chaos was baked into the very idea of Formula 1, wasn’t it? But even so, as you stepped into the paddock and took your place at the railing, just a few breaths away from the pit lane, it struck you like a thunderclap.

The sound was the first thing that hit you — low, guttural, and omnipresent, like a heartbeat rumbling beneath the surface of the earth. Engines revved in the distance with the rawness of beasts being roused. Voices barked commands through headsets and radios, mechanics in their matching jumpsuits swarming around the cars like precise, restless insects. Everything shimmered with tension: the smell of hot tarmac, the sharp bite of gasoline in the air, the flash of sun against chrome. Heat rose from the track in wavering mirages, warping the world around you just enough to make it feel like a dream.

But nothing — nothing — was more surreal than the sight of Keegan Russ, standing twenty feet away.

Your body went still the moment you saw him, as if every muscle in your frame had seized in reverence. There he was, wearing a sleek black racing suit that molded to his form like armor, every movement purposeful, fluid, controlled. His brown hair was pushed back from his face in soft, errant waves, slightly tousled, holding his helmet under one arm. A few dark strands fell into his brow, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was focused, locked into a conversation with one of his engineers, nodding as he listened. The way he stood — weight slightly shifted to one side, arms relaxed but never careless — was so inherently magnetic that you felt yourself tip forward without meaning to, hands gripping the railing to steady yourself as something hot and unfamiliar bloomed low in your stomach.

Around him, the world spun on. Cameras flashed. Other drivers strutted by, their suits adorned in rival colors — brilliant red and white, deep blue, sharp neon yellow. You recognized some of the names now, thanks to the rabbit hole of race recaps and YouTube videos you’d fallen into the past few nights: Leclerc, Hamilton, Verstappen. Faces that made the internet melt every Sunday afternoon.

But you didn’t care. None of them registered. They could have been cardboard cutouts for all they mattered.

Your eyes found only him.

Keegan didn’t look up. Didn’t glance toward the paddock or wave at the grandstands or acknowledge the girls in the crowd below waving banners with his name on them — black and silver flags caught in the wind, their screams slicing through the roar of the engines. Girls wearing cropped Mercedes merch and liquid eyeliner sharp enough to wound. Girls who knew what he looked like at every angle, who knew his stats, his wins, his rumored exes. Girls who would kill to be where you were.

And still — he didn’t look up.

He was somewhere else now, mentally, you could tell. Locked in. Already racing.

You reached for your phone before remembering he wouldn’t have his on him — not here, not now. You didn’t want to break his focus anyway. Still, the last message you’d sent him that morning was burned into your mind: Good luck today. Simple. Honest.

His reply had come minutes later.

Don’t fall asleep when I win.

You hadn’t known what to make of it at the time — too confident, too cheeky. But now, watching him like this—his composure, his stillness, the precision in every movement — it didn’t feel cocky anymore. It felt inevitable.

Your friend was off in the bathroom, likely practicing her smile in the mirror or fixing her lip gloss, still high on the thrill of the paddock passes. She’d practically burst into tears when you told her. “You can have Keegan,” she’d said, grinning like a menace, “but don’t think for one second I’m not going to seduce a Ferrari driver for the plot. It’s summer, bitch. You owe it to the narrative.”

You’d laughed, then. It felt light. Now everything felt heavier. Realer.

You let your gaze settle on Keegan again, heart pounding a little too hard for your own comfort.

And then — right before he climbed into the car — he looked up.

The contact was immediate. Direct.

His eyes found yours with unnerving ease, like he'd known where you were all along. His mouth twitched beneath the edge of his helmet, not quite a smile, but close. And then he winked.

A single wink that sent your body into full-blown meltdown.

You were gone.

Your knees went jelly-soft. The noise of the paddock blurred. The crowd dissolved. The heat was unbearable now — not from the weather, but from within. You were flushed and breathless, heart thudding in your throat. You had never, in your life, wanted someone so much in so little time.

The race began minutes later, but the next hour and a half felt eternal.

Not boring, not in the slightest. It was gripping — every sound, every lap, every shiver of rubber against asphalt — but you weren’t watching the race. You were watching him.

The first lap was chaos. You could barely follow what was happening. Cars zipped by in flashes of light and color. The announcer’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers, naming positions you didn’t understand fast enough to care. All you knew was when Keegan slipped back a place, your body reacted like he’d been stabbed.

He was third. Then fourth. Back to third. Time crawled.

Your friend returned, thrusting a bottle of water into your hand like you’d just emerged from the desert.

“You need to breathe, girl,” she said, laughing. “It’s just a race.”

“It’s not just anything,” you muttered, watching the black car disappear down the straight again. “It’s him. What if he loses? Look, he’s not in the lead.”

She rolled her eyes, affectionately. “He’s a closer. He’s not flashy early on. But once those last ten laps hit? Baby, just watch.”

And she was right.

At lap sixty, Keegan was still in third, and you were gripping her arm like a lifeline.

By lap sixty-five, he was second.

By lap sixty-eight, he made a move that caused the entire grandstand to scream as one — cutting inside, braking late, diving ahead.

Lap seventy was a blur of speed and color and deafening sound — and then he crossed the line.

First.

The stadium erupted like thunder. Applause. Cheers. Flags waved; champagne flew somewhere behind the barricades. You barely registered it. You turned to your friend, both of you screaming incoherently, arms flung around each other. Your water bottle was crushed between your bodies, forgotten.

⟡

It was late by the time you returned to the hotel — late enough that the lobby had emptied out, the chaos of the day finally fading into memory, leaving only hushed conversations and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass doors. The buzz of the race still clung to your skin, like leftover static, something residual and unshakable. Your shoes clicked quietly against the marble floor as you stepped into the elevator, a little unsteady from the cocktails you and your friend had downed at the bar two blocks away. Sweet drinks, sticky with syrup and lime and some sharp liquor that tasted like fire going down. You felt light-headed and warm all over, pleasantly untethered, the kind of weightless that only came from too much excitement and just enough alcohol.

All you wanted now was to shower — peel off your sweat-slicked clothes, let hot water sluice over your skin, rinse away the tang of alcohol and sun and the trace amounts of emotional chaos you hadn’t fully admitted to yet. The thought of sliding between cool, expensive hotel sheets made your body ache with anticipation. You closed your eyes for just a moment, swaying gently as the elevator doors began to close—

—and then a hand shot through the gap.

The doors jolted open with a polite chime, and Keegan slipped inside. A strong feeling of déjà-vu crept up in your throat like nausea.

He was slightly out of breath, as if he’d just sprinted through the hallways to catch you, his chest rising and falling beneath a tight black t-shirt that clung to him in a way that was very unfair. A racing jacket hung from one arm, slung casually over his shoulder, and his hair — already messy from the helmet earlier — was now worse, disheveled and perfect. There was a flush in his cheeks, high and rosy from exertion or excitement or maybe both. His lips were parted slightly. His eyes — God, those eyes — were half-lidded and heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“God,” he exhaled, bracing one hand against the wall of the elevator. “You’re fucking hard to find.”

You looked at him, tried to keep your smile contained, your voice casual, but it betrayed you — warm at the edges, fond, a little too amused. “Jesus,” you said softly. “You look like shit.”

That was a lie, of course. If anything, he looked unfairly good. Radiant, even, in that flushed, windblown way that comes after something momentous. His shirt clung to his back in places. His arms — heavens help you, those arms — flexed faintly as he adjusted the jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Mm.” He grinned, tilting his head to the side. “I don’t think so.”

You turned your face away just slightly, eyes on the slow climb of the floor numbers — three, four — trying not to let your expression betray you. But you felt the heat rise in your cheeks anyway. Your whole body was pulsing now, nerves alive beneath your skin.

“Not gonna congratulate me?” he asked, after a short pause, voice thick with teasing. “Seems like the least you could do.”

“I’m sure you’ve had enough smoke blown up your ass today,” you said, dryly.

He barked out a laugh. “Ouch. True. But that’s not the same.”

You met his gaze again then, and something in his eyes made your stomach flip. You laughed, and he grinned wider at the sound. You didn’t notice how close he’d stepped until the space between you felt barely manageable — like a live wire buzzing between your shoulders, brushing down your spine.

“You eaten yet?” he asked.

“No. Just drinks.”

He tsked, gently. “Christ. Well. Let me take you to dinner then. Properly this time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to hang out with your little… racer friends? Bask in your victory or whatever it is that F1 gods do after winning?”

“Not one bit.” His voice was serious now. Quieter.

And then, to your absolute disbelief, he reached out — calmly, with purpose — and pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt.

You blinked. “Keegan — what are you doing?”

He turned to face you fully now, shoulders square, body radiating warmth in the suddenly too-small space. His tone was lazy, but that same heat simmered just below the surface.

“Just making sure you keep your word.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What word?”

He tilted his head, mock-offended. “Something about making out with me in an elevator? Ring a bell?”

Your face went nuclear.

“Oh, fuck off,” you said, laughing, your voice caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief.

But he didn’t laugh.

He moved closer.

You could feel the heat of his body now, just inches from yours. You were aware of everything: the low thrum of the halted elevator, the soft buzz of electricity behind the panels, the warmth of the air, the slight sway of the space beneath your feet.

He reached up and cupped your cheek gently with one hand — his palm broad and warm, his touch so gentle it nearly made you gasp. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheekbone, grazing the heat there.

“Something like this?” he murmured.

And then he kissed you.

It started slow — his mouth brushing yours like a promise, like he was asking a question and already knew the answer. The first touch was almost reverent, a whisper of lips that made your knees tremble. Then he deepened it — pressing forward, hand still cradling your cheek, the other finding your waist, steadying you as if he felt the shift in your balance before you did. His mouth was warm, insistent, tasting faintly like mint and the faintest trace of champagne.

You melted.

There was no other word for it.

Your hands found his chest first, fingers splayed over the hard plane of muscle beneath his shirt, and then you were pulling him closer, wanting more — needing more. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this all day. Maybe longer. Like he had something to prove, and he was proving it with every slow drag of his lips against yours, every tilt of his head, every brush of his thumb over your jaw.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath came hot and unsteady, mouth still parted, lips slick from the kiss.

“Been thinking about doing that,” he murmured, voice rasped.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Since when?”

He smirked, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Since the elevator. The first time.”

You leaned into him, laughing, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, lips brushing your cheek. “But you’re into it.”

And God help you — he was right.