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sturniolohouse · 2 months ago

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Warm - M.S.

a/n: hiiii, so this has been in the drafts for a while... finally decided to post it. enjoy !! :)

summary: for the first time as a couple, reader and matt attend wedding together, leading to deeper talks about their future... bf!matt

warnings ! : none just cute shit

word count: 1.7k

song: warm - ariana grande

cause im cool, on my own. but it's warmer in your arms

“We should get married here,” I think out loud, my voice getting lost in the crisp January breeze.

I lean over the railing, gazing at the skyline stretched across and reflected on the dark lake. The mountains in the distance stand tall and stark against the night. The stars shine so brightly in New England, each one just as breathtaking as the next.

New England always has a way of taking my breath away, no matter how many times I’ve been here.

The cold air fills my lungs, but the alcohol running through my system keeps me warm enough to ignore it.

From inside, you can still hear the muffled laughter and the distant bass of music spill out through the double paned glass doors, a reminder that we’ve stepped away from the party. But out here, it’s just us and the brisk winter night.

Matt chuckles softly under his breath behind me in response, the sound faint as another brutal gust of wind whips past my ears and through my hair. Goosebumps rise along my neck and exposed arms, but I stay wrapped up in my daydream.

“Alright, kid. Come on, it’s freezing out here,” Matt says, his voice lighthearted as he rubs his hands together vigorously.

“Like a fall wedding… when all the leaves turn,” I murmur, still lost in thought.

I hear a deep sigh and some silence falls again, which brings me back to reality.

I turn to Matt, finding him watching me intently; his head tilted slightly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes ever so glossy– most likely from the wind.

His chin points towards me, before shaking his head. “You’re drunk.” he finally states, all while biting back a grin.

My jaw drops in mock offense, and his shoulders shake as he giggles at my reaction. His eyes squeeze shut and he looks away momentarily to hide his smile once more, but the crease on the corner of his mouth deepens.

“I’m not drunk, Matt. I’m serious,” I insist, crossing my arms and standing my ground.

I’m really not. My last drink was an hour ago, and I’ve only had two drinks the entire night– three if you’re counting the glass of champagne from the toast at dinner.

I can tell he’s only teasing me, so I let it go, allowing my eyes to wander down his lanky frame instead.

The outdoor stone fire pit crackles beside him, illuminating his eyes and casting a warm glow along the right side of his face. His hair is tousled, a few strands sticking to his forehead from the sweat we worked up dancing, cheeks flushed from the cold air– evident by the way his breath clouds in front of his face. His hands are shoved deep in his pant pockets, his shoulders hunch against the chill as he shifts his weight to try to keep warm.

Butterflies swarm my belly and I feel myself warm up simply from taking in his appearance alone.

"Have I told you how hot you look in a suit?" I ask, my gaze dragging over him shamelessly– the silhouette of his shoulders, the broadness the jacket gives him. Down to his pants, where they hug his legs just right, making them look even longer.

I glance back at his face just as he smirks, shaking his head and looking away with a hint of bashfulness before recovering quickly.

He licks his lips, giving me a curt nod. "Yeah, I think you've mentioned it a few times tonight, sweetheart," he says.

The urge to be closer to him consumes me, like a magnet pulling me in, needing the familiar comfort of his touch.

He rocks back on his heels, his teeth chattering slightly as I slowly step toward him. When I reach him, my hands slip beneath his suit jacket, arms wrapping around his middle. I hum softly, breathing him in, soaking up the warmth radiating from his body before tilting my head up to meet his gaze, my heavy lids blinking slowly.

A content smile tugs at my lips as I lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his chin, then his jaw. The scent of his aftershave lingers, sending another wave of goosebumps down my arms.

He looks down at me as I pull away, his hands still in his pockets, but his body instinctively leans in to mine. Molding into me. His eyes soften as they flit across my face and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I can’t believe there’s not more people out here, it’s stunning,” I motion to our surroundings and the scene behind me.

“Maybe because it’s negative 18 degrees out here,” He raises his brows and I roll my eyes, pinching his side.

He jumps, his body jolting against mine as he yelps but I still keep him close. I laugh maniacally and he barely hesitates before pulling a hand from his pocket, just enough to pinch me back on my ass.

“Ow! Okay, okay– truce,” I surrender, wincing but squirm no further from his warmth.

“Yeah, you know better than to pinch me, you little fuckin’ crab,” he says playfully through his teeth, failing to keep a straight face as I throw my head back laughing.

His lips twitch, betraying the smirk he’s fighting before he places a hand on the small of my back, keeping me steady.

“You’re such an idiot,” I say through giggles, wiping at my eyes—only to collapse against his chest in another fit of laughter.

“Alright, alright,” he grits out, half-amused, half-exasperated, shifting to keep us upright. “You’re gonna take me down with you,” he exaggerates.

I lift my head, trying to compose myself, but before I can wipe at my face again, he beats me to it, brushing my tears away with his thumb. “You’re a mess, kid,”

“You just make me happy,” I say without even thinking. It slips out effortlessly because with him, it’s so easy to speak my mind.

His eyes blink once, then twice, like the words catch him off guard. He looks away for a moment, his cheeks flushing a deeper pink. He meets my gaze again, something softer settling in his expression.

“You wanna tell me more about that wedding?” His tigterns his arms around my back.

My breath gets caught in my throat and now, I’m the silent one.

“What? You were the one rambling about this fall wedding– go on. I’m listening, tell me more.” He sweeps my hair out of my face with his hands, cradling my head in his hands.

His attention was all on me.

“Well, it’d be a small ceremony," I start, my voice soft but certain. "Just the people who matter the most."

“Loving what I’m hearing so far, go on,” he hums encouragingly.

His thumbs absentmindedly brushing against my jaw.

"I want it to be here– well, not here-here. But New England," I clarify, watching for his reaction. "I know how much this place means to you. It would make me really happy to have it here."

His eyes flicker between mine as something soft settles in his expression, like he’s letting himself picture it.

"Early fall would be a good time of year," I continue, my voice turning a little dreamy. "Not too hot, not too cold."

“Best season, so again, I’m loving what I’m hearing.”

I let out a small breath of laughter, shaking my head. "You act like I’m pitching you a business proposal."

His smirk grows, a teasing glint in his eye. "Hey, it’s a big decision. Gotta make sure I’m on board with it all."

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the way my stomach flips when his hands move back down, locking behind my back. He tugs me just a little closer, closing the space between us, and leans in– his face inches from mine.

His voice drops, softer now, low enough that it feels like a secret meant just for me.

"Okay, okay. But, you know in my head, you’re already my wife. A party to celebrate that would just be the cherry on top." He murmurs into the side of my face.

I’m not sure why, but my breath catches and my heart skips a beat. My fingers instinctively tighten around the lapels of his suit jacket as I pull back to look between his eyes, his gaze unwavering.

We joke about it all the time, how we act like an old married couple, we’ve lied to servers about celebrating our first year wedding anniversary just for free dessert.

But, I think it was the way he said it so casually, so sure.

Another flood of warmth runs through me when I see how serious he’s being.

"Matt," I murmured speechless, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He smirks, tilting his head slightly. "What? Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. You’re it for me, kid."

I don’t even hesitate to throw my arms around his shoulders, hiding my face into the crook of his neck. His hands find my hips, holding me gently as he rocks us side to side. Our heartbeats moving in sync– recognizing one another, like they’ve known each other in every lifetime.

I hear the door sliding open before the music from inside floods into the air and pulls us out of our moment.

“Alright, lovebirds, get back inside. They’re serving the cake now—holy fuck, it’s cold,” Nick calls out, hugging his arms around himself dramatically.

Matt groans, his forehead tipping against mine. “There goes the peace.”

I giggle uncontrollably, catching Nick’s eye over Matt’s shoulder. Matt doesn’t even acknowledge him, just buries his face into my neck, still wrapped around me like I’m his human shield.

“We’ll be right there, Nick,” I say, rubbing Matt’s back absentmindedly.

Nick shakes his head in disbelief. “You two are nuts. I think I actually just caught pneumonia from being out here for thirty seconds.”

He bolts back inside, muttering under his breath, and I can’t help but laugh as the door slides shut behind him.

Matt lifts his head and breathes in deep, eyes closed like he’s mentally preparing to reenter the chaos.

I squeeze his hand gently, watching the way his shoulders rise and fall with that slow, dramatic exhale.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice soft but teasing.

He cracks one eye open at me. “No. But… cake awaits.”

I grin. “Cake does await.” I lean up and peck the corner of his mouth, already reaching for his hand to pull him toward the door.

But before I can take a step, he pulls me right back against him.

His hands cup my face, and he kisses me, slow and tender. The kind of kiss that makes your head spin and your stomach flip. The kind that lingers, even after it’s over.

When he finally pulls back, breathing against me, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Okay. Now, I’m ready.”

#matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #bf!matt #sturniolohouse

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opashoo · 5 days ago

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The Rain World Undergrowth AU cast lineup! (which is basically just everyone)

I tried doing one of these way back in 2024 and never finished, which is probably a good thing because some of these designs have changed a decent bit since then. (Those who've seen the old, incomplete lineup know that my original Rivulet was a cis guy, and Watcher didn't even have a design yet.) With this, I'm hoping to start up the askblog soon-ish.

Anyway, Undergrowth synopsis and lore, as well as some alternate outfits under the cut:

Undergrowth is an anthro AU that takes place during the time of the Endless Winter. The blizzards of Saint's timeline have come sooner and deadlier, forcing most slugcats and scavengers to settle in underground geothermal pockets or adopt lifestyles suited adapted to the cold. All the game's events and timelines are compressed so that everything happens in quicker succession.

The AU takes place in Moon and Pebbles' retaining wall and centers around Saint after the events of their campaign, who has taken to the teachings of Rhinestones Beneath Shattered Glass and started a garden in Undergrowth. Here they have gathered all the other slugcats to live in safety. The other slugcats see Saint as a mysterious benefactor who knows more than they should, rescued each of them from certain death for unknown reasons, and has given them shelter from the blizzards, but for Saint, it's all part of a comfortable routine formed from countless lifetimes of repetition.

In their most recent lifetime, however, things have started to change. Things aren't where they should be. People aren't where they should be when they should be. Events that have always fallen on consistent times and dates simply don't. Saint starts getting dream visits from someone they've never met before in all their past lifetimes, one who brings ominous warnings about the future.

The Characters Survivor / ommuy aka omi One who persists most of all cis male - he/him

Monk / sahini mayabi aka maya One of the peaceful way cis female - she/her

Gourmand / makikanae aka maki One who knows food Yongasabi 3rd gender - they/them

Saint / sapinae aka saen One who suffers; saint agender transfem - they/them/any

Spearmaster / masinabi aka nabi Messenger nonbinary trans man - they/he

Hunter / hanitae aka hanta Hunter trans female - she/her

Artificer / sattokubi aka satto Arsonist cis female - she/her

Rivulet / yanginaeja lamlan aka lani Wandering stream afab demigirl - she/they

Watcher / banolnak yopwa aka banno Atop the watchtower unstable genderfluid - she/he

Enot (???) N/A - it/its

Survivor, Monk, and Gourmand are from a colony that has historically lived outside the retaining wall, but got lost and were separated inside the retaining wall before Saint found each of them and brought them back to the shelter.

Saint is from a retaining wall far away, built atop one of the few true mountains in this world. They were born and raised in a monastery, trained for a grand purpose that they have long since abandoned.

Spearmaster and Hunter were in the retaining wall on business before the blizzards outside kicked up and the land outside became impassable while Hunter's supply of medicine dwindled. With Hunter bedridden and cut off from NSH, Spearmaster had no choice but to take her underground and follow the stranger who promised treatment in their garden.

Artificer was taken in and trained by a corrupt scavenger clan who saw her grief and rage as a tool to be shaped and used; first, to exact revenge on the scavengers who killed her children, then to demolish the clans who had apparently enabled such a corrupt system. When she overstepped her station and terrorized Metropolis, she was deemed an outlaw and enemy to all scavs. Saint found her buried in the snow on the edge of death.

Rivulet comes from a far off retaining wall, given the mission of delivering Five Pebbles' rarefaction cell to Moon by whatever means necessary. She had no idea that removing it would have accelerated 5P's collapse so immensely. She would have met her end at a toll full of scared and suspicious scavengers had Saint not arrived just in time to defuse the situation.

Watcher has been plagued since childhood by visions, a sense of lacking identity, and a spiritual burden spanning thousands of generations. After exhausting all other leads, she hears a promising rumor: There is a former member of a religious order, sheltered away in a garden deep underground, who may have the answers he seeks.

Enot (???) kohga ota gimok juhei ha giga naka. shou kolgi cho yoshouja ihoga palakkida. kagihei nakani deila sin pagsada.

#rw undergrowth au #rain world #yongasabi #rw downpour #rw survivor #rw monk #rw gourmand #rw saint #rw spearmaster #rw hunter #rw artificer #rw rivulet #rw watcher #rw enot #pashdraw #rw anthro au #conlanging

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

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Set Me Off || J.Wooyoung

Pairing: Wooyoung (ATEEZ) x Actress.Idol!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 7242 words : Reading Time: 26-ish mins

Trope: Idol x Actress | Slow Burn to Lovers | Hidden Relationship | He Falls First and Harder

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of hate comments, slow-burn tension, eventual mild intimacy (towards the end)

Synopsis: Everyone knows you as the queen of K-dramas, always cast in sweet romance roles. But your gritty new action film flips the script—and catches the attention of ATEEZ’s Wooyoung, who’s instantly obsessed. What starts as admiration turns into something deeper as secret messages, live chemistry, and late-night confessions unfold. Fame might complicate things… but love? That’s the real headline.

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to powerful women, supportive men, and the chaos that comes when celebrity crushes turn mutual. Expect flirty tension, viral moments, soft love, and a lot of heart.

Request are open <3

The award show pulsed with manufactured euphoria. Sequins shimmered under the relentless assault of camera flashes, a galaxy of idols clustered beneath the stage lights, their attention divided between the ongoing performances and hushed predictions of who would clutch the coveted trophies. It was the usual orchestrated spectacle: saccharine romance trailers that elicited polite applause, glossy cosmetic brand ads promising unattainable perfection, dramatic teasers hinting at future on-screen turmoil. Fluff and glitter, meticulously curated for maximum impact.

Then, the manufactured brilliance fractured.

The house lights bled out, plunging the auditorium into sudden darkness. A collective murmur rippled through the crowd, a momentary suspension of the carefully constructed reality.

The colossal screen, which had moments before showcased smiling faces and glistening products, dissolved into an absolute, consuming black.

And then your trailer began.

A cacophony of sound ripped through the silence: the sharp, concussive reports of gunshots, the high-pitched whine of tires fighting for traction, the chillingly distinct shick of a blade being drawn from its sheath. And then, you materialized. Stepping into the frame as if conjured from the shadows, clad in a black leather jacket that seemed to absorb the remaining light. Your eyes, sharp and assessing, cut through the darkness. Your lips, painted a defiant blood red, curved into a dangerous smile, a flicker of untamed fire dancing in their depths.

"Target acquired," a voice, low and husky – hers – drawled from the screen. The camera shifted, revealing her perched on a rain-slicked rooftop, a silhouette against the artificial twilight. Black leather molded to her form, a gun holstered with lethal grace against her thigh. Her eyes, lined with a stark precision, mirrored your own intensity. Her lips, too, were curved in a knowing smirk.

The entire auditorium held its breath. The low hum of conversation had vanished, replaced by a profound, almost reverent silence. The collective memory of your previous roles – the sweet ingenue clutching a notebook, the girl blushing over a tentative first kiss – seemed to evaporate into the charged atmosphere.

The images on screen shifted with brutal efficiency. You, a whirlwind of controlled violence, flipping a man twice your size with effortless ease, sending him crashing through a pristine marble table. You, a figure of fierce determination, shooting your way out of a towering high-rise as lightning split the stormy sky. You, smirking, a smear of blood a stark crimson against your flawless cheekbone, your beauty amplified by the raw power you exuded. You were terrifying. And undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful.

"Tell heaven I sent you," she murmured, her voice a silken threat before the deafening roar of an explosion ripped through the sound system. A car erupted in a fiery inferno behind her as she turned and walked away, her silhouette unwavering against the blaze. And then – another explosion, closer this time, the screen erupting in a blinding, white-hot flash. “Blood Petals” – A Netflix Original. Coming Soon.

Silence hung heavy in the air for a beat, two beats, an eternity.

Then, the dam broke.

A collective gasp swept through the auditorium, a wave of pure shock rippling through the assembled stars. A smattering of hesitant cheers broke out, quickly swallowed by the dominant sense of stunned disbelief.

ATEEZ? Their usual boisterous energy seemed to have been momentarily suspended. They sat frozen, eyes glued to the now-blank screen.

Wooyoung? He was a statue carved from disbelief. Utterly silent, his eyes blinked slowly, as if trying to process a reality that had just violently overwritten his expectations. It was as if his entire definition of an ideal had just materialized on screen, holding a grenade and a vendetta.

“Bro,” San whispered, nudging his arm gently. “Was that… her?”

“She just killed five guys and licked blood off her thumb,” Mingi muttered, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I didn’t know I was into that, but apparently, I am.”

Wooyoung remained unresponsive, his brain seemingly undergoing a complete system reboot. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he breathed, “She’s so hot I think I blacked out for a second.”

And then – your cue.

Blinding spotlights flooded the stage, cutting through the residual darkness. You stepped into the incandescent glow, a vision ripped straight from the aesthetic of your trailer. Your gown, the color of deep red wine, clung to your figure like liquid night, sculpted to every curve and angle. The gloves reached past your elbows, adding an air of dangerous elegance, while the slit in the skirt climbed high enough to steal the breath from every lung in the room. Your hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of your face, your expression a study in cool, lethal grace.

Every single eye in the auditorium was fixed on you.

Including his.

Wooyoung watched, his mouth slightly agape, as if you had indeed descended from the ceiling on a wire, a real-life embodiment of a Mission: Impossible fantasy.

You smiled – a cool, collected curve of your lips that somehow managed to convey both power and amusement – and your voice, smooth and confident, filled the stunned silence. “Best Performance Group: ATEEZ.”

A ripple of movement went through their section. They rose, a wave of applause finally breaking the spell. But Wooyoung? He moved as if through water, a dazed expression still clouding his features.

As Hongjoong stepped up to the microphone to accept the award, the unforgiving eye of the camera captured everything. The genuine gratitude on Hongjoong’s face, the supportive smiles of the other members – and Wooyoung. Wooyoung, who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. His eyes followed the line of your dress, the sharpness of your jawline, the knowing glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smirk. Your entire aura seemed to have him ensnared.

And then, as you gracefully handed over the gleaming trophy to Hongjoong, your eyes flickered in his direction. Just a fleeting glance. Just one subtle, almost imperceptible smirk.

It was over.

He was done.

Dead.

Buried under a mountain of newfound fascination.

Twitter exploded within minutes.

🎥 “wooyoung folded like a lawn chair watching her walk out I CANNOT.” 📸 “she smirked. he malfunctioned. we all saw it.”

Later that night, back in the familiar chaos of their dorms, the boys were starting to unwind, the adrenaline of the award show slowly dissipating. Everyone, that is, except for Wooyoung.

He was curled up in his bed, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his head, the glow of his phone illuminating his face as he watched your trailer on repeat.

Click.

You walked out of the inferno, the flickering flames casting dramatic shadows across your face, a gun held loosely in one hand, the sharp snap of your heel against the imaginary concrete echoing in his ears.

“Target acquired.”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath, as if he had indeed glimpsed something divine.

Yeosang cautiously peeked his head around the doorframe. “Are you… okay?”

“She blew up a car. In HEELS.”

“That didn’t exactly answer the question.”

“She’s so cool, guys,” Wooyoung continued, his voice a hushed reverence. “She used to be in all those fluffy romcoms, and now she’s killing people and being sarcastic and walking in slow motion away from explosions. I didn’t know I had a thing for powerful women who could destroy me.”

“Ah,” Seonghwa said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You’ve fallen. Hard.”

Mingi punctuated the statement by throwing a soft pillow at Wooyoung’s head. “Confess already.”

“I can’t even breathe,” Wooyoung whispered into his blanket, his voice muffled. “She smirked at me. I think I transcended.”

Soon enough The Premiere night descended upon the city like an electric storm, the air crackling with anticipation. Paparazzi, an organized frenzy, lined the velvet ropes like a high-powered firing squad, their flashes a relentless barrage of light. Fans, a roaring wave of adoration, pressed against the barriers, their screams a fervent symphony of excitement. The rapid-fire click of camera shutters punctuated the night, a relentless soundtrack to the unfolding spectacle.

And then, the sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows a final veil of mystery. The collective breath of the crowd hitched. The door swung open, and you emerged.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The carefully orchestrated chaos outside the theater erupted into pandemonium. Shouts of your name ripped through the air, drowning out everything else.

You were a vision sculpted from darkness and fire. Custom black silk, impossibly fluid, cascaded around you, embroidered with intricate gold threads that seemed to writhe and shimmer like molten lava. The dress, a masterpiece of design, clung to your form as if painted on, a second skin crafted by mythical beings. A dramatic slit revealed a tantalizing glimpse of leg with every step, while the low back hinted at a hidden strength. Your hair, swept up into a sleek, architectural style, framed your sharp features. Gleaming gold ear cuffs, like miniature sculptures, caught the red carpet lights, adding a touch of fierce elegance.

And your expression? Imperturbable. Powerful. The same captivatingly dark femme fatale aura that had sent shockwaves through the internet after the trailer’s release now radiated in person, amplified tenfold. You were a living, breathing myth, a fire-walking siren who had stepped out of the screen and into reality.

Even as you moved, the digital world was reacting in real-time. Edits began to coalesce on social media, capturing your every step, every glance. Tweets poured in, breathless and awestruck.

💬 “This isn’t a premiere. This is a coronation.” 💬 “She didn’t come to slay. She came to rule.” 💬 “Y/N is literally a Bond villainess and the Bond girl at the same time. My brain can’t comprehend.”

But it wasn't just your otherworldly glamour that held the crowd captive. It was the unexpected glimpses of the person beneath the formidable facade.

As you posed for the relentless cameras, a young female staffer behind you stumbled, her simple blouse slipping awkwardly off one shoulder. In a seamless movement, without a flicker of hesitation, you shifted your position, subtly placing yourself between her and the unforgiving lenses. Your head dipped slightly, and those who were close enough saw your lips move, a whispered word of comfort as the flustered staffer quickly adjusted her top, her face flushing with gratitude.

Moments later, as you made your way towards the theater entrance, a small gasp rippled through the nearby fans. A little girl, her bright pink frock a little too long, had tripped, her face crumpling in distress. Without a second thought, you knelt down in your breathtakingly expensive gown, your movements graceful and unhurried. Your long fingers gently smoothed the ruffled fabric of her skirt, and you carefully adjusted the tiny strap of her heel, offering a warm, genuine smile that melted away her tears.

Halfway up the grand staircase leading into the theater, you paused, your sharp eyes catching a minor imperfection. Your co-star, a usually impeccably dressed actor, had a crooked tie. With a playful shake of your head and a soft laugh that carried in the sudden lull of noise, you reached out and straightened it, your touch light but precise. A blush bloomed on his cheeks, making him look endearingly like a teenager caught off guard.

The internet, already teetering on the brink of collapse, finally shattered.

🎥 “She’s gorgeous, graceful, and kind? This woman’s a SIMULATION. There’s no way she’s real.” 🎥 Fan art, vibrant and immediate, flooded Twitter. TikTok edits set to soaring symphonic music, captioned with the simple, powerful words ‘Queen Energy,’ dominated FYPs. 🎥 # Y/NsEra surged to the # 1 trending spot worldwide, a testament to the captivating force you had unleashed.

And somewhere across the sprawling city, within the familiar, slightly chaotic haven of the ATEEZ dorms, Wooyoung was staring at his phone screen as if it had personally delivered a devastating blow.

She was perfect.

She was unreal.

And she had just posted a picture from the premiere – the black and gold dress shimmering under the intense lights, her gaze direct and magnetic, captioned with two stark emojis:

“🖤⚔️ Blood Petals, now streaming.”

He didn’t pause to consider the implications. He didn’t overthink. His fingers moved with a speed born of pure impulse. He just hit ‘follow.’

And three seconds later, in the small, interconnected universe of social media, the world seemed to tilt again.

💬 “WOOYOUNG FOLLOWED Y/N???” 💬 “We have contact. I repeat. We HAVE CONTACT.” 💬 “Not Wooyoung folding on MAIN like this. I’m deceased.”

Even his own group chat, usually a steady stream of memes and inside jokes, erupted into a flurry of panicked messages.

Mingi: BRO San: no way you just followed her like that Hongjoong: bold. very bold. Yeosang: should’ve made a finsta first lmfao Jongho: you’re so obvious it’s painful Wooyoung: leave me alone Seonghwa: she was really pretty though. and nice. and cool. Wooyoung: I KNOW. I KNOW SHE WAS AND SHE IS.

The next morning, the news broke with the quiet confidence of undeniable success. Netflix officially announced that "Blood Petals" had soared to the # 1 movie spot globally. It had cracked the Top 10 in over eighty countries within the first twelve hours of its release. Critics, who had once pigeonholed you, now lauded your performance, praising the stunning cinematography, the visceral choreography, and your terrifyingly captivating grace. Audiences were spellbound by the transformation, the seamless shift from the soft-spoken sweetheart of romantic comedies to the high-heeled harbinger of doom.

Wooyoung became a dedicated disciple of "Blood Petals." He watched it again and again, dissecting every scene, every nuance of your performance.

But it wasn’t just the movie that consumed him.

He delved into the archives of your public appearances, binging interviews where your witty, sarcastic answers were delivered with a playful smirk that sent a shiver of something he couldn’t quite name down his spine. He watched behind-the-scenes footage, charmed by your easy camaraderie with the stunt team, your genuine laughter at your own bloopers.

And then there were the fan edits. Oh, the fan edits. Compilations of your most striking moments – you in slow motion, flipping gleaming knives with deadly precision, a knowing smirk thrown over your shoulder as you walked away from fiery explosions, all set to a soundtrack of haunting melodies or pulse-pounding club beats.

He was whipped.

Fully.

Entirely.

Completely.

Even the sharp-eyed fans, masters of observation and deduction, sensed the shift in the cosmic balance.

💬 “They haven’t even breathed the same air publicly but I just KNOW he’s head over heels in love.” 💬 “He’s fighting for his life in that dorm right now, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly.”

And they were right. Because even without a single shared glance captured by the cameras, without a single public interaction…

The ship, fueled by a shared smirk and a single, fateful click of a ‘follow’ button, had already irrevocably set sail.

A month had passed since the explosive premiere of "Blood Petals." Your face was plastered across magazine covers, your interviews were dissected frame by frame, and your social media notifications pinged with the relentless energy of a thousand buzzing bees. Your movie reigned supreme, a global phenomenon that solidified your transformation from rom-com darling to action icon. You were booked solid with appearances, endorsements, and talk show circuits.

But through the whirlwind of newfound fame, nothing – and absolutely no one – had managed to truly ruffle your carefully constructed composure. You were a seasoned professional, adept at navigating the chaotic landscape of celebrity.

Until today.

Stepping onto the brightly lit set of a reality show felt different. The studio lights blazed with an almost aggressive intensity, the screams of the live audience were a physical force, and a knot of pure, unadulterated nerves tightened in your stomach, pulling it taut like a drawn bow.

Because today, you were filming with Wooyoung.

Yes. That Wooyoung.

The one who had casually followed you on Instagram weeks ago, triggering an internet meltdown of epic proportions. The one whose award show fancam, capturing his utterly besotted gaze as you presented ATEEZ with their trophy, had inexplicably garnered four million views in a mere seventy-two hours. The one you had, in the quiet corners of your mind, secretly, foolishly, undeniably been crushing on since his debut days.

You’d handled the online frenzy with your usual cool detachment, offering a wry comment here and there, expertly deflecting any direct questions. On the outside, you were the epitome of unbothered grace.

But seeing him in person, sitting across from you at the brightly lit panel table, his fox-like smile radiating genuine warmth, the silver rings on his fingers catching the studio lights, his dark hair artfully messy in a way that somehow only looked perfect on him?

Yeah. Game over. All your carefully constructed walls crumbled like ancient ruins.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a smooth, slightly breathless murmur as you finally settled into your seat. His eyes held a spark of something… intriguing.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice betraying none of the internal chaos, maintaining your signature cool even as your heart rate decided to stage its own private rave.

He leaned in ever so slightly, a conspiratorial air about him. “You look… dangerous.” His gaze flickered over your outfit, a sleek black jumpsuit that hinted at the lethal grace you portrayed on screen.

A familiar smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s kind of the brand now, isn’t it?” You met his eyes, holding his gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary.

The show kicked off, a whirlwind of bright lights and enthusiastic energy. Games were played with varying degrees of success, laughter echoed through the studio, and the usual delightful madness of variety television unfolded. You found yourself surprisingly at ease, bantering with the other guests, your sharp wit on full display.

And then, the host, a seasoned entertainer with a mischievous glint in his eye, turned to you mid-segment, a wide grin spreading across his face. He thrived on creating memorable moments, and the palpable energy between you and Wooyoung hadn’t escaped his notice.

“So, Y/N,” he began, his voice laced with playful curiosity, “people were absolutely obsessed with your bike scenes in Blood Petals. The way you handled that motorcycle in those incredible heels… Do you think you could still ride in heels in real life?”

Without missing a beat, you smoothly crossed your long legs, the movement drawing attention to the very heels in question – a pair of impossibly high stilettos. You casually flicked a loose strand of hair over your shoulder, your gaze steady. “Of course. I could ride in stilettos if I had to. Though I might prefer a slightly more… aerodynamic model than what I usually wear to premieres.”

The audience erupted in cheers and whistles, thoroughly enjoying your confident response.

But the host wasn’t finished stirring the pot. He clapped his hands together dramatically, his eyes twinkling. “Amazing! Absolutely amazing! Well, we have a bike right here on set for our next segment… Anyone here wanna volunteer to ride behind our action queen and, you know, test out her skills?” He punctuated the question with a wink at the camera, clearly intending it as a lighthearted joke. The cast members chuckled, anticipating the usual playful refusals.

Except for one person.

“Yes.”

Wooyoung’s voice cut through the laughter, clear and unwavering. He didn’t even blink, his expression utterly serious, calm, and brimming with a quiet confidence that sent a fresh wave of unexpected butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

The entire room seemed to freeze mid-breath. The camera zoomed in on the audience, capturing their collective gasp of shock and burgeoning excitement. Screams started to bubble up from the fans, a sound that was rapidly escalating into something bordering on feral. The other cast members exchanged bewildered glances, some wheezing with suppressed laughter, the staff members behind the cameras cackling with glee at the unexpected turn of events.

And you?

You turned your head slowly, deliberately, to look directly at him. His gaze was intense, a playful fire dancing in his dark eyes. He was smiling at you like the damn devil himself, an irresistible invitation in his expression.

So, of course, you said, your voice a low, challenging purr, “Let’s ride.”

The live segment instantly became legend.

A sleek, black motorcycle was wheeled onto the stage, gleaming under the studio lights. You swung your leg over it with an effortless grace that suggested you had indeed been born on two wheels, the sharp click of your stilettos against the pedals echoing in the sudden hush. Wooyoung hesitated for a split second – just enough to play it off as a moment of playful apprehension – before swinging his own leg over and sliding in behind you, his movements surprisingly fluid.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air behind you, a palpable tension radiating from him.

“Is it okay if I—?” he started, his voice a hesitant murmur.

“Yes,” you said, cutting him off before he could even finish the question, a hint of amusement lacing your tone.

His hands settled on your waist, lightly at first, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your jumpsuit. Then, as the camera zoomed in for a close-up, his grip tightened subtly, a silent acknowledgment of the close proximity. His breath warmed the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low rumble.

“You sure you’re good?”

“You’ve asked me ten times,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. “You nervous?”

“Just trying not to pass out,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

You pretended not to hear the slightly flustered admission, but the knowing smirk playing on your lips said otherwise.

The internet, predictably, imploded. Again.

💬 “The chemistry is NOT just acting. I refuse to believe this is just for the show.” 💬 “They’re touching like it’s a first date AND their third date at the same time. The awkwardness is endearing and the underlying tension is… palpable.” 💬 “Someone check on Wooyoung’s blood pressure. I think it just spiked into the stratosphere.”

After the exhilarating chaos of the live broadcast, as you finally had a moment to yourself, you opened Instagram. Your fingers hovered over his profile for a fleeting second before you made the decision.

And finally – finally – you tapped the ‘follow’ button.

Within mere seconds, the eagle-eyed fans noticed the digital acknowledgment. The news spread like wildfire.

💬 “Y/N FOLLOWED HIM BACK. WE’RE WITNESSING HISTORY UNFOLD BEFORE OUR VERY EYES.” 💬 “This isn’t just a ship anymore. It’s a luxury yacht sailing through international waters.” 💬 “They’re gonna get married and I can FEEL IT in my bones. Save the date!”

Meanwhile, back at the ATEEZ dorm, the atmosphere was one of bewildered amusement.

Mingi burst into the living room with theatrical flair, phone clutched dramatically in his hand. “YOU SAID YES ON LIVE TV?! TO RIDING BEHIND HER?! ON A MOTORCYCLE?!”

Yunho followed, shaking his head in disbelief, a wide, slightly incredulous grin on his face. “You looked like you were about to propose on that bike, hyung.”

Wooyoung simply shrugged, a goofy, lovesick grin plastered across his face – the grin of a man who was clearly, irrevocably, way too far gone. “I meant it.”

Mingi and Yunho groaned in perfect unison, collapsing onto the nearby couch.

“You’re down bad,” Mingi declared with mock solemnity.

“Embarrassing,” Yunho added, though the teasing tone lacked any real bite.

Wooyoung just flopped back onto the cushions, his phone already displaying a rapidly growing collection of fan edits from the show – snippets of your confident smile, his awestruck gaze, the charged moment on the motorcycle.

And he smiled, a soft, genuine expression that reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet contentment. “I know.”

It starts the night after the variety show.

Your phone buzzes at 1:12 a.m. with a DM request.

Wooyoung.

You open it without hesitation.

@ wooyoung_official Hey… I hope this isn’t weird or too much but I just wanted to say I had so much fun filming today. I meant what I said about the bike thing, by the way. You were incredible. If I came off too strong, I’m sorry—I was just really nervous and trying not to make it obvious I’ve been a fan of yours forever lol. You’re insanely talented. And hilarious. And kind. I don’t usually DM people like this but… I didn’t want the day to end without saying thank you. Hope I wasn’t too much.

You stare at the screen, heart thudding. Not just because it’s sweet. But because it's real.

You reply faster than you probably should.

@ you That wasn’t too much at all. I had a great time too :) I’m glad it was you behind me on that bike. And if you were nervous, you hid it well. We should do that again sometime. (Maybe without the cameras.)

There’s a pause. Then another ping.

@ wooyoung_official …wait was that flirting Are we flirting now Because I’m ready

You laugh, then send your number as he had sent his.

From that moment, it takes off.

Texting every day. Morning check-ins. Late-night venting. Voice notes filled with sleepy laughter and dramatic reenactments of chaotic schedules.

You send each other memes, inside jokes forming faster than you can keep track.

He tells you about the stress of comeback season, the pressure to stay sharp, the ache in his bones from back-to-back rehearsals.

You talk about the constant need to be “on,” the way you sometimes feel like a product instead of a person, the weight of comments that cut deeper than they should.

And through it all, Wooyoung listens. Never tries to fix you. Just sees you.

And hypes you—loudly.

When you land another guesting on a show with him, fans immediately clock the shift.

The way he looks at you when you speak. The inside jokes mid-interview. The not-so-subtle way his hand brushes yours during games.

Clips go viral.

💬 “They’re literally in their own world.” 💬 “Why does Wooyoung look at her like that 😭😭” 💬 “Not him fixing her mic like a boyfriend.” 💬 “HE SAID SHE DESERVES TEN OSCARS??? GET HIM A RING.”

It gets worse (or better?) when he starts defending you online.

Any hate comment?

Deleted.

Any fan shading your acting?

He’s replying with full essays about your talent and work ethic.

He comments under your posts with things like:

💬 Queen behavior. 💬 She acts, she slays, she saves lives. 💬 Where’s your award? No seriously. 💬 No one’s touching her. I mean that.

And when you text him—

💬 you You really don’t have to defend me like that all the time, you know. 💬 wooyoung Yes, I do. You deserve someone who shows up for you. Always. I want to be that.

One night, after a long shoot, you break a little.

You text: “Some days I feel like I’ll never be enough no matter how hard I work.”

His reply comes thirty seconds later.

You don’t have to earn the right to rest. You’re enough just as you are. And I know this world is loud and cruel sometimes. But when you need quiet? I’ll be your quiet. When you need noise? I’ll be your loudest.

You cry.

And when he sends a sleepy voice note later saying:

“Just wanted you to hear my voice. In case it helps.”

—you fall asleep smiling.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of whispered messages that painted the dawn, late-night phone calls that chased away the shadows, stolen secret coffee runs in disguise, the comforting rhythm of shared playlists weaving through your days, matching hoodies bought on a whim and worn in the privacy of your own spaces, a silent testament to a connection only you two understood.

You and Wooyoung had cultivated a world just for yourselves, a sanctuary built on stolen moments and shared laughter. It wasn't about hiding from the relentless glare of the public eye, though that was a necessary byproduct. It was about cherishing something precious, something untouched by the often-brutal scrutiny of public opinion. It was yours, and his, and belonged to no one else.

He had become your unwavering safe place, the calm in your often-turbulent storm. You, in turn, had become his soft landing, the quiet reassurance in the demanding world he navigated. You had shared everything – your fears, your triumphs, your silliest jokes, your deepest vulnerabilities.

Except for this.

Your next movie. A project shrouded in secrecy, filmed during snatched moments over the past six months. A bold, breathtaking action-romance that promised to redefine your range, where you played the lead opposite a talented rising actor. And yes – there were intimate scenes. A handful. Tastefully shot, with a closed set and an intimacy coordinator ensuring everyone felt safe and respected. Carefully choreographed, like any other dance sequence.

Necessary for the story, your director had emphasized, his artistic vision unwavering. And executed with professionalism and respect, you knew. You believed in the script, in the message it conveyed. You loved the complexity of your character. You just hadn’t… told him.

You had envisioned it as a surprise, a new facet of your artistry to share when the time was right, perhaps at the official trailer drop. But when the first press article landed, its headline screaming the word “intimate” in bold, accusatory letters… it wasn’t the carefully curated reveal you had planned.

Your phone began to vibrate incessantly, a relentless buzzing that echoed the growing unease within you. Notifications flooded your screen – concerned messages from your team, speculative comments from fans, and then, his name flashed across the display.

💬 Wooyoung: Can we meet? Just us. Please.

The café was a hidden gem, tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street in the familiar bustle of Mapo-gu. The early afternoon crowd was sparse, mostly locals lost in their own conversations. No one paid you a second glance as you slipped inside. He was already there, seated in your usual corner booth, the familiar soft grey of his hoodie pulled low, the brim of his black cap shadowing his usually bright eyes.

As you slid into the booth opposite him, he looked up, and a sharp pang of something akin to guilt and worry twisted in your chest. He wasn't angry, not outwardly. But an almost palpable anxiety clung to him, a restless energy that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him. It was as if something was crawling under his skin, an invisible itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

"Hey," you said softly, your voice a gentle anchor in the tense atmosphere.

"Hey." He offered you a tight, strained smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then he exhaled sharply, the sound filled with a nervous energy. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you out like this, I just… I couldn't keep it in. Not for another second."

Without a word, you reached across the small table, your hand finding his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, his grip surprisingly tight, as if he needed the physical connection to ground him. He took another shaky breath before the words finally tumbled out, quick, nervous, raw with vulnerability.

"I trust you. You know that, right? God, you have to know that. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met. But when I saw those articles, the way they were talking about it, the… the emphasis on those scenes… I—I just panicked. My head went somewhere I didn't want it to go. I know it's acting. I know it's your job, your art. But I couldn't stop imagining it, replaying scenarios in my head. I hate that I felt this wave of… of jealousy. It's so stupid. I hate that my brain spiraled like that. I just—God."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb tracing small, agitated circles on your skin.

"I think… I think I love you so much it scares me sometimes. It makes me… irrational. I don't ever want to be the guy who tells you what to do, what roles to take, what not to film. That's not who I am. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't make this awful knot form in my stomach, like I was losing you. Or worse… that I didn't deserve you, that someone else… someone else would see that side of you, that intimacy, and… and that I wouldn't be enough."

Your own chest tightened, a wave of empathy washing over you. You understood his vulnerability, the quiet insecurities that even his bright stage presence couldn’t always mask.

Without a word, you slid out of your seat, moved around the small table, and knelt down in front of him, your knees pressing gently against the worn wooden floor. You reached up, your hands framing his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.

"Wooyoung," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "You're allowed to feel all of that. Every single bit of it. You're not wrong for being scared, for letting your mind wander. It just proves how much you care. But you're not losing me. You've never even come close."

His dark eyes darted across your face, searching, questioning, glassy with unshed tears that made his eyelashes look impossibly long. “I just… it’s just that the way they wrote about it…”

"I love you." You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, the contact a silent reassurance. "I love you. Jung Wooyoung. Not anyone else. Not any character I play. Not any co-star I share a scene with. Just you. Always you."

He blinked slowly, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. “You… you do?” The question was barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of disbelief and a fragile hope.

"I have for a long time," you confessed, your voice soft but firm.

Then you kissed him.

It was a tender kiss, slow and deliberate, a silent language of reassurance and unwavering affection. It deepened gradually, becoming a heartfelt expression of everything you had ever wanted to say, everything that words often failed to capture. His hands, which had been gripping yours so tightly, now moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his own lips finally responding with a fervor that spoke volumes of the restraint he had been holding onto.

You broke apart just enough to breathe, your lips still brushing against his.

"The scenes in the movie?" you said gently, your gaze unwavering. "They're choreography, Wooyoung. They're storytelling. They're a performance. Not emotion. That has never, and will never, be a part of what I feel for you."

You pressed a soft kiss against his jawline, feeling the slight tremor beneath your lips.

"My heart doesn't perform for a camera. It beats for you, and only you."

You stood, taking his hand, your fingers lacing together as if they were meant to be intertwined. You left the quiet café hand in hand, two figures melting into the anonymity of the afternoon shadows, a shared smile gracing your lips – the quiet, knowing smile of two people who had just reaffirmed something precious and unbreakable.

And maybe you had stolen something from the universe. The unwavering certainty of each other's love, a bond forged in vulnerability and trust. And that, you knew, was a treasure beyond measure.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty sunrises witnessed through sleepy eyes, countless whispered "goodnights" across continents, an immeasurable tapestry woven from secret smiles exchanged across crowded rooms, stolen moments tucked away from prying eyes, phone calls that stretched into the velvet depths of midnight, sharing the quiet anxieties and exhilarating triumphs that came with navigating your extraordinary lives. It was about fiercely protecting something real, something fragile and precious, in a world that seemed determined to twist every genuine connection into a sensational headline.

But love, as it often did, bloomed in the quiet spaces, making you both a little braver, a little more willing to step out of the carefully constructed shadows.

So there was no dramatic announcement, no carefully worded statement released through official channels. No grand, orchestrated gesture, no notes app apology for… well, for simply finding happiness. Instead, you both eased into the public acknowledgment of your relationship with the same gentle tenderness that defined your private world—slowly, softly, like the first blush of dawn.

A seemingly innocuous selfie, posted amidst a flurry of solo shots, where a familiar black jacket was just-so-casually draped over your shoulders. A behind-the-scenes video from a shoot where a distinct, joyful laugh echoed in the background, a laugh that sharp-eared fans instantly recognized. A fleeting glimpse of a hand, undeniably his, resting near yours in a group photo.

The fans, those astute observers of every pixel and every shared glance, already knew. They had suspected, theorized, and meticulously documented every potential clue for months. Edits set to romantic ballads, intricate timelines of your subtle interactions, and countless “I swear they’re secretly dating” comments had flooded every corner of the internet you both inhabited.

So when it finally became “official”—just a casual, almost offhand, "yes, we’re together, and we’re really happy" during a lighthearted interview about your recent projects—the internet didn't explode in scandal. Instead, it melted with an outpouring of genuine joy and heartfelt congratulations. It wasn't a shocking revelation; it was a confirmation of something beautiful that they had already sensed. It was a celebration of a connection that felt real, honest, and earned.

And Wooyoung? He never stopped being your biggest fan, his unwavering support now blossoming into something even more profound. Every post you shared, no matter how trivial, received his immediate like, a digital affirmation that always brought a small smile to your face. Every press junket, every interview you gave, he watched with an almost reverent pride. Every stray negative comment, every whisper of doubt from the darker corners of the internet, he seemed to drown out with an even louder, more radiant display of his affection.

You weren’t just a fleeting “celebrity crush” in his eyes anymore. You were his. His partner, his confidante, his equal. His favorite person in a world filled with dazzling lights and fleeting connections.

And he was yours. The steady anchor in your often-turbulent sea, the warm hand that always found yours in a crowded room, the comforting voice that whispered reassurances in the quiet hours.

The premiere night of your latest film was, as always, a dazzling spectacle. The relentless flash of cameras, the chorus of voices calling your name, the crimson carpet stretching out like a runway leading into the starlit sky. You stood tall, radiating confidence in a gown of rich crimson velvet that seemed to absorb and reflect the light, your poise a silent testament to the journey you had navigated.

Wooyoung didn't walk beside you, his arm linked with yours for the cameras. That wasn't your story. But he was there, a steadfast presence tucked away in the guest section, the hood of his jacket pulled up, the brim of his baseball cap low, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made you feel like you held the very moon in your hands.

Every time your eyes met his across the crowded theater, a fleeting, private moment amidst the public frenzy, your smile softened, a genuine warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the flashing lights.

Later, as the buzz of the after-party began to fade, the air thick with congratulations and champagne bubbles, the two of you slipped away unnoticed, seeking the quiet solitude of a rooftop overlooking the sprawling cityscape.

The city hummed below, a symphony of distant traffic lights flickering like fallen stars, the faint wail of sirens a melancholic counterpoint to the gentle breeze that kissed your skin. You leaned against the cool metal railing, the vastness of the night sky stretching above you. He stepped up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close until your back rested against his chest, his chin finding the curve of your shoulder.

"You killed it tonight," he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

You turned in his embrace, your hands finding his. “You always say that.”

He smiled, a soft, genuine curve of his lips that you knew so well. "Because it’s always true. You shine so brightly, you know that?"

A comfortable silence settled between you, the city lights twinkling like a silent audience. The air tasted like something sacred, a shared moment of quiet intimacy amidst the surrounding chaos.

“I don’t want to lose this,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the past two years momentarily surfacing.

His grip tightened gently on your hands. “You won’t,” he replied, his voice firm, filled with a quiet conviction. “Not if we keep choosing each other, every single day. Not if we keep protecting this, our own little world.”

You nodded, a small, understanding smile gracing your lips. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his, the familiar scent of his cologne a comforting balm.

And in that quiet space, between the distant hum of the city and the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, you both silently reaffirmed the promise you had made to each other long ago – to never let the relentless demands of the world, the intrusive glare of fame, the insidious tendrils of fear and doubt, or the deafening noise of public opinion come between the fragile, beautiful thing you had built.

The next morning, as the world began to stir, a blurry, zoomed-in shot surfaced on Twitter, quickly going viral. It was an imperfect capture of a perfect moment. You were laughing, your hand playfully covering your mouth, your head tilted towards Wooyoung, who stood close beside you, his hand gently, possessively, holding yours. The background was indistinct, the focus soft, but the emotion captured in that single frame was undeniable.

The caption, simple and heartfelt, resonated with millions:

“When your celeb crush becomes your person.”

And just like that, the world kept spinning, the endless cycle of news and gossip continuing its relentless churn. But for once, it felt like the universe was tilting ever so slightly in your favor, bathing your quiet, hard-won happiness in a warm, gentle light.

-- THE END

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donat-senpai · 3 months ago

Note

I enjoy ur Moamao x reader x jinshi series! I would love a part 3!

Hi, sunshine. Thank you! Appreciate the feedback 💙 (I haven’t replied to requests this fast in a while lmao). Part 3 is ready :3

Yandere!Maomao X Reader X Yandere!Jinshi Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: Jealousy (nothing special anymore) I think this time, more attention was given to Jenshi. I'll try to write about Maomao next time. She's a sunshine and also deserves her happy time with the reader! (ﾉ･ω･)ﾉ

Part one, Part two, Part three

Minute of glory

— You want me to take part in the play? — you ask Jinshi in complete confusion. A thought creeps into your mind: has he lost his mind? As if agreeing with your thoughts, he gives you a confirming nod.

— You know I was assigned to organize the play. This performance is extremely important because the order comes almost directly from the Emperor. Everything has to be perfect. After all, it's a gift from the Emperor to the entire harem. There are only a couple of days left before the performance, but something happened that we weren’t prepared for. A few actors fell ill. Their roles are minor, but still crucial. We can't just remove them from the script, — Jinshi patiently explains the situation while your brain struggles to process it. He looks truly exhausted and tense. Organizing the event must have drained him. You start to feel a bit sorry for him, yet you still can't understand why he came to you with such a request.

— Just replace them with other actors.

— That’s impossible. All the actors are already involved, — Jinshi glanced at Gaoshun, who immediately joined the conversation.

— We also considered casting one of the concubines for the role, but one of the Emperor’s requirements was to keep the play’s storyline a secret until the main performance. We’re not sure whether the chosen concubine would be able to maintain that secrecy.

After Gaoshun’s words, things became a little clearer. You exchanged glances with Maomao. She had been quietly listening the whole time, stirring a mixture with a wooden spoon.

Jinshi took your hand in his and pressed it against his chest. The spoon in Maomao’s hand let out a desperate crack.

— Please, don’t refuse. I don’t know anyone else suited for this role whom I trust as much as you. I promise, everything will go smoothly. I’ll be right there with you. All we need to do is step onto the stage and perform a short dialogue. There’s still time before the performance. We can rehearse, — with each sentence, Jinshi moved closer. You barely noticed, too distracted by your own anxiety.

Performing in such an important play, in front of everyone—it was nerve-wracking. Oh, Emperor! What if you forgot your lines? But Jinshi was so serious, so certain that he would be by your side. Surely, he would help if anything went wrong. Your heart slowly softened. You wanted to help him.

— What’s the role?

— Lovers.

His answer struck like thunder in a clear sky. A loud crack echoed in the room. The poor spoon — it seems to have broken. You cursed internally. You should have suggested Maomao for the role instead. Such a golden opportunity, wasted.

---

You stand on an improvised stage set up in one of the large halls. A couple of eunuchs are busy checking the props. The main cast has gone on a lunch break. Jinshi said that the two of you should practice a few times on your own before joining the final rehearsal with everyone else later today.

Tense, you try to discreetly wipe your sweaty palms on your skirt. You can’t even imagine how you’re supposed to act. You’ve never experienced anything like this before. Unfortunately, no one thought to teach you acting skills between rounds of physical labor. The harem really should reconsider its system.

Right now, you’d gladly trade places with Maomao — not just for the sake of her and Jinshi’s bright future, but for your own peace of mind. You cast a helpless glance at the makeshift audience area. Maomao gives you an encouraging smile, trying to cheer you up. Gaoshun nods approvingly and gives you a thumbs-up. Your attention shifts back to Jinshi, who is patiently waiting. He’s too kind to pressure you, letting you take your time. You promised to help. There’s no turning back now.

Blushing slightly and taking a deep breath, you finally begin to say your lines.

— Ah, my beloved! Is fate not cruel? We come from different worlds! — you sigh dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest.

— Fate? I won’t let destiny decide for us! — With a sly smile, the man takes your hand and leans in, his lips almost brushing against your fingers.

To your surprise, Jinshi slips into his role effortlessly, as if he’s been acting his whole life. Watching his confident performance, you start to relax, feeling a little bolder.

— But what will people say?! What will my father say?! — You pull your hand away, turning your back to him, clenching your fists. Jinshi gently turns you back toward him, reaching for your chin and tilting your face up.

— Let them say what they will… You are all I need.

Maomao, watching the rehearsal, takes a hurried sip of tea, trying to hide the nervous twitch on her face. Was this cursed scene supposed to be this intense?

She knew. She felt it. No actor had actually fallen ill. That wretched eunuch had planned everything from the very start.

— Then… then kiss me, if your feelings are true! — you said, your lips trembling.

Jinshi smiles broadly and slowly leans in closer, enjoying the way Maomao grips her cup tighter. Gaoshun nervously swallows. It seemed like, any moment now, the apothecary might start killing. At the last second, you place your palm on Jinshi's face and suddenly pull back.

— No! I can't! — you cry out dramatically.

Maomao exhales in relief. Jinshi laughs, throwing a brief glance at her. With feigned regret, he delivers the final line.

— What a pity… I really tried so hard.

The eunuchs, who had abandoned their work somewhere during your rehearsal, suddenly clap. They enthusiastically mention that the passion between the lovers was played out so convincingly. Encouraged by their praise, you bow to them gratefully. As you finish, Jinshi places his hand on your shoulder.

— You did wonderfully… So, shall we do it again?

You mentally apologize to Maomao, feeling regret. How did it happen that you stole her shining moment? A crack of glass is heard. The poor cup… It seems to have broken.

#yandere x reader #yandere #the apothecary diaries #yandere maomao #maomao x reader #yandere maomao x reader #jinshi x reader #yandere jinshi #yandere jinshi x reader #yandere the apothecary diaries

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doric-column · 2 years ago

Text

Let’s talk about the moment Aziraphale *almost* denies the Metatron.

“Anything you need to take with you?”

“No. Nothing I can think of.”

His voice is uncertain. He gazes longingly through the window, where Crowley waits by the Bentley. Aziraphale hasn’t lost him yet. It isn’t too late to change his mind. We can see it play out across his face, and he wheels on the Metatron.

“I—I think I…”

What? Changed my mind? Made a mistake? Can’t do this? Can’t do it without Crowley? The micro expressions going on in this second look out the window are absolutely crushing. The hint of a smile is gone. His face is cast in shadow. He is resigned.

He’s decided. The possibility he could fix things in Heaven is too strong a draw to back out now. Crowley is still waiting out there. He’ll always be waiting. Maybe Aziraphale can make a better world for him.

“Nothing at all.”

This smile is *forced.* Aziraphale truly believes he can change the system. He needs Crowley. But the only thing he wants more than being with Crowley *right now* is the chance to be with him indefinitely in a world where they are free to love one another without fear.

The entire scene is shot in such a way that when Aziraphale is alone on screen, he occupies only half of the frame. He is only one part of a whole, and the loss of Crowley (for the time being) is palpable. Out in the street, the shot of Crowley is framed in a similar way, though reversed.

I still feel ways(TM) about Aziraphale’s decisions at the end of E6, but this little moment of “I—I think I…” is proof he considered backing out, and almost, *almost* went through with it. He could have rushed to Crowley, could have run away with him to the South Downs or to Alpha Centauri, but the system would stay broken, and any peace they would’ve had would only be borrowed. He wants to give Crowley the real thing—all of his love, all of the future, unfettered by the constant threat of a corrupt Heaven.

#good omens #neil gaiman #aziraphale #michael sheen #crowley #david tennant #ineffable husbands #dacullum-writes

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prettylilyanime · 2 months ago

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Blooming Hearts ♡ Chapter 08

˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader

˚✿˖ Synopsis: All your life, you’ve had it all—wealth, beauty, and a quirk good enough to secure your spot at UA. But after three years, you still feel more like an outsider than a future hero. Social life? Barely existent. Friends? Who needs them? You’re ready to coast through your final year solo… until fate lands you squarely in the lap of a certain hot-headed blonde—literally.

˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder

˚✿˖ Authors note: They're cuties

˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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It’s the first weekend back from training camp.

The dorms hum with a quiet, lazy energy. Laughter spills from the common room where a few of your classmates are sprawled on the couches, half-watching some cheesy action movie, half-bickering over who gets the last slice of pizza.

The faint scent of buttered popcorn drifts through the hallways, mingling with the crisp night air.

But here, tucked away in the safe, intimate cocoon of your bedroom, it feels like you’re a million miles away from it all.

You sit at your desk, clutching Bakugou’s hoodie to your chest like it’s the only anchor keeping you tethered to the ground. You still can’t believe you have this thing! This massive, burgundy piece of him.

In the moment, Bakugou lending you his jacket punched through your nervous system in a way that would probably concern every medical professional alive.

You’re sure he didn’t think much of it. He probably felt obligated to help since you looked like you were two minutes away from hypothermia, sitting out under the stars in nothing but your little pink bikini.

Whatever his reasons were, the gesture wrecked you.

Warmed you to your core, but also completely ruined your ability to function. You’ve been avoiding him all week since the group returned to class, unable to meet his eye after the shared drink incident in the lake… and now this. The sweater.

Waves of anxiety coil in your stomach at the thought of having to give it back.

Your knee bounces restlessly beneath you, the soft tap-tap-tap against your plush white carpet the only sound breaking the perfect stillness of your room.

You’re seated at your desk, surrounded by the little world of a room you’ve built. Your safe, curated sanctuary.

Trinkets and keepsakes are neatly arranged in trays, your jewelry boxes stacked just right. Makeup pouches zippered closed in a tidy corner. And beside it all, there’s a delicate porcelain ivory pot, holding a tiny bouquet of quirk-induced flowers. They glow with a soft, sleepy pink—casting a sweet, ambient shimmer that gently lights the room.

Everything is so pretty. So perfectly you.

And yet, none of it soothes the knot of nerves twisting tight in your chest.

You glance at your door, locked obviously, before your eyes drift back to the phone on your desk. Its screen remains black. Still. Unmoving.

You honestly can’t believe you’re even back in your room. Back in this strange, breathless state.

Training camp had been… surreal. Magical in some ways, but deeply overwhelming in others.

You’ll forever be grateful to Ochako for showing you kindness, for reaching out and pulling you into the group with such quiet warmth.

But switching from lonely introvert to unexpected topic of conversation among twenty-something classmates? One half of your body felt like it was living a dream, and the other half was screaming at you to run away and retreat into your room at all times.

And now there’s this.

Bakugou’s hoodie.

Even thinking about it is mortifying.

You press the thick burgundy fabric tighter to your chest, breathing in the faint scent that still clings to it—sweet like burnt caramel, a scent you've learned to associate with him.

It makes your heart ache.

He’d shown you kindness, too. And here you are, practically hiding and holding his clothes hostage!

That’s it. You have to text him.

You let out a quiet sigh, adjusting your clunky glasses as you pick up your phone.

You swipe through your text archives, going way back to your first year when the class had made a group chat. You barely spoke in there, just lurking quietly. Based on the years of inactivity, it seems like they eventually got the hint.

Still, it’s the only way to find his number.

You scroll, eyes scanning, and with a nervous breath, tap his contact.

Bakugou Katsuki.

Your thumb hovers, heart thudding.

This will be your first time texting him. What if he thinks it’s weird? What if he blocks you?

Maybe you could transfer schools. Shiketsu High might be too late, but your mom has connections, doesn’t she?

Your nerves are boiling at this point. But still, you start typing:

hey... um, do you want your hoodie back?

Delete.

hi bakugou. i have your hoodie. can i give it back?

Delete.

A strangled groan escapes you as you bury your face in the hoodie, muffling the soft, pitiful sound of pure social agony.

You force yourself to breathe, lift your head, and type:

Hii bakugou are you free? i have your hoodie 🧺

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

And now you sit frozen, heart hammering beneath your silky pajama top, staring at your screen in horror because—

The emoji. What were you thinking? You regret it instantly. Viscerally.

But the panic spikes when his reply comes in almost instantly:

I'm assuming this is sad eyes.

Naturally, you want to slam your head against the desk- maybe it'll knock you out and save you from this misery! Of course he didn't have your number saved!

You cringe so hard your soul tries to abandon your body. You should’ve just told him it was you. Should’ve said something.

Your fingers clack desperately against the screen as you reply:

“Yep it’s me!”

Great. Just great. Maybe you should’ve addressed how much you hate that nickname while you were at it!

Too late now.

A chat bubble appears.

He’s typing.

Oh god.

"I can meet in five."

You gulp, horrified.

Five minutes?! That’s basically now! You’re going to have to interact with Bakugou Katsuki in your current state?! You glance in the mirror, eyeing your heart print pjs and ridiculous glasses.

The last time he caught you looking like this was bad enough… and you’re pretty sure that memory still lives in your nightmares.

You lunge for your closet like a cat avoiding bathwater, leaving your desk chair spinning violently behind you.

Your hands fly over hangers, rifling through outfit after outfit in a frenzy. What says I swear I’m effortlessly amazing at all times, even when I’m alone doing absolutely nothing without looking like you tried?

After what feels like a thousand panicked years, you settle on a soft lavender loungewear set: cozy little shorts, and a matching long sleeve that has a tiny cute yet meticulously embroidered lilac flower at the top with a hand stitched lacy trim.

It’s cute!

You rip your glasses off because—God, no. He can’t see you in those. Not again. Not ever.

A spritz of perfume. Just one. Okay, maybe two.

It’s ridiculous. You know that. He’s probably going to grab the hoodie, grunt something barely coherent, and walk away without even looking at you.

But still.

Looking good makes you feel better! If anything’s going to stop you from sounding like a babbling disaster the second he opens his mouth, it’s this.

And then just as you're checking yourself one last time in the mirror, a knock.

Then, very gently, you clutch his hoodie tighter to your chest, like it’s some kind of plush shield, and pad quietly to the door in your fluffy socks.

You crack it open and immediately wish you had five more minutes to prepare. Or maybe a week.

Standing there in the hallway is Bakugou. His tall self looking rather comfortable in a black hoodie and grey sweatpants underneath. Dear lord.

And as if that wasn’t enough, right next to him is his best friend, grinning like human sunshine. Also in grey sweatpants. Do they have some kind of secret uniform or what?

Kirishima’s version feels less threatening, though. He’s got a bright red oversized sweater on, matching the wild mess of his hair, and a pair of red Crocs that somehow make the whole thing weirdly endearing.

You personally loathe crocs, they're a fashion nightmare...he somehow makes it work.

“Y/N!” Kirishima beams. “How’ve you been? We haven’t really gotten to hang out since training camp!”

You blink.

Mentally, you laugh.

Yeah, no kidding! You haven’t been “hanging out” because you’ve been busy executing escape missions every time either of them walked into a room!

Honestly, your stealth skills deserve an award.

“O-oh. Hi, Kirishima.” You smile, but it feels a little too tight. Your eyes flick over to Bakugou, who hasn’t said a word. He’s just watching you, unreadable as always.

Your heart practically somersaults into your throat.

This can’t be good for your health.

“I, um—here.” You hold out the hoodie to Bakugou, careful not to make too much eye contact.

As he reaches for it, your fingers accidentally graze his.

It’s nothing, really. A blink of contact. Barely a second. But your heart stutters like it’s been shocked back to life.

You pull your hand back a little too fast, pretending to fix the sleeve of your shirt like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything, just takes the hoodie like nothing happened. His expression stays unreadable, but his eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Kirishima leans forward a bit, peering past Bakugou with a bright grin. “We’re all watching a movie downstairs. You should come! It’s just a bunch of us hanging out, nothing crazy.”

Your heart drops. Oh no, you were so excited to sleep in and watch some makeup reviews!

“Oh,” you blink, caught completely off guard. “Um, me?”

“Yeah!” Kirishima nods, enthusiastic as ever. “We’ve got popcorn, snacks, Kaminari’s being loud—same old stuff. You should join us for a bit.”

You barely have time to process it before Bakugou speaks up.

“Tch. Pass.” He shifts slightly, already half-turned away. “Not sittin’ through another one of that idiot’s trash picks.”

Kirishima nudges him just enough to earn an irritated grunt.

“Oh, come on,” he says with a teasing grin. “It won’t kill you to hang out for an hour. You never come to these.”

Bakugou scowls, hoodie tucked under his arm. “Yeah, and that’s by choice.”

You shift where you stand, eyes flicking between them. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your door, heart thudding loud in your chest. And before you can talk yourself out of it, the words slip out.

“I mean... I guess I could come by for a bit.”

Instant regret.

Both of their heads turn toward you. Kirishima lights up, already halfway into a celebratory fist pump, while Bakugou just raises a brow, his expression unreadable.

Instant regret washes over you. Your cheeks flush hot, and you suddenly wish you could disappear behind the door. But Kirishima’s excitement is hard not to get swept up in.

“Awesome! That’s great. Everyone’ll be glad to see you again.”

Bakugou shifts his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor for a beat. Then he shrugs.

“Whatever. I’ll go too.”

Kirishima blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Yeah. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

You glance over at him, and something flutters low in your stomach. He’s not looking at you. If anything, he seems pointedly focused on the wall. But the tip of his ear is just a little pink.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe.

Kirishima glances between the two of you, something sparkling behind his eyes. Bakugou notices and scowls, but you don’t even catch it—your eyes are glued to your socks, heart thudding in quiet panic.

You slip away to your closet and grab the first pair in reach. Your soft ivory house slippers, the fluffy Louis Vuitton ones you’ve had forever. You don’t even think twice about them as you slide them on and tuck your phone into your sleeve.

One last breath.

You pad back to the doorway and offer a quick, slightly stiff smile. “Ready.”

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The walk to the common room isn’t long, but with Bakugou brooding on one side and Kirishima chatting animatedly on the other, it feels like a slow march toward potential social doom.

You nod along, catching only bits and pieces of whatever Kirishima’s saying. Something about Kaminari insisting on watching a movie with “zero plot but peak visuals,” and how clearly that’s not good cinema.

Huh. You didn’t know Kirishima had such strong opinions about film!

Your manicured fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve as you walk, nerves prickling at your skin.

You still don’t really know why you agreed to this. You’re not exactly close with anyone here. They’re friendly, yes—but that’s not the same as being friends.

As you round the corner, soft flickers of TV light spill into the hallway, accompanied by the buzz of laughter and crinkling snack bags. The common room looks lived-in and chaotic, with your classmates already sprawled across couches and cushions, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by an almost comical number of popcorn bowls and candy piles.

Mina glances up mid-sentence, her face lighting up. “Y/N? No way—hey! I didn’t think we’d see you tonight! Your pajamas are adorable!”

You blink, a little stunned by her enthusiasm. “Oh. Um, thank you. Kirishima invited me.”

Momo looks up from her spot, seated neatly on one of the larger couches. She reaches for a piece of candy, offering a gentle smile. “Perfect timing. We haven’t even started yet.”

You nod, a small lump forming in your throat. You’ve known Momo for years, technically, your mothers ran in the same social circles.

But she’s always been polite in that polished, well-trained way. You’re probably still more familiar with Shoto, honestly. Even so, having her here makes things feel slightly less foreign.

You scan the room, searching for a place to sit. Kirishima has already flopped into a bean bag, Kaminari yelling something across the room at him. The long couch is completely full, and the floor’s been claimed by a sea of legs, blankets, and snacks.

There’s only one spot left.

Your eyes land on the smaller couch tucked off to the side, one that’s technically a two-seater, though Bakugou’s broad frame is currently taking up more than his fair share of it.

Of course.

Of course it’s the only spot left.

You hover for a second, unsure. You’ve never been good at moments like this! The quiet in-between where you’re supposed to know what to do, how to move, how to belong.

It reminds you of those early days at school, when you'd end up standing around with a tray in your hands, trying not to look lost while figuring out where you could sit without it being weird.

You’ve learned to avoid those moments altogether. These days, you eat lunch outside at the school’s gardens that are used for the agriculture students. It’s easier. Calmer.

But right now, there’s no back door to slip through. Just one couch, and one intimidating boy sitting on it.

And you're standing there like you're thirteen again.

You hesitate, just long enough for him to notice.

He glances at you sideways, eyes catching the glow of the TV—sharp, unreadable. Then he jerks his chin, just barely. “You sittin’ or what?”

You swallow hard and nod, shuffling forward. Your knee brushes his for a split second before you tuck yourself into the corner of the couch, limbs folded tight like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him.

Heat rolling off him in quiet waves, steady and impossible to ignore. He smells like clean laundry and something deeper beneath it, warm and smoky, like burnt sugar and caramel left just a little too long on the stove.

It’s dizzying. You try not to think about it.

You keep your eyes locked on the popcorn bowl across the room, pretending not to notice how close you are. But no matter how tightly you curl in, the side of your leg keeps brushing his.

“Sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, just certain the closeness must be making him uncomfortable.

Bakugou shifts slightly, and for a second you’re sure he’s about to edge away.

But then he mutters, not quite looking at you, “Stop apologizing for everything, it's nothing”

It’s quiet. Almost awkward. Like he’s not used to saying anything reassuring, and kind of hopes you didn’t hear it too clearly.

His head leans back against the couch, jawline catching in the TV’s flickering light.

Lord. Who even has a bone structure that good naturally?

Before you can spiral any further about your proximity to Bakugou or the way your heart is thudding against your ribs—someone at the front of the room claps twice.

“Okay, okay, shut up, it’s starting!” Kaminari calls out, remote raised like a royal decree.

The room gradually hushes. Pillows shuffle. Bags of candy rustle. Someone dims the lights, and the TV screen glows bright against the dark. You shift a little, tucking your legs beneath you and trying not to take up too much space.

The opening credits roll, and that’s when it hits you.

You forgot your glasses. And your contacts.

Your heart sinks as you blink at the screen, already squinting. Everything is soft—blurry around the edges like a watercolor left in the rain. You can catch bursts of color, vague movement... but faces? Expressions? Text on screen?

No chance. Just a gallery of vaguely humanoid blobs.

God. There’s a reason your glasses are so big and clunky and ridiculous. You’re legally blind without them.

You shift slightly, trying to lean forward without making it obvious, pretending you’re deeply invested in the opening scene. But apparently, you’re not as subtle as you hoped.

Bakugou shifts beside you.

“Don’t tell me you left your damn glasses,” he mutters, just low enough for only you to hear.

Your entire body stiffens. Oh no.

You forgot he’s the only one who's ever seen you in them—those thick, round frames that make your eyes look comically huge. You’d rather melt into the couch cushions than admit he’s right.

“What? No! I mean kinda. I forgot my contacts.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He makes a low sound in his chest—something between a sigh and a quiet, knowing huff. Then, to your absolute horror, he leans a little closer.

“You wanna switch spots or somethin’? You’re squintin’ like someone’s grandma.”

Your mouth opens slightly, caught between indignation and disbelief. Was that… a lighthearted comment?

“I’m fine,” you murmur, cheeks heating. “I’ll just experience the film through sound.”

He exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, subtle and quick. But you heard it.

And you feel it straight in your stomach.

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Your first ever movie night with your peers went... interestingly.

For starters, you and Bakugou were the only ones still awake. About an hour in, you noticed the weird silence coming from your classmates, and one quick glance around the dark room had your eyebrows shooting up.

How had everyone fallen asleep?!

God, Kirishima was right—this movie did sound like shit. You wish you could’ve actually seen it as much as you heard it, but the social anxiety had kept you from running up to your room to grab your contacts.

“I can’t believe they all fell asleep,” you whisper to Bakugou, eyes drifting from Ochako, Mina, Tsuyu, and the other girls, somehow all perfectly asleep on the floor and looking incredibly comfortable—

To Denki, Sero, Kirishima, and even Midoriya, all knocked out on the couch.

Momo was the only one with enough sense to call it a night halfway through the movie, ignoring Denki’s whining as she peaced out.

Bakugou doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as you. “It’s like this every time. You never missed much,” he snorts.

You blink at him, surprised. It’s not what he said—it’s what it implies. That he noticed. That your absence before tonight hadn’t gone completely unacknowledged.

But you’re too tired to unpack that right now.

“I totally could’ve watched some reviews tonight,” you mumble, pouting slightly. That earns you a weird look from Bakugou. He doesn’t say anything, but the strength of his side-eye is enough to make you explain.

“I watch makeup reviews in my free time,” you admit, like some kind of confession. “Helps me sleep.”

“Didn’t ask,” Bakugou says dryly, not even bothering to look at you.

You pause, shoulders curling in slightly. “Oh…right,” you murmur, gaze dropping to your lap.

He shifts beside you, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, almost begrudging. “Damn it sad eyes, don’t talk like that.”

Your head snaps up. “Like what?!” you whisper-shout, brows furrowed.

He finally glances your way, eyes narrowed but not unkind. “Like I just kicked your dog or something,” he mutters, a faint scowl tugging at his mouth—though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

That actually gets a laugh out of you, sharp and sudden. You slap a hand over your mouth, eyes darting nervously to your sleeping classmates. Thankfully, nobody stirs.

Bakugou snorts, shaking his head. “They’re knocked out. Gonna wake up with sore muscles and shit.” He seems almost excited as he eyes Midoriya’s terrible sleeping posture.

Yeah... that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

You sigh and rub at your eyes—dry and itchy from not wearing your glasses for so long. “This kinda sucks. I need eyedrops and a heater. I never realized how cold the dorms get at night,” you mumble, shivering a bit as the AC hums on relentlessly, goosebumps crawling up your legs.

A few quiet moments pass, then suddenly, something warm and familiar lands in your lap.

You glance down. It’s the burgundy sweater Bakugou gave you during training camp. The same one you returned earlier today.

Your gaze snaps up to meet his, and he’s already looking at you, totally unfazed. “Don’t fight it. You’re cold and crippled—pick a battle.”

Your jaw drops. “Crippled?!” you whisper-yell.

“Blind as hell. Probably gonna trip over the stairs.”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know I’m taking the elevator!”

He snorts, and you catch the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. You can’t help but feel a little proud of getting that out of him

even if it was at your own expense.

“Just take the damn jacket,” he mutters, his voice soft but no less stubborn.

You bite your lip, feeling the warmth spread from the burgundy fabric into your chilled skin. Well, who are you to say no?

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308 notes · View notes

jadeshifting · 6 months ago

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★⋆. — HOGWARTS ELECTIVE CLASSES TO SCRIPT

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𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED ARTIFACTS

ever wanted to know how cursed rings, bewitched mirrors, and sentient diaries work? this course teaches you how to identify, dismantle, and (if you’re brave) create magical relics—you never know when you’ll need an enchanted necklace or a vanishing cabinet, i suppose

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FASHION HISTORY

from the enchanted silks of the 1500s to robes that literally spark joy (or flames) in the 1900s, this elective dives into the who, what, and why tho of wizarding couture. you’ll learn how clothing reflected magical politics (hello, anti-Muggle fabrics), the most popular clothing charms over the centuries, and why Merlin’s pointy hat was such a massive deal at the time

𓆩♡𓆪 — CURSE REVERSAL

sometimes, magic backfires—this class teaches you how to undo everything from jinxed cauldrons to full-on blood curses. it’s half science, half art, and fully life-saving

𓆩♡𓆪 — HEALING

for the bleeding hearts (and bloody injuries). this elective teaches advanced healing charms, restorative potions, and how to fix the most catastrophic accidents without having to Floo to St. Mungo’s. class is split 50/50 between the healers of the next generation, and mischief makers that are so unhinged they have to heal themselves. this class sees all the good, the bad and the ugly

𓆩♡𓆪 — DRAGON STUDIES

learn all about the physicality, variety, and history of these dynamically unique creatures, and perhaps learn how to not get torched while studying them along the way. the course includes field trips (waivers from home and insurance spells VERY much required)

𓆩♡𓆪 — CHARMED CULINARY ARTS

enchanted cooking utensils will be your best friend as you navigate this course, learning to do everything in the kitchen from baking bread that sings to brewing drinks that bubble with magic. (house elves are assistants in this class, and you can always convince them to slip you an extra treat or two)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ADVANCED DIVINATION

tea leaves and crystal balls don’t even begin to scratch the surface of everything divination has to offer—if you’re a believer, and grounded enough to put up with the kooky professor. this course dives into obscure methods of divining the future: dream walking, cloud reading, rune casting, and much more. perfect for the more spiritually inclined students (or those who just enjoy the professor’s cryptic drama)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL FORESICS

got a Sherlock streak, or always wondered how the aurors do it? learn how to dissect magical crime scenes, trace hex signatures, and untangle the threads of a cursed crime

𓆩♡𓆪 — MINISTRY POLITICS & MAGICAL LAW

in this course that’s absolutely not for the academically faint, you’ll find yourself taking part in debates more than any other course. debate the ethics of using Veritaserum in court, or why house-elf labor laws are a mess. these students are likely future members of the Wizengamot

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED HOMEKEEPING

from self-sweeping brooms to magical security systems, think Martha Stewart meets The Standard Book of Spells. this course covers everything you need to know about using magic to run the most efficient household ever (you get a headache when you think about how Muggles do all of this without magic)

𓆩♡𓆪 — ALCHEMY: THE ART OF TRANSFORMARION

arguably the ultimate nerdy class—i’ve yet to meet a single person who wanted to handle the theories and coursework of this class. learn the secrets of transmutation, potion refinement, and (the whole thing’s pretty mysterious) all about the quest for immortality

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL CREATION THEORY

an elective created as the direct remedy for students making overeager and academically misguided attempts to make their own spells (some spells don’t exist for a reason, Fred and George.) learn the theory of how to craft spells from scratch and fine-tune them to your exact needs—perfect for the creatively chaotic. though, of course, you don’t actually make spells in class (that’s a direct ticket to St. Mungo’s)

𓆩♡𓆪 — THEORY & ETHICS OF NECROMANCY

strictly theoretical, of course (for legal reasons), this class dives into the magical theory of spirits’ existence, resurrection spells, and the history of necromancy. it also manages to cram most of one of the longest-standing debates in magical history into a year-long course (we can raise the dead, but should we? HM, i wonder)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLESS MAGIC

if you’re someone who thinks ‘why bother with a wand when you are the magic?’ this course is for you—it trains you in wandless spellcasting, so you can cast even when you’ve “misplaced” your primary weapon

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING FOLKLORE

from ghostly greenhouses to the allegedly haunted halls of Hogwarts, from ancient fairy tales to horror stories that keep even the bravest wizards awake at night, this course covers all of the folklore and tall tales from centuries of wizarding history and storytelling

𓆩♡𓆪 — ENCHANTED CARTOGRAPHY

i’m sure you already know that making an enchanted map is a skill that never goes out of style (cough, Marauder’s.) in this course, learn to create enchanted maps that move, update themselves, and accurately portray secret rooms and passageways (though they might not cover the more mischievous aspects in the course, i’m sure you can figure those out on your own time)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL ETHICS & PHILOSOPHY

all the way from time turners and truth serums to love potions and dementors, this course holds a magnifying glass to all the moral dilemmas of using magic in gray areas—just because you can hex someone doesn’t mean you should, and if you need a love potion, maybe you should reexamine some things first

𓆩♡𓆪 — QUIDDITCH ANALYTICS

a course all about the stats, spells, and tactics behind the wizarding worlds’ favorite sport. think of it as sabermetrics, but with broomsticks. students are an even split of quidditch players, and those who love quidditch without wanting to zoom hundreds of feet above the ground (understandable)

𓆩♡𓆪 — WANDLORE & CRAFTING

take your first step towards becoming the next Ollivander by studying wand woods, cores, and how to match them with their perfect witch or wizard. careful, your own wand might be open to more scrutiny than you’re accustomed to. warning: NOT a class for people with butterfingers

𓆩♡𓆪 — MOVING PHOTOGRAPHY

learn how to properly snap a good photo and develop moving pictures, charm them with special effects, and create photo albums that are magically cohesive enough to tell their own stories. with moving photos holding entire memories, someone always needs a good magical photographer

𓆩♡𓆪 — GRIMOIRE WRITING & SPELL JOURNALING

every great wizard of the past and present had a grimoire to keep track of their endless magical escapades. learn how to create your own spellbooks, safely document your findings, and make them impossible for dark wizards (or just nosy siblings) to read

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL LINGUISTICS

communication is key, whether it’s haggling with goblins, charming house-elves, or negotiating with dragons. this course helps you break through the language barrier—literally—to the entire wizarding world and all its species

𓆩♡𓆪 — MAGICAL JOURNALISM

for aspiring Rita Skeeters (hopefully no one, let’s make it ethical), this course covers investigative reporting, spell-resistant quills, following the honor code of interviewing and writing, and even some tips on how to charm the Daily Prophet editors with your work and score a job in the journalism field. NO Quick-Quotes Quills allowed, ever !!

𓆩♡𓆪 — TIME MANIPULATION THEORY

absolutely no time-turners allowed, despite learning all about them. learn the ethical and practical implications of bending time, including nearly every historical horror story of witches and wizards who got a little spin-happy with the power. (does the course only exist as a big fat warning for the students who are granted use of a time turner? we’ll never know—but yes, probably)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUSIC & ENCHANTED COMPOSITION

a course taken by many of the choir members, which allows you to delve deep into the magic behind musical spells, how to ethically enchant instruments for killer performances, and both writing and performing magical compositions. don’t mind the frogs in class, they’re brushing up on their technique, too

𓆩♡𓆪 — SPELL COMBAT TACTICS

this course covers a mix of strategic dueling with battlefield planning, as it covers pretty much every notable magical duel and battle in history. perfect for those angling to join the Aurors, or those who are just looking to win every wizarding duel

𓆩♡𓆪 — WIZARDING THEATER

this course involves combining drama with charms to bring stories literally to life on stage. props are enchanted and can interact with the actors, the weather matches each set, and actors might just float mid-scene. students can sharpen their acting and set enchantment skills to hopefully be on one of the great wizarding stages one day (or working behind the scenes of one)

𓆩♡𓆪 — MUGGLE STUDIES: ADVANCED INTEGRATION

forget the “what’s a toaster?” training-wheels shit—this course is about truly blending wizarding ingenuity with Muggle innovation. a popular course among muggleborn students, who have the opportunity to actually use their heritage in their favor to explore a whole world of social and magical possibilities

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

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heartfullofleeches · 2 months ago

Text

Yan Android + Mad Scientist Reader

It's genius-

That bucket of bolts will rue the day it appeared on your doorstep to prevent the world's impending demise. How have you not thought of this plan sooner?

Standing proudly before your bedroom mirror, your prized and precious lab coat lays cast aside on your bed. It needs not to fear abandonment since once you've rid yourself of the blight on your projects the path of debauchery will again be laid out for you.

You truly are an intellectual beyond your years - not that you're bragging. It was yours smarts that lead to the creation of that nemesis - plus some assistance from future engineers, but it is your works were, or rather will be the blueprints.

Modern tools may present little damage to its impervious shell, but you can attack it somewhere deeper. Its brain. By simply reading the text on your shirt, its systems will override with the improbable idea it puts forth. You almost regret doing this too them since there will be no one left to see the brilliance behind your strategy.

Clearing your throat, you swallow the bout of senseless laughter as you shout.

"Ohhhhh assistant! Could you come here for a moment?!"

Bracing for stability, you cling onto your dresser as the walls of your humble abode shudder with every powerful step of your unwilling appointed caretaker. The sleek, blank slate of its featureless face appears in the doorway preceding the sight of its commanding figure. Why it doesn't squash your windpipe in its bicep is out of your realm of understanding, but no matter-

"Creator? You have summon us- To what do we owe the honor?"

All according to plan- "Oh, nothing- I just need you to take a look at- MY NEW SHIRT!-

Grinning from ear to ear like the mad man you are, you detach yourself from the dresser - proudly standing with both hands posed at your hips. It's genius, it's astronomical- Your brain should be put in a museum in the future if not your body already strung on a post for the pain and suffering to come.

In bold, white letters- the straightforward, impactful statement of "Virginity Rocks" stares point blank at your assistant. The android cocks its head.

"We do not understand."

"AHAHAH-"

....

"What?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Why is its head still in one piece? Its brain should have exploded and left your bedroom in a glory of robotic gore by now. Why hasn't it exploded?!

"Y-you see- M-m-my shirt says virginity rocks and you, I mean we, I mean, us... haha...."

Sweat beads down your face, knees wobbling from the shame- How does an idiot like you cause the end of the world?"

"Ah. We see now. Evidently, we did not please you well enough that you see the time before our arrival as better. Forgive us. We will fix that error for you accordingly."

"Eh? T-that won't be necessary. I really should be getting back to the lab...."

You squeeze as its iron grasp locks around your wrist.

"And destroy the earth simply because we have failed to satisfy you? We forbid it. Into bed, now. Worry not. We will be gentle with you."

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #yandere drabble #yandere android #yandere x darling #Scientist Reader

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mydearestbeloved · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 5 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

It was supposed to be a peaceful—boring—day. You yawned and stretched your arms above your head, feeling the tension in your muscles ease as you walked back from the raid you had been sent on as support by the Hunter's Association. Healing a few injuries here, casting some support spells there—typical stuff. A cozy evening of spoiling your children at your Gardens awaited, and maybe you’d even treat yourself to some well-deserved rest.

You let your guard down for just a moment, something you rarely did outside your domain. And perhaps, you shouldn’t have.

The first thing that went wrong was the collision. You hadn’t even sensed anyone nearby, which should have been impossible. Your senses were too sharp, finely tuned from years of surviving the system’s trials.

The second thing that went wrong was that you stumbled backward from the impact—an almost absurd realization, given your strength and agility.

You could’ve been able to catch yourself immediately, but before you could react, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you.

The third—and most unsettling—thing was the face that came into view as you were pulled flush against the person. Your eyes shot up, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. Stormy grey eyes stared down at you, too close, too familiar.

There, standing before you with an unreadable expression, was Sung Jinwoo.

Your mind went blank for a split second before you quickly masked your surprise with a polite smile—a customer service smile, the one you used to deal with awkward situations. What the hell was this situation? A K-drama plot twist? You fought the urge to groan. There was no way he would recognize you. You had worked hard to stay anonymous, to keep your involvement in his life strictly hidden. This was just an unfortunate run-in, surely—

And just as you were about to step away, you felt it—the familiar tug in the back of your mind.

Damnit, you cursed internally, your blood running cold.

"'Trial Player,' huh?” Jinwoo’s voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a dangerous curiosity in his tone. The strange glint in his once stormy eyes, now glowing in a sharp blue, set your nerves on edge. “Interesting title.”

Of course, the system wasn’t done. It never was.

[Dear Trial Player, (Name).

Be careful not to spill your secret to Player Sung Jinwoo,

else you may find the penalty... quite costly.]

[To not disrupt the predestined events of this world too much, things that should be kept a secret by the Trial Player include:

- True origin

- Prior knowledge of this world.]

[Reminder to watch your words, Trial Player.]

You swallowed hard, mind racing. You were treading on dangerous ground. The glint in Jinwoo’s eyes wasn’t the detached curiosity of someone stumbling upon a stranger; it was the look of a predator that had cornered his prey.

“It’s… complicated,” you managed to say, trying to buy yourself some time as you mentally sorted through your options.

“I have time.” His voice was as calm as ever, but the weight behind those words made it clear—he wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t going to let you go, until you explained yourself. And of course, he had. You knew his schedule better than anyone else—You hold back wince; you sounded like a stalker just now.

His eyes never left yours, and the weight of his stare was almost suffocating.

Your eyes darted around the street. Too open. Too public. If you were going to spill even a fraction of the truth, you needed privacy. “...Follow me,” you said, steeling your nerves. There was no escaping this encounter now, but at the very least, you could control where the conversation would take place.

Jinwoo’s lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile, as if he’d already won. He let you go, didn’t ask questions, didn’t press you further—just nodded, as if he had expected nothing less than your cooperation. He fell into step beside you, his presence both comforting and unnerving at the same time.

---

You sat across from Sung Jinwoo in a small, secluded café, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your cup. It was peaceful here, or at least it was supposed to be. The gentle hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee—under any other circumstance, this would be the perfect place to relax.

But the man sitting in front of you wasn’t just any ordinary guy. He was Sung Jinwoo, and not the E-rank, sweetly awkward and adorable version of him you once quietly helped. No, this was the Jinwoo who had been through hell and back, the one who had grown stronger, and the one who was currently giving you the most piercing stare you had ever been given in your whole life.

You weren’t afraid of him, but you weren’t naïve enough to think this would be an easy conversation, either.

God, why couldn’t it be the E-rank him? At least that Jinwoo wouldn’t be giving you this much of a hard time.

[Choose your words carefully, Trial Player.]

You clenched your jaw at the system's ever-helpful reminder.

Jinwoo was watching you intently, sipping his coffee as he waited for your answer. His questions were understandable—he was the protagonist of this world, after all—but each answer felt like walking a tightrope, balancing half-truths and white lies. Years of surviving in this world had changed you, turned you into someone far more cautious and guarded than the girl who had first been dropped into the dungeon all those years ago. But you hadn’t expected to have to use those skills on him of all people.

“Look,” you started, choosing your words carefully. “There are things I can’t tell you—things I’m not allowed to tell you.”

His eyebrow raised slightly, though he pushed further on that matter, for now.

“This ‘Trial Player’ business. What does that mean?”

You bit your lip, carefully considering your next words. You had to walk a fine line here. “I had a role to play before you became the system’s player. A trial run of sorts.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you were meant to take my place?”

“No.” Your response was immediate, a bit too sharp, perhaps, but you needed him to understand that. “I was never meant to take your place. I was… a beta tester for the system. Nothing more.”

Jinwoo’s gaze bore into you, as if weighing the truth of your words. The silence stretched, tense and heavy, until he finally spoke again. “And now?”

“I... don’t know.” The only truth you let slip.

“I suppose you’ve been watching me for a while now,”

Your heart skipped a beat. So, he did know?

As if knowing what you wanted, Jinwoo then mentioned the system. Apparently, his system had become unnecessarily chatty—and vague—about you after his awakening. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Just because the system hadn’t forbidden you from helping Jinwoo in small ways didn’t mean it would keep your actions secret forever.

“Paying the hospital bills,” he continued, his eyes locked onto yours. “Items arriving at my door when I needed them. Heals when there was nobody around.”

Your customer-service smile faltered, a tiny fraction at the edges of your lips. He had figured it out. There was no point in denying it. “...Yes.”

You were out of your depth now, there was no turning back.

"So," Jinwoo leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours, "how long have you been helping me?"

Your fingers twitched. "For a while now," you answered, purposefully vague. Not a lie.

"Years, then."

You nodded, biting back the urge to say more. He didn't need the specifics.

"And why?" His gaze was steady, but there was a flicker of something behind it—curiosity, maybe, but also wariness.

You had expected that question, but it didn’t make it any easier to answer. Why had you helped him? The official answer was because he was the protagonist of this world. But deep down, it was more than that. You admired him—his strength, his perseverance, and the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint. Somewhere along the way, admiration had blurred into something deeper, something more personal.

"I just... wanted to help," you said softly, your fingers tightening around the cup in your hands. “The system... didn’t give me much of a choice from the moment it chose me as the trial player. And perhaps it had turned a blind eye; helping you—it felt right." Another half-truth, but still rooted in reality.

Jinwoo studied you for a long moment, his gaze intense. You could almost feel the gears turning in his mind, trying to figure out whether you were a threat or an ally. He didn’t press further, which was almost worse. Silence stretched between you, heavy with unsaid words and unanswered questions. You wished you could explain everything, tell him the truth without the system suffocating you in response, but you couldn’t. So, you settled for half-truths and hoped they would be enough.

Then, out of nowhere, the conversation took a turn.

“Let’s keep it that way then,” Jinwoo’s voice was casual, almost too casual, “you’re joining my party.”

Your mind screeched to a halt. “Wait, what?”

“I said,” he repeated, leaning forward slightly, “you’re joining my party.” There was something in his tone that left no room for argument, but it didn’t make any sense. Jinwoo had always been the lone wolf. Solo raids were his thing. He didn’t need healers anymore—not with his own incredible healing factor.

“No—”

“I’m not asking.” And you berated yourself once again for being weak to his eyes, especially the current glowing ones. That beautiful, beautiful blue hue.

“Why? I mean, you don’t need me.”

Jinwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching onto the strange phrasing, and you suddenly felt the invisible tightness around your throat. Watch your words, Trial Player, the system’s voice echoed in your mind, a third reminder today that made your blood pressure spike every damn time.

The system wasn’t just blocking you from outright saying it; it was suffocating you, a warning wrapped in discomfort. You cursed yourself internally.

Jinwoo answer interrupted your thoughts, “Let’s just say… I’m curious. About you.”

Oh. Oh. What did you expect? This wasn’t about your healing abilities. He was suspicious of you. He knew something was off, and now he was keeping you close—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and all that.

But you weren’t his enemy, were you?

You opened your mouth to argue further, but just as you were about to speak, the system chimed in again.

You let out and internal scream. Seriously?

"...I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?" You said, your cheeks were starting to hurt from forcing a smile throughout this conversation as you selected the only option on the screen.

Jinwoo smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "No, you don’t."

---

After discussing the details for your future joint raids, you watched Jinwoo’s back as he turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel a sinking sense of dread. You were trapped. Whatever game the system and Jinwoo were playing, you were caught in the middle. And now you were officially part of his party.

You sighed, slumping back into your chair. It was supposed to be a peaceful day. You should’ve known better.

[So, how have you been? ~]

“Shut it.”

---

The partnership was, for lack of a better word, complicated.

Jinwoo noticed it was a word often associated to you.

The more time Jinwoo spent with you only made things murkier. You were a puzzle wrapped in a riddle, and no matter how many pieces he tried to put together, he was always left with gaps. It was frustrating, but it also intrigued him in a way that nothing else had since he became the Player.

Jinwoo was suspicious—he couldn’t afford not to be. Jinwoo never imagined having someone like you beside him, much less allowing it. For the longest time, he had preferred working alone—solitude was safer, simpler. He didn’t have to worry about anyone getting in his way or betraying him. So, naturally, he had kept you under close observation, convinced that the cost of keeping you around would be more than just the unease gnawing at him.

From the start, Jinwoo had believed that taking you along would mean a decrease in his own growth. Experience was precious, and dividing it was a risk he was prepared to accept—but you had assured him that wouldn’t be necessary.

"I won’t take any exp from you,” you’d said with a quiet confidence that he hadn’t known how to trust. “I’ve got a feeling it doesn’t work like that for me anymore."

He’d been skeptical, of course. Experience was everything to a player, and he’d been prepared to lose some to keep you around. But as the weeks went by, he found your claim to be frustratingly true. No matter how many monsters you felled, it was only his system notifications that pinged, announcing increases in his experience points, his level bar that filled up, not yours, as though the system recognized you as an extension of him.

It was as if you just weren’t there.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or more suspicious. What kind of player didn’t gain EXP? It didn’t fit with the rules, and Jinwoo was nothing if not a careful observer of the patterns around him.

---

The material rewards, however, were a different story.

There was a strange way you treated the remains of the fallen monsters. At first, he hadn’t paid much attention to it; after all, every hunter had their quirks. But you would always linger after the fights, almost reverently inspecting the bodies, picking through the materials they left behind. When he finally asked you about it, you had given him that infuriatingly cryptic smile.

“Do you mind if I take whatever you don’t need?” you had politely asked one day, the first time out of the many in future raids to come. “I promise it won’t go to waste.”

“What do you even need them for?” he had asked, watching you examine the remains of a C-rank goblin with almost childlike fascination.

“Hmm…” You’d glanced up, meeting his gaze briefly before turning back to the material in your hand. “Think of it as... research.”

He’d agreed, more out of curiosity than generosity. And every time he did, he could have sworn he caught a glimmer of excitement in your eyes. It was an expression so genuine and bright that Jinwoo found himself taken aback. What exactly you were doing with those materials, he had no idea, but you seemed genuinely grateful, almost... happy. And Jinwoo found it oddly endearing every single time.

The guarded woman he fought beside every day for the past few weeks by now—the one who always hid herself behind walls of practiced calm—suddenly looked more humane. A person delighted over something so simple.

“Thank you, Jinwoo.” you said softly as you packed away pieces of monster hides, bones, and crystals with precision. The way you spoke his name felt different than when others said it. Like it was laced with something unspoken, something almost... familiar.

For a moment, he’d thought he might be able to catch a sliver of truth from you. But then, as quickly as it appeared, your guard returned, and you slipped back into your composed, impenetrable self.

---

Yet, for every discovery he made about you, new questions took root. The way you spoke to the air when he couldn’t see your system window was one of the strangest things he’d observed. It wasn’t like how he interacted with his own system—a cold, mechanical guide that answered in emotionless text.

He had come to terms with it, which made it more puzzling when you, on the other hand, seemed to have a strangely conversational relationship with yours. It was as though you were talking to a real person rather than an AI. And there were times he swore he heard you bantering with it. The fact that he couldn’t see it, that he couldn’t know what it was telling you without you telling him, left him on edge.

While you could see the familiar blue screens of his own system at all times, yours sometimes seemed to exist in an entirely different realm. He didn’t have enough information to even confirm you had the same kind of system he did.

One evening after a raid, after you had muttered something to the empty air beside you, Jinwoo couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer. The two of you were taking a break in the clearing of a forest-like dungeon, waiting for the mana in the air to settle. His shadows patrolled the perimeter, leaving the two of you in relative isolation.

“You’re… talking to it, aren’t you?” Jinwoo asked, as you finished your quiet exchange with your invisible companion. “The system, I mean.”

“Hmm? Oh.” You paused mid-motion, halfway through tucking away the latest monster core you’d collected, s if you hadn’t just spoken aloud to someone—or something—that only you could see. You glanced at him, something unreadable flickering behind your eyes before you looked back at the core in your hands.

“It’s not quite the same as your system,” you said finally, your voice almost too soft to hear over the rustling leaves. “Let’s just say we have a complicated relationship.” You paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Yours is… a guide, yes? Cold, instructive?”

He nodded, and you seemed to weigh your response.

“Mine is… let’s call it more opinionated.”

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow, clearly unsatisfied. “You mean to tell me that your system has a personality?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Something like that.”

He muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You know more about my system than I do, and yet I can’t even see yours most of the time. Feels like a rigged game.”

“You mean the same way my kills count towards yours instead?”

Fair point.

“You could say I know it pretty well. And… it knows me.” Your tone was careful, and he realized he’d learned something more about you in that one sentence than in all the raids you’d fought together.

It was almost as if you wanted to be honest—desperately so—but something stopped you every time you got close to revealing too much. It seemed less like a power play and more like you were protecting something—maybe even protecting him. But that didn’t make sense.

Still, Jinwoo could see glimpses of genuine loyalty in your actions. The more he witnessed this, the more he felt torn, unable to decide if you were an ally bound by strange circumstances or a threat with motives he couldn’t yet see.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [013/10/2024] -

The later parts of this chapter (where it switches to Jinwoo's p.o.v.) are originally part of the next chapter, but I substitue them with a new fight scene.

#solo leveling imagine #solo leveling #solo leveling x reader #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo #solo leveling jinwoo #yandere sung jinwoo #only i level up #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #fanfiction #fanfic #solo leveling fanfic

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