#How To Prepare For Competitive Exams

[ev3rm0re-q]

everything i didn't say ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆

synopsis: This camping trip was supposed to be a relaxing getaway—just a few days in the woods, swapping scary ghost stories, roasting s'mores by the campfire, maybe even squeezing in some late-night cabin sleepovers. It all sounded so perfect, right? Wrong.

Y/N ends up stuck sharing a cabin with the one person she can't stand. Fucking Choi Soobin—the guy who spent all of high school turning every assignment and exam into some stupid competition to see who's the smartest, who flashed his cocky, infuriating smirk when he beat her at their in-school debate competition she'd spent countless nights preparing for. The same guy who gave her every reason to believe he felt something for her, who blurred all the lines during their senior project—only to ghost her like none of it ever meant a thing. This has to be some kind of joke, right?

pairing: ex-academic rival!soobin x fem!reader

genre: enemies-to-lovers trope, ex-academic rivals to lovers, only one bed trope, forced proximity, angst romance filled with tension, college AU-ish, unresolved feelings

warning/s: lots of swearing, suggestive-ish

wc: 10.1K

September 2017

It had been three hours since I lugged all my stuff into Soobin’s house—project printouts, art supplies, notebooks, and my heavy-ass laptop—all piled into a chaotic mess around me.

The clock on his study desk ticked past 10 PM. I sat cross-legged on a cushion on the bedroom floor, leaning against a small wooden table, surrounded by scattered papers. Some notes were marked up with pink highlighter, others crumpled or stuck with colorful post-its.

Even the little doodles Soobin had drawn on the post-its were pinned around the table here and there, giving the chaos a strange kind of charm.

Our laptops sat perpendicular to each other, their screens casting a soft glow across the clutter. I tapped my red pen lightly against the table, eyes skimming the printed script beside me—covered in scribbles, arrows, and margin notes I could barely even read anymore.

The words were starting to blur together, familiar in that way things get when you’ve stared at them too long.

“Your part on slide nine feels a little rushed.” I said, after a stretch of quiet.

To my right, Soobin sat on a cushion of his own, sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, glasses reflecting the glow of his screen as his eyes flicked over the same PowerPoint slide.

His expression was calm—too calm for someone who was going to have his final presentation the next morning. Then he stretched, arms reaching overhead as he let out a quiet yawn, eyes half-lidded but still focused.

“You were talking too fast in other parts too,” I reminded him, not even looking up.

He let out a quiet groan. “You’ve timed me, what, three times already?”

“I’m just saying,” I replied. “You’re hitting the marks, yeah—but you’re hitting them like a robot.”

He turned to me with a raised brow. “The script’s too long for me not to talk fast, you know.”

“You’re basically rapping through the script, Soobin,” I gave him an unimpressed look.

“I read it aloud earlier. The timing was just right—You’re just the one who keeps starting the timer too early." He argued.

I raised a brow, unimpressed. “I’m not early on anything. You always leave a few seconds on the timer.”

His eyes found mine—and stayed there, just a second too long.

“So,” he said slowly, “you want me to slow down, then?”

“Just this part,” I murmured, pointing to a line with the tip of my pen. He leaned in slowly, just enough for his shoulder to brush mine, eyes following the point of my pen.

I glanced at him without thinking. His hair hung messily over his forehead, brushing the tops of his glasses. He was fiddling with the end of his hoodie string again, fingers curling around it before slipping it between his teeth, chewing on it like he didn’t even notice. All of a sudden, I realized how close our faces had gotten.

“Where?” he asked quietly, the words slightly muffled, the hoodie string still tugged between his lips.

“H-here…” I managed, barely above a whisper. I pointed with my pen to the line he needed to read. He leaned in even closer, eyes narrowing in on the script.

I instinctively pulled back, creating space between us as casually as I could manage, eyes flicking to my laptop screen like it suddenly demanded all of my attention. But I could still feel the heat blooming across my cheeks, spreading too fast to ignore.

“Yeah, these notes are good,” he said after a moment, voice quieter than before. I glanced sideways, then down at the hoodie string still hanging from his mouth.

“Do you really have to chew on that?” I asked, raising a brow, trying for playful but landing somewhere between disbelief and mild concern.

I fiddled with the cap of my pen, letting the soft sound fill the space between us as my other hand hovered over my keyboard, feigning concentration. Instead of snapping back like I expected, he paused.

His eyes flicked toward mine as he slowly let the hoodie string slip from his mouth, the fabric falling softly against his chest. For a moment, he just looked at me—head tilted slightly, like he was trying to piece something together.Then came the smallest twitch of a smile.

“You always pick the smallest fights with me when you’re nervous,” he said, voice low and even.

Not teasing—just stating it, like it was something he’d known for a while. My pen stilled mid-air.

“I’m not nervous,” I muttered, eyes fixed on my screen.

There was a pause. Then, softer, "You are. But it's okay... I'm nervous about it too."

That made me glance at him, and this time, I didn't look away. He leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, like he’d peeled something back—something he didn’t usually let show.

Oh. He was talking about the presentation.

Right.

But there was something in the way he said it. Gentle. Almost like a secret passed between us. It landed in my chest like a held breath I didn’t know I was keeping.

“I’m fine,” I assured him, trying to shake off the weird flutter in my chest.

I turned back to my laptop, leaving my pen resting on the script as I switched to the PowerPoint tab, brows furrowing while I scrolled through the slides for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

"You’re overthinking again,” Soobin said, voice low and teasing.

I didn’t look at him. “Says the guy who helped me color-code our outline and triple-checked our citations.”

“Yeah, but I hide it better,” he replied, the smirk already audible in his tone.

“I just don’t want it to suck,” I sighed.

He let out a soft laugh. “It doesn’t. We’re fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He smiled—genuine this time—and reached across the table to tug my notebook toward him. Our fingers brushed for a moment. Just a graze. Nothing major. But neither of us pulled away right away.

“I don’t get why you stress so much,” he said softly, leaning forward to jot a quick note on the script with my pen.

“You always make everything better.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He handed the pen back without looking away. “The slides. The project. You just… care more than anyone else I’ve worked with.”

It wasn’t exactly a compliment.

Not really.

But it made something twist inside me anyway.

I looked at him—really looked at him. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he always tilted his head when he was thinking, the subtle twitch of a smile he tried to hide whenever I got too worked up over formatting.

He was calm. Too calm. Like he wasn’t falling apart inside the way I was. I swallowed the bitterness tightening in my chest.

"You're weirdly nice when you're tired," I muttered, pretending to fix something on the PowerPoint.

“I’m always nice,” he shot back.

I gave him a skeptical look.

“Okay,” he laughed softly. “Sometimes.”

“You know,” I started, before I could catch myself,

“you’re really hard to read sometimes.”

He blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Some moments you’re open—easy to talk to. But then other times, I can’t figure out what you’re thinking at all.”

The room fell silent. He blinked slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“So are you,” he replied, voice quieter now.

“But I try.”

My heart did a stupid flip in my chest.

“Try what?”

He looked at me again, eyes steady. “To make it obvious.”

Then, it hit me,—all the signs I’d buried, the little things I brushed off as me being dramatic or reading too much into nothing.

Every look, every touch, every word.

My mouth went dry.

What the fuck was he trying to say?

I wanted to ask—God, I wanted to ask—but the pounding in my chest felt deafening, like my heart was trying to drown out the moment.

Oh my god, what if he can hear it too? I wondered.

So I said nothing.

I just stared at him, caught in the pull of it all—panic curling at the edges of my thoughts as hope blooms rapidly in my chest, confusion wrapping around it like a knot I couldn’t untangle.

“I—I…” I faltered, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Before I could think to move, he leaned in, eyes locked on mine. His hand rose slowly—hesitant at first—then steadier as his fingers reached for a loose strand of hair near my cheek.

He brushed it back behind my ear, his fingertips grazing my skin with a softness that sent a chill down my spine. But he didn’t pull away.

His hand lingered near my face, close enough that I could feel his warmth, close enough to see the subtle shift in his expression—something careful, something unreadable, something that made my throat go dry. Neither of us said a word.

His words from earlier hung between us like an unfinished sentence suspended in the air, and I was too afraid that if I spoke now, it would all collapse—too real, too raw.

We’d had moments like this before. Subtle ones. The kind that slipped by unspoken, but never unnoticed. Lingering glances in the hallway, the way his hand brushed mine when he passed notes, how his voice always softened when he would call me over to him.

But this? This felt louder. Closer.

"Y/N… I—" he began, voice low, hesitant.

But then, right on cue, his phone buzzed sharply beside us—the alarm he’d set earlier cutting through the quiet like a crack of thunder.

He flinched. So did I.

The moment shattered.

He moved quickly, fumbling for his phone on the floor beside him. The sound cut off with a single tap, but the silence it left behind was deafening. For a moment, he didn’t look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on the now-dark screen, jaw tight.

Then, voice quieter this time—measured, distant—he said,

“You should probably head back.”

My heart dropped.

He still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Big day tomorrow,” he added, like that explained everything.

“Right…” I murmured. “Big day.”

I nodded, slowly gathering my things. Papers, pens, laptop. Anything to keep my hands busy, to ignore the weight in my chest. He reached toward my notebook beside me, the same one he’d quietly asked to borrow earlier, but his hand paused halfway—as if hesitating—before he finally picked it up.

He stood too, tidying what was left on the table with methodical care. Like if we didn’t speak on it, whatever almost happened would just fold neatly into the mess of crumpled drafts and unfinished thoughts.

Maybe that was safer.

Maybe that was us.

Almost. Always fucking almost.

I left his room without a word, not even sparing him a glance, as the quiet between us was left hanging heavier than ever.

The next morning, it was raining—a steady drizzle that blurred the campus edges and made the air feel thick with calm. He acted like nothing had ever happened.

He greeted me with that same soft smile he always wore before a presentation, handing me a printed copy of our outline. He even cracked a quiet joke about how I’d probably end up rewriting his part mid-way if I got too nervous.

But just like he said the night before—we nailed it.

The presentation went smoothly—clean, confident, every line delivered exactly as we’d rehearsed. Our professor smiled in satisfaction, expecting nothing less than perfection from us.

Our friends gave us friendly pats on the back, and compliments were thrown around—“Whoa, you guys did such a great job!” They stood by us, sharing the buzz of relief like teammates crossing a finish line.

But afterward?

Fucking nothing.

After school that day, it was like something snapped shut. No texts. No awkward small talk in the hallway.

Not even a stupid silly face thrown at me when the professor announced Soobin had gotten the highest score on our English exam.

Nothing.

He stopped showing up where I used to find him—in the library, the park, even the convenience store where we always bumped into each other.

He just stopped replying. Stopped being there.

It was like I’d never mattered beyond that stupid project. And just like that, he was gone—leaving me tangled in everything I didn’t understand.

June 2019

Two years have passed since everything between us quietly fell apart—the electric connection replaced by a silence thick enough to fill a room.

In that time, everything changed. We went from playful teasing and personal competitions to exchanging little more than sharp looks and truly hurtful remarks. It’s not like we don’t cross paths—our worlds still overlap—but somehow, it’s like we don’t really exist to each other anymore.

Standing here now, I can feel the distance—not just the space between us, but all the things left unsaid, the moments we should’ve shared but didn’t, and the memories that don’t feel warm anymore.

The rain falls in a steady downpour, tapping rhythmically against the wooden porch roof where we stand. The ground grows muddier by the second, as the trees and plants eagerly soak up the long-awaited water they craved. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as tall forest trees towering above us, casting shadows over the clearing.

"I can't believe I managed to get stuck with you," I mutter, groaning at the sight of the tall, raven-haired boy in front of me.

His head is bowed, fingers gliding across his phone screen with quiet concentration.

He doesn’t even look up. "Trust me, the feeling’s mutual."

I roll my eyes at his comment, letting my bag and umbrella drop against the wall with a heavy thump. Digging my hands into my pockets, I glance back at Soobin.

"Do you have the key?"

He sighs annoyingly at the question before reaching into his right pocket, and silently holds out the key to me. I shoot him a pointed look before taking it from his hand and unlocking the door.

It swings open to reveal a small but cozy cabin bedroom—just enough space for two. I step inside with Soobin, opening the door to the only bathroom near the entrance and nodding in satisfaction at the sight. Behind me, I hear him move forward to inspect the rest of the room, followed by the faint sound of a complaint.

"This is a joke, right?" I hear him say.

I step out of the bathroom and find him standing in front of the queen-sized bed, staring at it like it personally offended him. He looks back at me with a disbelief expression. I shrug, casually leaning against the doorframe.

“It was the cheaper option. They were gonna charge way more if we booked each room with double single beds.” He exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. I nod toward the floor.

"The floor's always open, if you want. Though I think the racoon I saw outside might appreciate some company too."

"Haha, funny," he deadpans.

I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and sink down onto the mattress with a sigh, my mind drifting to the conversation I had with Beomgyu earlier today.

“Come on, can’t you switch with me, Gyu? You guys were roommates before, right?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Beomgyu said, tone apologetic but firm. “but I already talked to Kai earlier. I promised I’d play Cookie Run with him when we got to the room—he’s pretty excited to have me as his roommate.” I stared at him for a second, hoping he would change his mind. He didn't.

I exhale sharply, jaw tight. Of course this shit would happen.

This whole arrangement happened because someone thought it'd be a genius idea to assign roommates by picking straws—completely random, they said. An equal chance for everyone, they said. I rolled my eyes at the thought.

Yeah. Sure.

I had only agreed because, honestly, I mean what are the odds that I'd end up with Choi Soobin? The same boy who’s spent every semester of high school trying to one-up me on test scores and presentations.

The one who ran against me for class representative and won by just a few votes—probably thanks to his crowd of fangirls who couldn’t stop staring at him in class.

The boy kept sending me mixed signals the entire time we worked together on that final major project, only to shut me out right after without a single word.

It was a miracle we were even caught in the same room. Despite having mutual friends and going to the same university, our paths rarely crossed—only seeing each other at social events or the occasional group hangout.

Of course, only Yunjin knew about the mixed signals part. She was the only person I trusted enough to vent to—the poor girl was forced to sit through rants over lunch about how confusing and frustrating he was. But, unbeknownst to me, that same 'poor girl' was actually in on a plan—one orchestrated by none other than Choi Yeonjun himself.

Everyone was in on it except for Soobin and me.

The plan? To finally put an end to all the bickering, snarky remarks, and this endless tension between us.

I remember hearing Yeonjun calling from the living room earlier, telling everyone we’d be picking straws to decide who’d room with whom. Meanwhile, I was in my bedroom, too busy stuffing one last hoodie into my already full backpack.

There were two sets of colored straws—each set pairing two people together.

Taehyun managed to distract Soobin with some 'new workout tip' he was eager to share, flashing his phone in front of him. Soobin's eyes were glued to the screen, interested at this new advice his friend had given him, that he carelessly grabbed a random colored straw from Yeonjun's hand without even sparing a glance at it.

When Soobin held it up, the two boys exchanged a knowing glance. Soobin got the orange straw.

Taehyun gave Yeonjun a slight nod, and Yeonjun then strolled over to the others, quietly whispering which colors to pick to avoid the dreaded orange. Finally, Yeonjun made his way over to me, one last straw pinched between his fingers.

"You're the last one, Y/N. Orange was the only one that was left," he said, holding it out.

"Oh, that's fine. I think the orange is pretty cute anyway," I shrugged, more relieved to be done forcefully shoving that hoodie into my already overflowing backpack than anything else.

He grinned, eyes flicking to the straw in my hand. "Yeah? I think it suits you."

I flashed a quick smile in return. "Thanks, I've always wanted to match with a traffic cone."

Yeonjun chuckled under his breath and nodded toward the living room.

"C’mon, let’s see who fate paired you up with."

I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him down the hall, completely unaware of the setup I had just walked straight into. We stepped into the living room. Everyone is raising their straws in the air, scanning the room for their partners, and others already finding theirs.

I couldn't help but smile at the sight, catching the moment Yunjin excitedly rushed over to Nari. They shrieked and jumped together with joy as they realized they both pulled the green straws.

On the couch, Beomgyu and Kai compared their blue straws, already deep in conversation about some game Kai insisted on playing in the cabin tonight. Yeonjun scanned the room before casually walking over to Taehyun. He lifted his red straw with a knowing grin before exchanging a 'bro' handshake with him.

Then it hit me. Oh fuck, no.

Then that means... I slowly turned my head, already dreading what I know I would see.

And there he was—Choi Soobin, standing a few feet away with the same orange straw in hand, staring straight at me.

I fucking hate orange.

My phone dings, and I glance down to see a text from Yunjin and Yeonjun.

Yunjin: Sorry about the roommate situation again, babe. Wish it could’ve been the three of us here. We miss you <3 sent at 20:17 pm.

Me: It's okay, it wasn't your fault. Miss you guys too! sent at 20:18 pm.

Yunjin: Think you’ll survive? sent at 20:18 pm.

Me: Yeah, just hoping I make it through the night and the rest of the trip without committing a felony sent at 20:19 pm.

Yunjin: Sending prayers and snacks! Good luck, babe <3 sent at 20:20 pm.

I smile softly at her texts before switching over to my chat with Yeonjun.

Yeonjun: How's orange going for ya right now ;) sent at 20:16 pm.

Me: Die. sent at 20:21 pm.

I glance over at Soobin, who’s already sprawled out on the right side of bed, phone still in hand.

“So, you’re taking the bed?” I ask, arms crossed.

“Yeah,” he replies without looking up. Then, with a perfectly fake smile, he adds, “Just try not to kick me in your sleep, yeah?”

The sass practically oozes from his voice.

"No promises," I mutter under my breath, kicking off my shoes a little more aggressive than necessary—just to piss him off. "Accidents happen."

He snorts quietly, still glued to his phone. “That tends to happen a lot when you’re around.”

I roll my eyes at his comment, "You've chosen the right side of the bed, then?"

“Figured it made sense. You didn’t seem in a rush to claim it.”

"Oh, I didn't realize it was a race."

He lets out a small breath, not quite a laugh. "With you? It usually is."

“Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.” I mumble, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Wow. It's just like high school all over again.

A beat passes. No one says anything and neither of us smiles. The room feels tense but somehow warmer than it did a minute ago. I can't tell if its because he turned on the heater—or because this is the first proper conversation we’ve had in a year. Well, sorta proper.

It was tense, but it felt all too familiar to the both of us. It felt almost too easy to fall back into this rhythm. I don't respond right away, I just sit at the foot of the bed, unzipping my bag—only to find my clothes soaked from the heavy downpour.

I pull out the thick hoodie I had shoved in earlier, raising it in the air as it drips water onto the wooden floor.

"Fuck me."

I hold out the wet hoodie and hurry into the bathroom, draping it over the sink. I walk back into the bedroom again, digging into my bag for clothes that somehow escaped the rain. Luckily, I find some dry jeans, pajama shorts, and t-shirts, though a few items are damp.

Unfortunately, the other sweater I had packed for the trip is completely soaked as well, leaving me with only an oversized tee to keep me warm for the night.

A notification pops up from the group chat. It was Kai sending a blurry selfie with a face mask on, while Beomgyu flips off the camera, green glob smeared across both cheeks. I shake my head at the message, before pulling off my sweatshirt and heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

I set my things down and peel off the rest of my clothes as the water takes a moment to heat up. When it’s finally hot enough, I step in, letting the steady stream wash over me—washing away the stress of the day: the rain, the long travel, him.

For a moment, everything feels still.

The sound of the shower mixes with the quiet hum of my thoughts and the steam rising from the hot water. I try not to psych myself out about being alone in the same room as Soobin again.

It literally feels like I’m trapped in some strange purgatory of old, burning tension and mountains of unfinished business

Okay, don't overreact.

When I finally step out, towel wrapped around me and hair dripping onto the bathroom tiles, I feel a little calmer than before—like I’m myself again. Or at least a version of me that doesn’t want to peel layers of skin off because of the sweat and rain clinging to me.

A version of me that might actually make it through this trip.

I dry off quickly and throw on some clothes—a loose, oversized shirt and the driest pair of pajama shorts I can find. Not great for warmth, but better than sleeping in damp, smelly jeans.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Clean feels good.

I open the bathroom door to the soft, warm glow of the bedroom light. Soobin is still there, now sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, phone casting a pale glow on his face. I quietly make my way to my side, keeping my back facing him as I start organizing the rest of my things without a word.

Behind me, the bathroom door clicks shut again, and the sound of the shower starts up. After a few minutes, the water stops, and the door opens once more—Soobin steps out.

“You done sulking yet?” I hear him ask.

“Not even close,” I reply, still facing away.

“Knew you’d say that.” He smirks.

I raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-rummage through my bag. Then I turn around—only to be met with a sight I wasn’t quite prepared for.

"What? You would've done the same if—Jesus, Soobin.”

My words halt as my eyes catch the sight of him standing by the bed. The boy only had a towel slung loosely around his waist and his chest still glistening with droplets from the shower.

His raven hair is tousled, carelessly swept back just enough to keep it from falling into his eyes as beads of water slowly trail down his neck and disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

"You seriously couldn't have gotten dressed up inside the bathroom?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looks up, a t-shirt hanging from one hand, completely unfazed. He shrugs. "Didn't realize it was a crime to dry off in my own room."

I scoff, tearing my gaze away, and forcing myself not to notice the faint flush creeping up my cheeks. This definitely wasn’t the same boy who used to trip over his words just asking to borrow a pen.

No—this version walks around like he owns the fucking air we breathe. I hate that I still notice the difference.

“Idiot,” I mumble, barely audible under my breath.

The rain continues to patter against the windowpane, its steady rhythm growing louder as the storm outside intensifies. He runs a hand through his damp hair, tousling it further, then pulls the clean shirt over his head. The cotton fabric stretches slightly, damp patches from the shower leaving faint gray marks on the white shirt.

I adjust my own shirt, making sure it sits right, before trying to my bury my attention on the mundane task instead of the half-naked—honestly, basically naked, considering it was just a damn towel—boy behind me.

The quiet stretches on, the sound of rain filling the room as I work. Once I'm finally done, I stand, glancing over my shoulder to find him now wearing a hoodie over his shirt, paired with loose pajama pants. I let out sigh in relief and, a tiny bit of disappointment before walking over to the bed.

I pull back the covers and settle into my side, leaning against the headboard. For a moment, I let my eyes fall shut, trying to quiet the mixed nerves and lingering tension still humming under my skin. A few minutes pass before I feel the mattress dip beside me.

I open my eyes slowly and reach for my phone, letting the screen light up my face as I begin scrolling through social media. I come across a few dumb videos that make me snort under my breath, one of them pulling out a soft chuckle.

We don’t look at each other for a while. We don’t need to. There’s an unspoken agreement hanging in the air—we’ll just try to get through this the best we can.

The bedside lamps illuminating the room with warm lighting, cutting through the dimness as the storm outside grows even stronger.

Suddenly, the lights start to flicker abruptly.

My eyes slightly widen as uneasiness starts creeping in just as Soobin and I finally exchange glances at one another.

Then, everything goes black—the power cuts out and the heater falls silent. Now, only the glow from our phone screens lights up the space between us. I softly gasp at the sudden blackout, fingers instinctively tightening around the blanket as I pull it closer to me, attempting to hide the fluttering fear building in my chest.

I watch as Soobin turns on the flashlight on his phone, then standing up from his spot to try flicking the lights on and off again.

"That won't work, you know," I tell him.

"Not bad to try, is it?"

I shift my gaze toward the window, watching the rain clash against the glass as the tree branches sway in the gusts of the storm. Suddenly, a sharp alarm rings from Soobin's phone, making the both of us jump. He scans his device, slowly taking his time to read the alert before looking back at me.

“Heavy rainfall. The power’s out in other parts of the area too. They say it won’t come back until the storm calms down.” I sigh, turning my phone’s flashlight on and sinking into the sounds of rain filling the room.

"Just when it couldn't get any worse" he comments, sitting back down on the bed.

"Right," I say quietly, not looking up. "Because sharing a room with me is clearly the end of the world."

He tilts his head slightly, glancing over. "Didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to." I exhale, keeping my voice even. "You’re not exactly subtle."

I glance down at my phone, the soft light of the screen casting a faint light across the sheets. After a moment, I move to place it on the bedside table, flashlight facing up to push back some of the dimness hanging in the room.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—just... suspended. Like we’re both waiting to see what the other will do, but not in a hurry to break the stillness.

"How do you think the others are doing?" he asks eventually, voice lower than before.

I pause to think for a moment.

"Beomgyu and Kai are probably trying to see who can scare the other first with stupid ghost stories... or maybe watching some random movie Kai downloaded on his laptop before the trip."

He lets out a quiet laugh. "Yeonjun and Tae are probably having those deep conversations—catching up on life, figuring stuff out."

We share a quick look—something unspoken passing between us, a brief moment of shared understanding.

"Yunjin and Nari are probably the same," I add.

"Except Nari’s definitely curled up next to Yunjin by now, too scared of the thunder and lightning outside to care about the blackout."

I chuckle softly at the thought of my friends using this time to connect with each other better. It’s oddly comforting to think about them all, finding little moments like this despite everything.

A sudden flash of lightning briefly illuminates the window, casting sharp shadows across the room as the rain pounds harder against the glass. My bottom lip trembles ever so slightly, the roaring thunder outside and the blackout still gnawing at my nerves.

I bite down gently, trying to steady myself—trying to keep the spiraling thoughts from dragging me too deep into the what-ifs. Soobin notices. He doesn’t say anything, just quietly gets back into bed, pulling the covers over himself. I can feel his gaze linger as he turns to face me, his eyes settling on the faint shiver I can’t quite hide.

I force myself to stay still, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his gaze. I fix my eyes on the wall ahead, silently counting the seconds between flashes of lightning and the low rumble that follows.

Then, his voice breaks the silence—low, even, careful. "You okay?"

It's simple. Unassuming. But the question makes my chest tighten a little. I nod, almost instinctively.

"Yeah. I’m usually fine with this kind of thing. Just... this one feels different.”

A pause. Then, "You always did hate the dark."

HIs tone isn't teasing. It’s just a memory, held between his words—gentle and matter-of-fact. I glance over at him. He continues to hold his gaze at me—watching, really—not in a way that demands anything. Just... present. Like he's trying to recall a memory too.

"I didn't think you'd remember that." I murmur.

And suddenly I’m brought back to a moment during one of our late project nights, two years ago. I’d mentioned it without much thought, embarrassed as I admitted to keeping a nightlight on before I fell sleep well into high school. I’d expected him to laugh, maybe even tease and poke fun at me for it. But he didn't.

He’d just listened.

This moment feels like that version of him again. Before everything got so messy.

Soobin shifts slightly under the blanket, his voice softer when it returns. “I didn’t forget much, you know. Even when it felt like I did.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. A moment of silence lingers between us.

"You can borrow my hoodie, if you want." he suddenly offers, already tugging at the sleeve like he’s ready to hand it over. "Might help you warm up a bit."

“No, it’s fine. I’m not that cold,” I say, trying to wave it off.

He shakes his head lightly, already starting to pull the hoodie over his head. “I don’t mind. I was next to the heater earlier, so I'm still warm anyway.”

“No, really. I’m okay,” I insist, even as I curl the blanket a little tighter around myself.

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Y/N, you’re literally shivering.”

"So?" I ask. He rolls his eyes before siting up from his previous position, slipping the hoodie over his head. The fabric shifts with the motion, briefly lifting his shirt and revealing a glimpse of his waist before settling into place again.

“Stop.”

He smirks slightly, holding the hoodie out again.

“Stop what?” he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Being nice to me,” He shakes his head with an amused expression on his face, like he couldn't believe I was still thinking about that right now.

He tosses the hoodie toward me, the fabric landing softly on the bed between us before I can argue again. I can’t help but smile, feeling that familiar push-pull between us again—the unspoken acknowledgment that beneath the bickering, there’s something... softer.

“Just take it,” he says casually, settling back into his side of the bed like the conversation’s over.

“Don’t make me regret being nice.”

I stare at the hoodie for a second before slowly picking it up. It’s still warm. I hesitate—less because of pride now, more because it smells like him, familiar and oddly comforting. Like something I didn’t know I missed.

“Thanks,” I murmur, slipping it on. The sleeves are long, brushing against my fingertips, and the fabric is soft from too many washes.

But even as I settle into it, a little voice in my head starts nagging. What are you doing? Don’t let yourself fall for his bullshit again.

I try to play it cool, pushing that voice to the deepest part of my mind. But I can’t help the way I slow down just a little as I pull the hoodie tighter around me. I know to myself I shouldn't be letting it matter this much. But here I am, sitting in a dark room, wrapped in Soobin’s sweatshirt like it’s some kind of fragile, borrowed comfort, trying to make up for the years of unfinished business.

The same guy I’d been quietly pining over for years back in high school—the one who stood up for me whenever someone made dumb comments about me, the one who—

Okay, we get it.

Holy shit, I need to get a grip.

“You know, this reminds me of that time in junior year—when the power went out during finals week?” He cuts off my train of thought.

I blink, thrown for a second by the sudden shift. “What, in the middle of exam prep?”

He nods, a small laugh slipping out. “Yeah. You were freaking out because your notes got soaked in the rain, and the library shut early. You barged into the classroom like you were ready to fight someone.”

I let out a quiet groan, covering my face with one hand. “God, don’t remind me.”

“I remember you made the whole friend group take turns sharing notes with you. Bossed everyone around like it was your birthright.”

I peek through my fingers at him, trying not to smile. “Well, I was desperate. And it worked, didn’t it?”

“I mean, yeah. I didn’t mind.” He shrugs. His tone shifts slightly—quieter, softer. And something about it makes me glance up again.

“You never really did know how many people wanted to help you,” he adds. “I don’t think you let yourself see it.”

My throat tightens a little at that. I don’t have anything clever to say back. So I just look at him. And for a second, there’s nothing but the sound of the rain and something quietly settling between us. Something that’s been there for a long time.

"I remember when you used to ‘borrow’ my notes during our study sessions, and somehow they’d never make it back to me.” I say, a teasing edge in my voice.

Soobin casts me a glance I can’t quite read, then shifts his eyes upward to the ceiling. “They made it back… eventually.”

I raise an eyebrow. “After like two months. They were all crumpled by the time they came back to me, especially that one time you spilled banana milk on the cover of my notebook.”

“It was still readable.” He chuckles, unbothered.

"Barely. My color coded notes and neat handwriting deserved better."

Soobin smiles a little at that. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have let me sit next to you in class. That’s on you.”

I shake my head, lips twitching. “Unbelievable.”

“Resourceful,” he corrects, tapping his fingers lightly on the blanket.

I shift my body to completely face him, "You're still the same, Choi Soobin.." I chuckle softly.

Soobin mirrors my movement, turning just enough so we’re facing each other now, the space between us dim and quiet except for the rain outside and the faint hush of our breaths.

After a beat, he asks quietly, his voice softer than before, almost careful. “So… what are you thinking right now? Just between us.”

I offer a small, almost shy smile—less teasing, more real. “And what makes you think I’d just spill everything that easily?”

“Maybe because it’s just the two of us here, might as well keep things peaceful instead of turning this into another argument.”" He says, his voice soft but steady.

I’m not even sure when it all started—this endless back-and-forth between us, like kids fighting over the last piece of cake. What began as silent, resentful looks slowly turned into quiet digs, and now it’s just occasional sharp remarks whenever we cross paths.

It’s feels almost automatic now—like a reflex to sink into that sour mood when he’s around, the weight of all those old grudges clouding, filling me with disgust at the thought of Choi Soobin. But tonight, I'll take a slow breath and try to let it all go. I want to focus on staying civil, pushing all those unspoken frustrations aside, pretending for now that the tension between us doesn’t exist.

I let out a sigh. “Honestly? I’m just counting down the minutes ‘til the storm lets up and the power come back on.”

"Really?"

"Really." I lift an eyebrow, giving him a look.

"That’s all that’s on your mind?"

"What, were you expecting a secret confession or something?"

Fuck.

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know... it just looked like your brain was running a marathon.” His voice is gentle, but there’s something curious laced in it—like he’s hoping I’ll prove him right.

I offer a small smile. “Well, I was also trying to figure out how we’re supposed to survive the next few days without driving each other insane.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “That’s fair.”

A quiet moment stretches between us, the steady tap of rain against the window filling the space.

“But so far… I think we’re doing okay,” he says, voice thoughtful.

Then he glances over, meeting my eyes with a hint of hesitation. "Right?"

I hold his gaze for a moment, surprised by the softness in his voice—genuine, almost unsure. The kind of tone I wasn’t used to hearing from him anymore. A small part of me wants to scoff, to brush it off with another sarcastic remark. But instead, I find myself nodding—just barely.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think we are.”

We both exchange soft smiles before breaking eye contact, the moment passing like a quiet truce.

"How about you?" I ask, voice softer now.

"Hm?" he responds, barely turning his head.

"What’s on your mind, right now?" I press gently, tilting my head slightly as I study his profile.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Thinking about..." he trails on.

"How many points I lost in my game when the blackout kicked me out mid-match.”

I laugh softly, playfully smacking his arm. “I’m serious!”

“I am too! Do you know how hard it was to build up that streak?” He winces dramatically, rubbing the imaginary spot I hit. I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah, I’m sure your streak is definitely the top priority right now" He chuckles at my comment, the corners of his mouth twitching in that familiar, slightly smug way.

I glance up at him, locking eyes—steady, deliberate. His expression shifts just slightly, something unreadable passing through, but I don’t look away. Not this time.

"Really." I murmur.

He pauses for a moment, just long enough to stir my curiosity. Something about the hesitation feels deliberate—but I don’t push. I stay quiet, waiting.

"I guess...” he starts, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of me. “I was just thinking about how this feels a little like... high school again.”

I feel his words like a pang in my chest, old memories stirring just beneath the surface—unwelcome but familiar.

“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “It does feel like that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then, more carefully, “Do you… still think about that time?”

“Sometimes,” I admit, eyes fixed on some spot beyond him.

“When I start missing how easy everything used to be. Before college got... complicated”

Before it got complicated between us, too.

"I think about it sometimes too, you know.."

"Yeah?"

“Yeah. I mean, I probably shouldn’t admit it, but part of me did enjoy the whole back-and-forth thing between us." he says quietly, almost sheepishly.

"Don't go soft on me now, Choi." I say, a teasing edge in my voice.

He grins, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Me? Never."

"Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, buddy."

We both let out quiet chuckles, the tension between us easing just a little. Before I can stop myself, the words slip out,

“Do you think about what happened between us?”

He freezes, just slightly. It’s quick—almost like a flinch—but I catch it. He doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, his gaze drops to the blanket, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on the blanket.

“…I-I don’t know.” His voice is low, uncertain.

“I haven’t really thought about it in a while.”

It’s not cruel, not even cold—just distant in a way that feels practiced. Like he’s been telling himself that for so long it’s starting to sound like the truth.

“Right.” I nod slowly, even if it feels like something inside me just cracked a little.

“Seems like forgetting stuff like that doesn’t take much for you.” I try to keep my voice even.

That finally makes him look at me. His eyes search mine like he wants to argue—but doesn’t know how to without proving my point.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, quietly.

“Then what did you mean?”

He hesitates.

I can see him trying to come up with the right thing to say—something that won’t make this worse—but he doesn’t land on anything.

So I say it for him. “Don’t do that.”

His brows draw together, confused. “Do what?”

"I don't know... Be nice to me, and when you finally let me in, you just shut me out again."

“I.. I don’t really know what you want me to say.”

“I just want you to…” I trail off, frustration tightening in my chest. “I just want you to tell the truth. For once.”

I sit up from where I was lying, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

“I am telling the truth,” he says, sitting up as well, his voice firm.

I shake my head. “Bullshit.”

His lips part, but I cut him off before he can say anything. I don’t want to hear the excuses.

“I get it. It’s easier to pretend nothing ever happened, right? Like we can just go back to how things were.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

He looks at me—really looks at me. His eyes trace my face like he’s trying to make sense of me.

“Do you want me to say you didn’t mean anything to me?” I freeze. I want to meet his gaze, but I can’t bring myself to look at him.

“Is that what you think?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence between us feels heavy, like we’re underwater. I finally look up, meeting his eyes—and there it is: a flicker of something, maybe pain.

"Don't act like you know what's going on inside my head" he mumbles.

"Then just fucking tell me."

He hesitates, jaw tightening. For a long moment, nothing but the sound of our breathing fills the space between us. Then he exhales, looking away as his voice drops, rough around the edges.

“You act like you’re the only one who got hurt.”

That throws me. My shoulders tense, heart stuttering.“What are you talking about?”

He laughs once, a bitter sound that only makes my irritation flare hotter.

“You’re really going to play dumb now?” he asks, turning back to me, eyes sharp and unrelenting.

I don’t back down, my voice shaking with frustration. “No, Soobin. Fuck—I don't even know what you're talking about right now.”

He narrows his eyes, voice sharp and cutting through the tension.“What? You think I was just some asshole who ghosted you because I felt like it? That I woke up one day and decided to cut you out for no reason?”

“Yes!” I snap, louder than I mean to. “That’s exactly what it looked like! You shut me out—no call, no text, nothing. You left me to figure it out on my own.”

His face hardens, but something flickers beneath the anger—something that looks a lot like hurt.

“Stop acting so damn oblivious about it, Y/N!” he snaps, the anger bubbling beneath his tone.

“Oblivious about what?” I demand, my voice rising.

“The fucking letter!” he spits out, voice raw and desperate.

I blink, caught off guard.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my heart pounding.

His expression tightens, confusion mixing with disbelief.

“The note I left in your notebook—the one where I tried to tell you that I…” His voice falters, trailing off before he can finish.

I look at him, confusion twisting in my chest, my heart pounding louder. He didn't even need to say it. We both knew what he meant. Silence falls—long and suffocating—like the calm before a storm. Neither of us moves or speaks. It feels like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the tension. I could hear my heart thump in my chest so loudly I’m sure he can hear it too. Then, like a spark to dry tinder, the tension ignites.

“So you thought I was just supposed to know?” I burst out, voice sharp and trembling.

“That I’d just magically find your stupid note and feel the same—when you never even gave it to me?”

“I did give it to you, Y/N!” he snaps.

“I left the damn notebook on top of your locker before our final presentation that morning. You can’t tell me you didn’t see it.” he explains.

I go quiet, trying to pull the memory from the haze of that day. It was raining—I remember that. I was soaked, rushing through the hallway, trying to dry myself off. I’d thrown my umbrella carelessly on top of the locker… never even looked. His voice cuts in again, bitter.

“I found it the next day,” he says quietly, “In the trash bin. Not just the note—the whole damn notebook. Like you were trying to erase everything I said in that stupid letter, like I never mattered to you.”

He continues, "And you never said a damn thing! How was I supposed to read your mind? You shut me out just as much as I did!” His eyes flashing with anger again.

What?

“Shut you out?” I scoff, stepping closer. “You fucking disappeared! Left me in the dark. And now you act like I’m the villain?”

He scoffs back, voice low and bitter. “Maybe you threw everything away the moment you decided I wasn’t worth your fucking time.”

The air between us grows tighter, heavy with resentment and repressed frustrations. The heavy pressure building in my chest is matched with the rising intensity of the rainstorm outside. The atmosphere feels even more heated, caused by the swirling mixed emotions of hurt, frustration, and something else—something electric.

Without a second thought, my hand grips the collar of his shirt, yanking him toward me. His eyes widen in surprise for just a second—then I crash my lips onto his. His hand immediately finds my face, the other wrapping itself around my waist, pulling me even closer against him like he was afraid I'd disappear. The kiss felt raw, unfiltered, like the argument had just shifted into rougher means of showing our anger toward one another.

The taste of his minty toothpaste still lingers on his lips, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, silently begging to let it drown out every logical thought as we pour all our frustrations we had been dragging for too long into the kiss. I move instinctively, sliding into his lap, my fingers tangling in his hair.

It all felt so messy, so chaotic.

I can almost hear a tiny voice in the back of my head saying we should talk this out like rational adults—that we shouldn’t be tearing into each other like this.

Fuck that.

I don’t stop. I know I don’t want to. Not when he's kissing me like this.

His hand slides from my waist to grip one of my thighs, anchoring me to him as I shift deeper into his lap, craving the friction. He catches my bottom lip gently between his teeth, and I gasp—just enough for him to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth. My whole body reacts, heat pooling in my chest as my heart thunders louder than the storm outside. When we finally pull apart, breathless, neither of us moves.

Our foreheads pressed against each other, our breathing uneven, as our eyes lock into one another like we were trying our best to make sense of the situation I had pulled both of us into, not uttering a single word. Maybe we were both too afraid to break whatever this is—to say something that would snap us back into reality. A reality where we call this a mistake and pretend like this never happened, like we’ll be switching rooms tomorrow and going back to whatever we were before.

Quiet. Resentful. Or maybe.. we just don't know what the hell to say at all.

His fingers twitch slightly against my thigh before slowly loosening their grip. A flicker of disappointment stirs in me, my thoughts racing at the possibility that he might actually pull away. His eyes search mine, like he’s trying to find the right version of me—one that isn’t clouded by all the assumptions he’s built up over time.

"I… I didn't know you didn't get it," he finally says, voice low and hoarse. "The letter."

I nod gently, swallowing hard. "I didn't. I would've said something if I had."

"Would you?" he asks with no accusation in his tone. Just uncertainty. His voice is wrapped in hesitation, like he's bracing himself for something.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I would've."

He exhales sharply, eyes closing for a second like something inside him just gave way. The tension hadn't disappeared. It was just softer now. Everything between us feeling a little more fragile now, like we’re standing at the edge of something that could finally make sense.

“You really didn’t know,” he says, more to himself than to me.

I shake my head. "No. I think it got tossed before I even noticed it was there."

A beat passes as we continue to hold onto each other, like we're soaking in each other's presence for the first time without all the static.

“Then everything I thought… all this time…” His voice fades, but I know what he means. I feel it too.

All the distance, the biting remarks, the resentment (as much as they were all bullshit)—it wasn’t for nothing. It was built on misunderstandings we never cleared up. Feelings we were too scared to admit out loud, even to ourselves. We’d been stuck in denial, hiding behind the label of rivals—enemies, even—just to bury whatever this was… whatever it’s always really been.

“I thought you didn’t feel the same. That you never would,” he admits quietly.

“And I thought you never cared at all,” I say. The silence returns, but it’s different now. Warmer. Less hostile. There’s a tenderness in the space between us that wasn’t there before.

I start to feel a strange warm fuzziness blooming in my chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. His dark brown eyes lock onto mine as he brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, his fingers barely grazing my skin.

“I always did,” he whispers. My heart flutters at his confession.

This time, when I lean in, it’s slower. Softer. Soon, our lips meet again, it’s not rushed or angry. It’s quiet. Vulnerable. It’s everything we never said, everything we were too afraid to feel, poured into something that finally makes sense.

We hold each other tightly—like we’re learning how to, for the first time.

The next morning, the rain finally lets up. The air is crisp, the ground outside still damp and dark beneath the trees. Inside the cabin, the quiet is soft and unfamiliar, broken only by the rustle of clothes and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

I stir at the sound, blinking against the pale gray light filtering through the curtains. Soobin’s already up—half-dressed, moving carefully around the room like he’s trying not to wake me. Or maybe like he doesn’t know what to say if I do.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

There’s no bitterness in the silence—just a heaviness. Like the weight of everything we let slip last night hasn’t quite settled. He moves around the room quietly, slipping on a shirt, brushing his fingers through his hair. I watch him from the bed, the blanket pulled loosely around my waist, heart still beating slower than usual—like it’s unsure what rhythm to follow now.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Not once.

Something about the way he avoids my gaze makes my chest tighten. Last night had felt like something cracked open. But now, in the soft gray light of morning, I’m not sure either of us knows what to do with the pieces.

Soon, we both step out of the cabin together, walking in silence toward the shared dining area. But the silence isn’t biting today—it’s just… tense. Like we both said too much last night and didn’t say nearly enough.

When we arrive, the others are already gathered around the long wooden table. Kai is in the middle of attempting to roll a grape down from his forehead into his mouth, much to Nari’s delight. She sits beside him, another grape pinched between her fingers, cheering him on like it was a sport.

The table erupts with laughter and exaggerated complaints about who snores the loudest. I smile at the sight.

“Look who finally made it,” Beomgyu grins, raising his cup of coffee. I roll my eyes, grabbing a seat beside Yeonjun. Soobin wordlessly takes the one across from me.

“Did you guys sleep in, or were you just avoiding us?” he adds.

I force a tired smile and settle into my seat. Soobin just nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

"Last night’s storm kept us up pretty late.” I add.

“We didn’t sleep much either!” Yunjin jumps in. “Nari wouldn’t stop talking about the possibility of the lightning hitting one of the cabins that it got me fearing for my life too."

“I was being realistic,” Nari protests, and the table erupts again.

I laugh softly, eyes flicking to Soobin without thinking. The memory of our conversation the night before lingered at the edge of my thoughts.

I knew I made the right guess.

“We were talking about the storm earlier too,” Kai says, reaching for a slice of toast. “What did you two end up doing when the power went out?”

I see Beomgyu wiggle his eyebrows from the corner of my eye.

“Soobin lost his mind for a bit,” I say, voice light. "He got disconnected mid-game and wouldn’t shut up about some ranked streak,”

“And Y/N kept hogging the blanket,” Soobin adds, not missing a beat. “I don’t even know how she managed to wrestle with me while dead asleep.”

Groans erupt around us—dramatic and exaggerated. But underneath the teasing, something subtle lingers. A shift. They’re watching us now.

Not the way they usually do. Like they’re waiting for something. Like they know something’s changed—and they’re waiting for us to confirm it. Soobin stands abruptly and brushes crumbs off his shirt. “I’m gonna get some orange juice. You want anything?”

It’s casual. But the silence that follows isn’t. I glance up, just in time to catch how heads turn—slight, slow, like they’re trying not to make it obvious. But it is. Too fucking obvious.

They weren’t expecting that.

“Apple juice,” I reply, voice even. He nods once and walks off.

Taehyun leans in just enough to lower his voice. “You two okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” I repeat, too fast. Too practiced.

"Riiight," The boy hums, unimpressed, dragging the word out a little. His gaze lingers longer than it should. I don’t meet it.

I busy myself with the glass of water in front of me, pretending not to notice how the table feels quieter around me. Even Hueningkai, who’s usually the first to fill silences, pauses mid-bite to glance back and forth between us. It’s subtle, but they can tell. Everyone can.

The air between me and Soobin is heavier, different—like something broke open last night and we haven’t figured out how to patch it up again.

We don’t bicker. We don’t talk.

We were just stuck in this strange, unspoken truce, careful not to look too long or say too much.

Nari cheers suddenly, loud and triumphant.

“I did it! It actually landed in my mouth!” She beams, holding her hands in the air like she’d won a medal. Everyone laughs and claps, the attention shifting with relief. The tension breaks—but not for me.

Because a second later, I feel someone lean in from my left, too close to be casual. His voice lands soft and deliberate right at my ear.

"Orange does suit you, Y/N." Yeonjun murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

My gaze snaps to him, confused—until I see where he’s looking. Not at me. Not at my face. But at the purple mark hidden just behind my neck. Faint. Barely there. Not invisible, though.

Oh.

My heart skips, and I swallow. Across the table, Soobin sets down the two glasses—one in front of me, the other by his seat. His fingers brush the rim of mine for just a second longer than needed.

When I meet his eyes, he’s already looking at me.

There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze—something unspoken hanging between us. But instead of holding his stare, I look away first.

It feels easier this way.

a/n: heyyyy!! :D uhh im backkk akjsbfjasbf. I want to start posting wayy more like actually, like legit i promise. i'll also start replying to my requests and will open them soon again!!

anywayy, i still don't know how to feel about this fic since this is my first time writing something thats not a research paper in a hot minutee, but i hoped u guys like itt!!

(im also still trying to get comfortable writing a bit more suggestive fics, so this is my first entry on that!!)

also,, the way i kept giggling a bit to myself at the thought of Nari with her head just tilted up, mouth agape, moving around trying to catch that grape while everyone at the table sat in silence HELPP i find her soo cutee!!

[fauxnova34]

The Ice Between Us

| Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: When you a bored college student signs up for a beginners figure skating class, you never expected to be trained by Wanda Maximoff, the cold and commanding former figure skating champion whose career was cut short by an ACL injury. Wanda’s authority on the ice is absolute, she has no patience for beginners- especially one who seems to struggle with every move. Despite her harsh demeanour you’re more than determined to prove yourself. As Wanda asserts control over the class and over you, a complicated dynamic of power, desire and resistance begins to form. Will you rise to the challenge or crumble under wanda’s unyielding gaze?

Tags/warnings: Mean Wanda, dom/sub, fluff and smut, Age difference, mutual pining, Tension, Kinda enemies to lovers

Author’s note: This is my first series so I’m sorry if it’s not great, all comments/suggestions/critique is welcome but please be kind and respectful. I hope you enjoy the fic and the wild ride we are all in for!

You weren’t exactly sure what had prompted you in the beginning to sign up to this class. Maybe it was the fact that your college schedule felt endless, or maybe it was the idea of gliding on the ice seemed like the perfect escape from the pressures of exams and assignments. You’d always wanted to learn, but never had the chance. So, when a flyer had appeared on the campus bulletin board for extracurricular activities for adults, you had taken the plunge.

What you weren’t prepared for though, was her.

Wanda Maximoff. You’d heard of her of course, everyone had. She was a legend, practically a household name in the world of figure skating and on your TikTok for you page more than you’d like to admit. That was all until a catastrophic ACL injury had forced her out of the competition scene. Now, apparently she was here, in this small rink, offering to teach beginners like you. Your stomach flipped at the sight of her.

Wanda was standing in the set middle of the rink, her posture perfect, wrapped in a simple black jacket that hugged her curves, but there was nothing simple about her presence. She looked like she belonged to the ice like it was an extension of herself. As she began to glide every movement was sharp and graceful. She was without a doubt beautiful, but it was more than that. It was the way she seemed to command attention without even trying.

You shook yourself out of your daze and looked back down to your laces, you were hesitating, feeling the unmistakable rush of nerves in your veins. Was it really too late to turn around? But before you could make up your mind, her eyes found you.

Her gaze was immediate and it felt like a weight on your chest. You swallowed, heart suddenly hammering as she skated towards you with effortless speed, cutting through the ice with precision and grace that made your stomach tighten. She stepped of the ice in front of you, barely a breath away and your mouth went dry.

“You’re late” she said, her voice sharp. Her eyes were cold like they had already sized you up. She spoke up again “This isn’t the place for latecomers.”

You stammered, caught off guard by her bluntness. “I-I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised the class had already started”

“You’re here to learn how to skate, not to make excuses.” Wanda’s tone left no room for argument. She crossed her arms, her gaze narrowing with quiet judgement. “Hurry up and get in line. We don’t have time for anyone to be behind.”

The words stung and you felt the blush creeping up your neck. She wasn’t even trying to soften her tone. Her presence pressed against you like a weight you couldn’t shake. You were already wishing you could crawl into a hole and hide.

You nodded, unsure of what else to do. Her eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second. You were almost wondering if she was waiting for you to fail. “Laces criss crossed into a bow, be quick about it” she left you with before moving back into the centre.

Forcing your hands into motion you began tying them as she had said criss and crossing until they looks somewhat presentable tying them off with the bow before awkwardly shuffling to the rink where the rest of the class were trying to get into some semblance of rhythm. The other skaters didn’t notice your awkward entrance, but you could feel Wanda’s gaze on you, sharp and unblinking, as if she was waiting to watch every little mistake you would make.

The floor was slippery beneath you, and every step felt like you were about to lose your balance. But you couldn’t let yourself fall, not in front of her. You wanted to be good at this, needing to prove you could be more than another newbie just stumbling around on the ice.

“Don’t just stand there” Wanda’s voice cut through the space. “ Move, this is the beginners class, not the ‘watch people flail’ class. Skate, or get out.”

You froze, not sure if you’d been caught making a bigger mistake or if she just liked to keep her class on edge. That’s until the whole class seemed to stop and stare at you, and for a moment you just wished the earth would swallow you whole. But instead Wanda’s eyes locked with yours, for a fleeting second you’re sure you seen them soften, just barely.

“Try again” she said, her tone still commanding but with a subtle shift, something almost, expectant. “ And this time, don’t waste my time.”

Trying to ignore the way her words stung like a slap, you nodded. There was something about her authority, her control, that both frustrated you and compelled you. You knew she was tough, knew she wouldn’t let anyone slide by easily, but the more she pushed you the more you couldn’t help but want to prove her wrong.

Her eyes remained on you as you took another step, trying again to find some balance to glide across the ice. Every tiny movement seemed to be under her scrutiny and it made you feel both exposed and strangely…alive.

“Better” the word was still sharp, as if she were merely acknowledging that you hadn’t just completely embarrassed yourself. “But that’s not good enough. Do it again and this time, don’t think. Just move.”

It was a command and you didn’t even think to argue. You couldn’t, it felt like you were being bent to her will and you found yourself falling into line whether you wanted to or not.

You glanced around the rink desperate to follow the other skaters but they had already moved on. You were the only one still left struggling, alone in her gaze. She stood there, watching you, every bit the dominant figure that she was. And despite how harsh her words felt, despite the biting coldness in her tone, you couldn’t shake the feeling Wanda wanted something from you, something more than a simple performance.

She wanted obedience. She wanted control.

And for some reason, you couldn’t help but want to give it to her.

[cosmicpuzzle]

Which Education🎓📚 is right for you?

Mercury rules your interest and consequently which type of course you would select.

Now you have to see how Mercury is placed. For example if Mercury is conjunct Moon it would have same effect as Mercury in Cancer or Moon opposite Mercury.

Mercury -Sun: It is called Budh Aditya yoga. These people can shine in political science, geology, sociology, medicine and they can be good leaders too. They may prepare for competitive exams.

Mercury-Moon: Some changes or confusion in choice of course. Can study more than one subject but both vastly different from each other. Chemical, hotel management, nutrition, chef, psychology, tarot and intuitive studies.

Mercury-Mars: Some obstacles in education, breaks and interruptions (dropping classes), engineering (especially related to machines, drawings, plans, civil, electronics), medicine (especially related to surgery), fire and safety engineering,

Mercury-Venus: Sales, marketing, HR, interior designing, makeup courses, all type of fine arts, vocational courses, acting courses.

Mercury-Saturn: Engineering (like construction , petroleum, mining core subjects), structural engineering, drafting, administrative studies.

Mercury-Jupiter: Finance, CPA, CMA, accounting, teaching, law field, journalism, VJ, pilots, aeronautical.

Mercury- Rahu: Chemical, nuclear subjects, cinematography, software courses, digital marketing, share markets, computer hardware, import export, AI, Machine Learning courses.

Mercury-Ketu: Computer coding, electrical engineering, bio technology, astrology, virology, research oriented fields.

For Readings DM

[frickingnerd]

academic rivals to lovers with iida

pairing: tenya iida x gn!reader

tags: rivals to lovers, top ranking student!reader, oblivious/dense!tenya, silly & wholesome fluff

tenya is used to being on top of his classes! at his old school, he was always the highest ranking student, yet he knew that once he'd attend UA, he'd be playing in a different league!

almost everyone at UA used to be on top of their classes in their old school, so naturally, not everyone would be able to maintain their position. but he didn't expect you to be the one to take the first place, instead of him!

you were rather unassuming at first, which is why iida had expected someone like izuku, shoto or even momo to rank highest on the exam! but when he saw you take first place, he started to focus on you!

tenya tried to befriend you, asked you to study together and share tips on how to prepare for exams! yet you weren't that interested in study dates and preferred to study by yourself

while you didn't mean no harm, tenya believed you turned him down because you thought you were better than him or because you disliked him! and so, he vowed to do even better next exam, to humble you a little and show you that he was quite smart as well!

yet when you ranked first again during the next exam, tenya only grew more desperate to outclass you. he studied more and focused more on outshining you whenever he could!

slowly, you began to realize what he was doing. and while you found it pointless at first, you eventually started to reciprocate that little competition tenya started!

soon enough, the two of you were always switching back and forth between who was on top of the class. most of the time it was you, but tenya was always second, if not first in some exams!

while you hadn't cared too much about each other at first, you had now started to focus on each other, almost obsessed with one another! you wanted to beat each other, but why did you even care so much…?

it wasn't until denki made a playful comment towards tenya, telling him that it was quicker to “just ask you out, instead of trying to impress you so hard”

and perhaps that's when tenya finally realized that while he saw you as a rival all along, part of him really did want to impress you and get your approval…

[twisted-king]

Salve!:D. I'm curious on how the vice-dormleaders would react(hc) if their S/O being like Silver. Not in a literal sense but in a "Always sleepy/sleeps in random places" sense. It would also be pretty funny if their S/O still aces their academics HAHA(￣▽￣)~*

omg!! YES!!!

Vice Dormleaders x Silver-like!Reader

Trey Clover

He's a little worried... Like do you get enough sleep?

Are classes too stressful?

Trey finds it cute if you fall asleep on his shoulder while studying or having afternoon tea. He'd chuckle and give a "Is my shoulder that comfortable?" line as soon as you wake up.

Yes, you've heard it hundreds of times.

Trey kind of insists on studying with you, he (wrongly) thinks you might fall behind due to all the napping you do.

of course these study sessions are comfortable for you so you're usually lulled asleep by his voice

So imagine his suprise when he asks you about your text scores.

He's here, all ready to console you with your favorite tart, arms open to prepare to be a good boyfriend and hug you when youre sad

Only to be met with "Oh the midterm..? I aced it, why?"

HUH???

WHAT???

You share the tart, he laments...

He likes to suprise you with little treats every now and again, he buys special little boxes to put them in all the time too.

one day, he happened upon you sleeping underneath the table in your dorm (he knows where to look at this point).

You woke up with a light weight on your chest, It was a small green box with a letter attached to it:

"A sweet treat after your sweet dreams,

XOXO

- Trey Clover

Jade Leech

"Oh? How interesting..."

Jade is a little weirdo, so I think this unique trait of yours REALLY facinates him!

He kind of develops a sixth sense for your eepiness. Like he'll be in a middle of a shift and just randomly take a break, just to be there for you when you wake up.

Jade BEGS you to try a bunch of (non poisonous) mushrooms to see if they make your drowsiness worse or better

"Would you not consider it at leas.." "No." "please.." "Just once.."

He's really convincing (6'5 and in a suit).

If you fall asleep in the monstro lounge he is NOT stopping Floyd from doodling on your face

He isnt too suprised by your competency with grades, but then again he lives with Floyd, its kind of hard to suprise him.

He still rewards you with a lil kiss on the forehead

Jade LOVES when you fall asleep on him, it lets him know you feel safe around him!! He keeps a pleased smile on his face when youre near him and sleepy in any capacity.

He wants to go on hikes with you SO BADLY.

You agree one day, it kind of ends with you being carried when you eventually fall asleep on a particularly warm rock.

"Whatever will I do with you, Angelfish..."

-Said while lovingly scooping you up

Jamil Viper

Sigh...

How you two got together is a mystery

But he feels a bit calmer with you around.

He's pretty busy with Kalim, so a lot of time spent together is during school, school activities, and while he's cooking.

Jamil gets a little anxious when youre out of sights. like... what if you're sleeping somewhere dangerous, or you suddently decided to persue mountain climbing?

You go to a lot of his basketball practices, he claims he plays a little better when youre around anyway, even if you fall asleep in the middle fo the game

Stops both Ace AND Floyd from doodling on your face during practices.

Now, as for grades. He isnt too worried about you, he's got kalim to deal with an an exam to underperform on.

After midterms, he does ask about how you did (as seems to be customary)

"I did pretty well... got a 98" "You what"-

He's...pleaseantly suprised! one less thing to worry about (despite that not being his responsibility)

Jamil likes cooking spicier and spicier food for you, both to see if you can handle it (he's a little competitive), and to wake ypu up a lil <3

He presses a kiss to your cheek for every "level" you complete

"What do you think, Flower?... ah, you fell asleep"

Rook Hunt

I'm sorry.... he's a little weird about it.

He has a LOT of pictures of you sleeping in odd places

Rook's favorite is his homescreen on his phone, it's you sleeping in an impossibly high tree kind of just.. hanging there. Its in super high quality though.

He likes leaving little notes about how cute you look while sleeping around

its like a little gift for when you wake up!!!

When he isnt watch you sleep he keeps a bottle of water and some fruit snacks to munch on. Sleeping this often must be tiring after all, you need your energy!

You know you can call for him just as easily as Vil can (if not easier... you bagged a SIMP)

So, sometimes you jokingly put a hand to your forehead and Rook comes SPRINTING.

His arms are outstretched ready to catch you into a fall and dip you into a kiss

Sometimes though, it is not a joke, and Rook dutifully scoops you up before you make eye contact with him.

It's Rook, so he kind of knew about your good grades already, but every time you tell him he gives you a little "Magnifique~" and kisses your knuckles.

Your dates are very odd. one week it'll be a romantic picnic he preapred for you, the next you're hunting for Leonas together, and after that? movie night!

"Ah~ how delightful it must be to be graced with your beautiful viasge. How I long to be the lone tree stump that captured your affections so.

<3

-Rook Hunt"

Lilia Vanrouge

Another one of them "ara ara?? how interesting" types

He's a father, whose had practice with Silver

Lilia always encourages you to do your best, he usually knows when to stop pushing you to study or focus by looking into your eyes.

He's huge on affections (touch starved Lilia HC my beloved), so Lilia sometimes conveniently floats on by if you start to get drowsy.

He would rather stroke your hair to sleep over you resting on the uncomfortable wooden desks

Also kind of a weirdo who isnt tooo suprised about your high grades. He kind of assumed you were studying in your free time without him.

However, that does not mean he doesnt want to reward your great scores!! He'll cook for you :)

"I was thinking of making a lovely lasagna, with some cinnamon and jalapeño for color.... oh dear, you seem to have fallen asleep."

"honk shmimimimimim" -you, clearly faking it

He always feigns hurt when you reject his cooking, but he knows of his reputation in the kitchen.

Lilia often takes you to new places, usually museums, but sometimes your dates are in a forest he recently discovered within Diasomnia's grounds. like a goth picnic

He has a photo album of your dates together, although he has a page or two dedicated to his favorite spots you've napped on.

Lils is super accomodating, as long as you dont mind his suprise hugs and some light jumpscaring

"Haha got you, little bat!"

-Lilia, after successfully scaring the HELL out of you

[lecsainz]

hey!!!! so a Londo x gf!reader where Lando is a super loving but at the same time suuper annoying and sassy boyfriend 😂

DATING WITH LANDO NORRIS

summary: that's how it would be like dating lando.

authors note: While writing this, I almost died cause I went to grab coffee, and it was SO SO SO HOT 😭 I got inspired by the messages I found on Pinterest 💅

✩. . . masterlist !

You didn't know that dating Lando would be a test of patience. Not that you were a boring person, but Lando had a knack for teasing you just for fun, and it drove you crazy...

You're in college, juggling lectures and assignments, and Lando takes every opportunity to distract you with playful text messages and surprise visits to your campus.

Living in London together means endless opportunities for exploration, but also endless debates about whether to take the Tube or an Uber, and Lando always insists on walking, even in the rain.

Lando's idea of a romantic date involves taking you to a go-kart track and pretending to lose so that he can see you competitive and fired up.

He's super loving, and when you're stressed with exams, he'll make you tea and give you back massages, but not without adding a cheeky comment about how you should study less and cuddle more.

Whenever you're watching a Formula 1 race, he'll point at the screen and say, "That's gonna be me winning for you one day, babe."

Lando can't resist poking fun at your accent, even though he's the one with the strong British one. "Say 'water' again, love."

He insists on cooking together, but be prepared for a chaotic kitchen and lots of flour fights.

Lando loves surprising you with impromptu road trips, and while you appreciate the spontaneity, you secretly wish he'd let you pack a bag first.

He's a night owl, and you're not. He'll playfully nag you to stay up late and binge-watch Netflix series with him.

On your birthdays, Lando goes all out with surprises. One year, he arranged for you to take a ride in an actual Formula 1 car (with a professional driver, him, of course).

Lando can't help but show off his driving skills when you're in the car together, even if it means a few hair-raising moments.

He leaves sticky notes with cheesy love messages all over your apartment, which you find for days, even in the most unexpected places.

Sometimes, he intentionally loses bets just to owe you a favor he can cash in later for cuddles.

Lando's sense of humor is a mix of charming wit and cheeky sarcasm, which makes every conversation an entertaining challenge.

Lando's cooking skills are... questionable, but he'll proudly present you with his latest culinary creation, and you'll pretend it's the best thing you've ever tasted.

He loves to bug you, especially when he's jetlagged, sending all sorts of messages like:

[grogumaximus]

Getting here was his lifelong dream. Is it how he imagined it?

"When you're a kid, you dream of just driving. Instead, I realized that F1 isn't just about getting in a car and racing, but there's also a lot more outside to learn to manage."

Did you also have to adapt your character, which has always been very friendly and open?

"I've changed a lot in the last year, to protect myself. I've realized that private things should remain private and I try to be careful."

Your debut in the rain surprised everyone. What do you like about racing in the wet?

"To be honest, I don't know. It's always come naturally to me in single-seaters. And to think that I didn't like it at all in karts."

In the rain in 2020 he had a bad accident in which he broke his leg. How do you get back into wearing a helmet after an episode like that?

"Maybe that's also why I didn't like the rain in karts. When I returned to the track the year after the accident I really struggled in the rain. I kept going thanks to passion and experience but initially it was a shock."

Was it difficult to overcome?

"Yes, because when something like this has never happened to you, you don't think it could happen to you. It takes time to accept it and to understand how to move forward, how to run without fear again."

This weekend he will be racing his first home race in F1. How exciting will it be?

"I'm so happy. On Friday I'll arrive directly from my house in Bologna and sleep in my own bed before going to the track. It's also my little sister's birthday, so I can celebrate with her."

Will there be someone special by his side?

"My whole family, my best friends and even my classmates. Since I can't go on school trips, I thought I'd take them to the track with me over the weekend."

His father is following him in all the races of the season. How does he help him?

"We analyze each session together to see where I can improve. And then dad is my rock, he is the one I can always count on and having his support in this very important year for me is fundamental."

Among the challenges of this year there will also be the Maturity exam to take. Are you ready?

"I'm a little nervous. Unfortunately I won't be able to take the exams with my classmates because I have competitions in that period, but I want to get there, also to make my mother proud, she means a lot to me."

He has an extraordinary memory: He can remember all the times he has achieved on the track over the years. Is this talent a help in F1?

"I'm not sure where this ability comes from. When I want to beat a time it sticks in my head and remembering the ones from previous years allows me to understand the conditions of the track. Let's say that in general it helps me to arrive prepared, but I don't do it on purpose, it just happens."

We often see you with Verstappen. Do you get along?

"I think people can get the wrong idea about Max: on the track he's an animal but off it he's a very nice guy. We really like GT and simulator racing, we have a lot in common."

You took Hamilton's place at Mercedes. Does the comparison weigh on you?

"No, because I know I'm not his replacement. I simply feel like the new Mercedes driver and I'm grateful for the opportunity that has been given to me."

His girlfriend Eliska was a go-kart racer. Is it important for her to know the environment?

"A lot. She doesn't compete anymore, she's chosen to focus on her studies, but the fact that she understands everything that goes into it helps me. And then when she comes with me to the paddock she knows how to move, I know that if I leave her alone she won't have any problems".

How is the relationship with Peter Bonnington, your race engineer?

"Very nice. At the beginning I saw him a bit tense because I'm a very physical guy, I like to hug people, touch them, and "Bono" wasn't used to it, he's more "British". Now that he's opening up I'm very happy when he comes to hug me".

Are the goals you set before the start of the season the same ones you have today?

"No, now they've got up. We have a competitive car and we've achieved some great results. Now I want the first podium, that's the next goal. And then we'll think about the first win."

Is there anything you miss about having a normal life?

"Since I was little I've gotten used to living a life different from my peers. But running is what I love, what I've always wanted to do and what I'll want to do for the rest of my life. Nothing really weighs me down."

[molosseraptor]

Figgy had his first real dog show this past weekend!

We had no chance for points and just did one day to dip our toes in and get some experience, but he handled it all so well. I took him one day to hang out and get familiar with everything and make friends, gave him a rest day, and then came back to show for real the third day. We’ve been practicing but handling classes don’t currently work with my schedule so a lot of this was newer for him.

I tried not to do much physical manipulation at all to keep it low pressure and fun. He’s super wiggly so saving all his good boy points for being as still as possible for the exam was the goal (semi-successful lol). Luckily she thought he was charming even though there was some nonsense. The mouth exam was perfect. I messed up by not having the bait in an easier access location when transitioning to the body exam. I was prepared for what we see more commonly now where the judge examines the body first and bite last, but that’s not what happened here and my lack of preparation gave him too much wiggle room. His free stacks were nice! That first one was perfect. It shouldn’t be hard for a well built dog to self stack, but babies aren’t always gifted with body awareness.

He gaited well. He’s a naturally easy mover so I don’t have to work too hard on that, but we do have to fix the racing. This was better than I expected but not as good as he can do in practice. My goal is always to be able to show pretty loose lead with a trained dog. I loved that he was mostly able to stay head forward. Because we do a lot of work on loose leash walking and competition heeling there’s a huge reinforcement history for looking at me when moving on my left side, but we’ve been working at it with target training. He also moved well with another Corso in the ring! That’s very exciting for a social baby and his last few practices gaiting with other dogs were not this successful.

All in all I’m very proud of how he handled himself in and out of the ring. With a little more practice and maturity it’ll keep getting smoother.

[2i1han]

Slowly, Then All at Once

2 : since then

pairing: classmate!leehan x fem!reader │word count: 8.9k

genre: slow-burn, young adult, coming of age, romcom

tags: boynextdoor , non-idol au, high school/college au , first love , neighbor!leehan , extrovert!leehan , cold!leehan , extrovert!reader

characters mentioned : kim leehan , park sungho , anton lee , sakai moka , kim minji , ham jinsik , kim woonhak

warnings: no warnings! sfw

synopsis : you and leehan have always known each other—classmates since ninth grade, always familiar but never really close due to leehan's indifference. but when his brother enters the picture, and you ending up in the same building as him, everything starts to change. unresolved situation that were once buried begin to surface, and leehan must decide: let go or finally take a chance.

a/n : hi, everyone! this is the second full part for my series. and, i just wanted to say thank you to all those who read the first part and supported it ! i love you all so much 𖹭 i hope you'll enjoy this part as much as i enjoyed writing it.

playlist : seasons/wte , the first words/song yuvin , a little bit more/jinho , everyone adores you/matt maltese , so let's go see the stars/boynextdoor , but i like you/boynextdoor , so tender/say sue me , bad/wte , light/wte , chocolate/bol4 , some/soyou , would you love me/stella jang , everyday/haebin , star drawing/yuziii

the countdown to graduation had begun. it's the first weeks of october, and the air is starting to get cold, as well as the trees turning bright orange. five months left, and summer vacation was already waving hello from a distance like a blessing. but instead of enjoying the thought of freedom, everyone was drowning in piles of textbooks, mock exams, and late-night study sessions for the csat entrance exams. the entire school felt like it had turned into a pressure cooker, students running on caffeine and stress as they prepared for college entrance exams.

and you? you were no exception. while others buried themselves in past papers, you were sacrificing sleep at ungodly hours, struggling to piece together the perfect art portfolio for your university application. between exam prep, graduation rehearsals, and finishing last-minute school requirements, you barely had time to breathe.

so when the weekend rolled around, you decided to reclaim a small piece of your sanity. you swung by moka's apartment, planning to meet up with her and minji— your first proper hangout in weeks.

moka sat at her vanity, delicately patting powder onto her face like she was about to go on a magazine shoot instead of a casual outing. she glanced at you through the mirror.

"how's your portfolio going?" she asked, dabbing her nose with a fluffy brush.

you sighed dramatically, flopping onto her bed like a tragic indie. "it's fine… i guess. i just don't think some of my existing pieces are good enough." you groaned, rubbing your forehead. "that's why i'm still trying to make new ones."

moka immediately turned to face you, her expression is a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "you can't be serious." she put her powder down as if you had personally offended her. "y/n, you're literally at the top of your class when it comes to art. even the professors are obsessed with you!"

she wasn’t wrong. you had consistently won every art competition, and teachers practically worshipped your skills. but self-doubt was a clingy little parasite, and no amount of external validation could change the way you fixated on the tiny flaws in your work.

you just shrugged it off, knowing that moka will again hit you with the every art has flaws.

"yeah, whatever." picking up your phone from the bed, you scrolled through your messages. "is minji still not coming?"

moka hummed in response, too focused on applying her false lashes to spare you a damnm

right on cue—

ding dong.

"speak of the devil," you muttered, tossing your phone aside before getting up to open the door.

as expected, minji stood there, slightly breathless, her denim jumper speckled with dried paint. her hair was in a messy bun, strands of hair flowing like they had given up on being tied.

"sorry i'm late," she panted, stepping inside. "extracurriculars ran long."

you closed the door behind her, eyeing the paint stains on her clothes. "mhm, looks like it," you said, plopping back onto the bed as minji took a seat on a wooden chair—probably to avoid ruining moka's fluffy pink bedsheets.

"so," minji stretched her arms, "where are we heading?"

"the new café on the next street," moka announced, wiggling her eyebrows. "i heard their pastries are the real thing."

you perked up. "sweet. i've been craving sugar." you lazily raised your phone above your head.

on the other hand, minji groaned. "i'm on a sugar diet, but fine." she crossed her arms. "where did you even hear about this place?"

that's when moka's expression shifted into something far too smug for your liking. "my friend told me," she said, twirling a strand of her hair. "i wasn’t interested at first, but then she mentioned that the barista there is handsome."

you and minji immediately shared a look.

"...ewww," you both deadpanned, cringing.

"the pastries better be actually good, or we're leaving you behind," you warned, stifling a laugh.

moka just shrugged, grinning. "gladly. more eye candy for me."

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

the three of you stepped into the café, immediately greeted by the warm interior, a contrast to the chill autumn air outside. the place had a cozy ambiance—soft lighting, large window panes letting in the golden hues of the late afternoon sun, and walls painted a light coffee brown. it wasn't a huge place, but spacious enough, with about eight tables spread around the room. the scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries hung in the air, making your stomach grumble slightly.

you glanced around as the three of you settled at a four-seater table by the window, the perfect spot for people-watching and rating cars driving by.

"i'll order. what do you guys want?" you asked, tapping your fingers lightly on the table.

moka and minji hummed in thought, their eyes drifting to the digital menu displayed on the right wall.

"just a hot cocoa for me. and for the pastry… let’s just get a whole tiramisu cake," moka decided, leaning back in her chair.

minji nodded in agreement. "that'll do. i'll get an iced americano."

"alright," you murmured before pushing yourself up from your seat and heading toward the counter.

the café wasn't too crowded, only about three other customers were seated inside, all quietly sipping on their drinks. you were the only one at the counter, so you took your time glancing at the overhead menu, even though you had already decided.

i'll just get what moka did, you muttered under your breath before shifting your eyes left and right, scanning the empty counter. you were mildly curious about this so-called handsome barista moka had been fawning over.

and as if on cue, the door to the employee's room swung open.

there he is. the legendary ‘handsome’ barista.

you blinked, suppressing a chuckle. if this was moka's definition of handsome, then water must be dry.

the guy was tall, his jet-black hair falling slightly over his forehead in a way that looked both effortless and intentional. his skin was clear—flawless, even, and his nose was sharp enough to cut glass. fine, maybe some points there. he wore a light cream polo under a black apron, the typical café worker drip.

he caught your gaze and immediately approached, his expression was smooth and light.

"what'll you have today, miss?" his voice was gentle, and polite, almost overly refined like he was a nobleman in disguise.

you almost wanted to laugh, but instead, you matched his energy with a small smile. "two hot chocolates and one iced americano. all medium-sized."

"andd… pastry?" he tilted his head slightly, still smiling.

"one whole tiramisu cake," you confirmed.

the barista nodded enthusiastically before punching the order into the register. "that'll be 43,000 won, miss."

you handed him your card, watching as he swiftly swiped it before handing it back.

"thank you. you can take your seat; i'll bring your order to your table," he offered, gesturing toward the seating area.

you nodded and turned around, only to be met with the sight of moka practically jumping with excitement, her eyes locked onto the barista like he was a rare artifact in a museum.

rolling your eyes, you made your way back and sat down next to minji.

"he's not even that handsome," you commented, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly.

moka's head snapped toward you so fast you feared she might get whiplash. "this is exactly why no guy approach you anymore," she deadpanned. "do you know how many hot guys in school have tried to get with you, only for you to brutally reject them and tell us that they weren't ‘handsome’?"

minji, ever the slightly neutral party, simply nodded in agreement. "i mean… she's got a point." shhe paused for a second before stealing another glance at the barista. "he is handsome. you're just bitter."

you sighed, sparing another glance at the guy, who was now carefully scooping out the tiramisu from the pastry window. "fine. i'll give you two some credit. his skin is nice, and he's got a decent nose. other than that, nothing special."

minji leaned back against the windowpane, while moka let out an exaggerated ugh. her dramatic reaction was short-lived, though, as her smile suddenly creeped back in two times wider than the last. you didn't even have to turn around to know what that meant.

the barista was approaching.

"here's your order, miss," he said, setting the tray down with grace.

moka, in true moka fashion, didn't even glance at the food. her attention was zeroed in on the barista's face, studying every detail like she was going to write a dissertation on it.

you nodded in thanks, ignoring the way the barista's gaze lingered on you for a good three seconds before he walked away.

as soon as he was out of earshot, moka sighed dreamily. "oh my god, he's so handsome."

you picked up your fork and stabbed your slice of tiramisu with a blank expression. "sure."

moka's face flattened as she swirled her straw in her drink. she exhaled dramatically before giving you a pointed look.

"is this all just because of your poor eyesight?" she asked, as if genuinely concerned for your well-being.

minji, mid-sip of her iced americano, nearly choked, letting out a half-laugh, half-cough.

rolling your eyes, you adjusted your thick-framed glasses, the same ones you had stubbornly worn since middle school, despite constant suggestions (or rather, bullying) from your friends. "please. i'm planning to switch to contacts soon."

moka gasped, clutching her chest like you had just declared peace. "finally! maybe then you'll see the world properly, or, see hot people properly.”

you raised an eyebrow. "the world, sure. hot people? questionable."

minji snickered while the other one groaned, shaking her head in disappointment. "you are a lost cause."

she then propped her chin on her hand, a dreamy look spreading across her face. "even his name is handsome," she dragged out the syllables in front of you.

"park. sungho."

minji side-eyed her. "wow, how do you even know his name?" she scoffed before you could ask the exact same question.

moka rolled her eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "duh, it's on his name tag. didn't you see?"

minji snorted. "i barely looked at him. ask y/n, she was at the counter."

both of them turned to you expectantly.

you blinked at them before shoving another forkful of tiramisu into your mouth. "nope, didn't notice."

moka's jaw dropped "unbelievable. you were standing right there!"

you chewed slowly, shrugging. "was focused on the order. priorities."

minji let out a snort while moka threw her hands in the air. "whatever, you're so boring. let's just enjoy this before i lose my mind." she said, stabbing a fork on the cake.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

by the time the three of you had inhaled the cake and drained your drinks, minji let out a satisfied sigh, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"mhm, okay. this is actually the real thing," she said, stretching her arms.

moka leaned back proudly, folding her arms. "told you."

you hummed in agreement as you swirled the last bits of your hot chocolate. the tiramisu was, in fact, perfection. even the coffee was good, like it was made by someone who actually cared about their job. you hated to say it, but maybe moka's handsome barista had some redeeming qualities beyond his face.

just as you reached for a napkin to wipe your mouth, something caught your eye

something was written under it. your brows furrowed as you turned it over.

a number?

and a note underneath: "you look pretty."

you stared at it. then, instinctively, you looked back to the counter. sungho was busy now, his sleeves rolled up as he worked through a growing line of customers. his face remained completely focused, but he glanced over.

you immediately looked back down at the napkin.

minji was already pulling on her coat, and moka was, of course, checking herself out in her pocket mirror.

"all right, are we ready to go?" she asked, running a hand through her hair one last time.

"yeah, sure," minji yawned, stretching her arms.

you casually crumpled the napkin in your palm and shoved it into your pocket. no big deal. nothing to see here.

as the three of you stepped out into the street, you shook your head, exhaling sharply.

moka nudged you as you walked. "you're being weird. what's up?"

"nothing," you said quickly.

moka narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but minji cut in before she could pry.

behind you, inside the café, sungho briefly glanced toward the window, watching you disappear down the street.

then, with a small smirk, he returned to his work.

"where are we heading now? it's only 3 p.m.," minji asked as she lazily stretched her arms above her head.

moka didn't even hesitate. "the mall. come on, let's go."

minji hummed in approval, already pulling out her phone to check for any new sales.

you were just about to nod when a sudden realization hit you like a brick to the face. your sculpture. the one that was due tomorrow. monday afternoon.

"oh, crap." you stopped in your tracks, causing both of them to halt and turn to you with raised eyebrows.

"what?" moka asked, her excitement fading slightly.

you let out a tight-lipped sigh. "i just remembered, i have an unfinished sculpture in the art room. i need to finish it today. you guys go ahead without me. i'll catch up if i can."

moka's eyes immediately narrowed. "absolutely not."

here we go.

"come onnn, we barely even go out anymore! just this once, prioritize us over some lump of clay," she whined, dramatically clasping her hands together like she was pleading for her life.

"it's not just a lump of clay, moka," you deadpanned.

six pleases and ten ‘we barely go out anymore's later, moka finally sighed in defeat, crossing her arms.

"fine. but next time, make sure you don’t have any unfinished tasks, so we can enjoy the day properly, okay?" she looked at you almost pitifully, like you were some overworked corporate employee instead of a graduating student.

you chuckled, pulling both her and minji into a quick hug. "i promise. take care, both of you."

minji patted your back. "you too. don't let the clay take over your life."

with that, they waved goodbye, and you made your way to the bus stop, waiting for the ride that would take you the very place you had been trying to escape all week.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

by the time you arrived at the art room, you fully expected to be the only student who had procrastinated this badly. but as soon as you pushed the door open, the atmosphere inside shifted.

there, seated at one of the workstations, was leehan—completely engrossed in his sculpture, his hands steady as he gripped a sculpting tool.

you walked slowly, carefully making your way toward your own workspace, which just so happened to be right next to his.

of course.

leehan barely glanced at you, but when he did, it was through the gaps of his hands as he continued shaping his piece. his focus remained stable, and, predictably, he didn't say a word.

not that you were expecting him to.

it had always been like this for the past three years. silent. neutral. two people coexisting in the same space without the need for conversation.

so, treating this as just another normal day, you sat down and got to work.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

thirty minutes passed, and your sculpture was already coming together nicely. the texture was smooth, the facial anatomy was decent, and all that remained were the arms and legs.

meanwhile, leehan's progress… was questionable at best.

you snuck a glance at his work.

it hadn't moved. at least, not noticeably. the proportions were off, the limbs were… concerning, and at this point, it was starting to look more like an artifact from a horror museum rather than an academic project.

he was struggling.

you furrowed your brows. why did he even choose an art strand? was he actually passionate about it? or was this some twisted form of self-inflicted suffering?

whatever the reason, you couldn't ignore it any longer.

"do you need help?" you asked, more out of pity than actual expectation.

and honestly, you weren't expecting an answer. if anything, you thought he'd ignore you like always.

but then, like some kind of miracle, leehan put his sculpting tool down and mumbled:

"yes, please."

yes, please.

your brain short-circuited.

it wasn't just a yes. it wasn't just some bare-minimum grunt of acknowledgment.

there was a please.

was this for real? or had the painful silence in the room finally driven you insane?

but before you could spiral into that thought, you shook it off. whatever, not important. you had a job to do.

you nodded, moving over to his table as you examined his sculpture up close.

"do you even know basic anatomy?" you asked, tilting your head at the poor, disfigured limbs of his creation. it was... unique.

leehan barely glanced up. "i'm bad at it." his voice was quiet, almost as if admitting this was painful.

you hummed in response, crossing your arms.

"well," you sighed, picking up a sculpting tool, "lucky for you, i don't suck at it."

leehan smiled to himself. an actual smile.

not a forced one, but a real, genuine, pleased-with-life kind of smile. but, thankfully for him, you didn't notice. you were too busy sculpting, completely focused on saving his poor project. and honestly? he was probably relieved. if you had seen it, that carefully crafted, too-cool-to-care exterior he had built over the years might've shown some cracks.

instead, he simply stood beside you, watching as you worked with effortlessly.

"watch how i do it," you said, not even glancing up.

leehan obeyed without question, his gaze glued to your hands and the clay.

minutes passed, and the disfigured limbs of his sculpture were slowly reshaped into something actually recognizable. you worked swiftly, skillfully, and before long, you placed the sculpting tool down with a satisfied sigh.

"there," you said simply.

leehan leaned in, inspecting the piece with his usual unreadable expression. but even though he tried not to be expressive, you could tell—he was amazed.

"thank you. a lot," he said, his eyes locking onto yours.

for a second, you weren't sure how to respond. compliments weren't exactly his thing, and hearing him say a full, properly structured sentence felt almost weird. so you just offered a small, awkward smile.

"it's nothing," you muttered.

then it's followed by silence.

it wasn't awkward, per se, but it felt different from your usual shared quiet. like something was waiting to be said next.

you hesitated before speaking. "why..."

you nearly stopped yourself, figuring leehan's free trial of words had probably expired. but when you glanced at him, you noticed that he was listening. actually waiting for you to continue.

so, you did. "why did you take art classes? i notice you struggling a lot with it... even when we're still in middle school."

the question seemed to shrink his usual confidence, or whatever distant, broody aura he carried. his fingers twitched, and his posture stiffened.

then, finally, he exhaled and looked away, focusing on the sculpture rather than you.

"my mom," he said, "she wants me to take arts."

"ohh" you simply nodded. you weren't going to push.

but you still did "don't let anyone stop you from doing what you really want," you said, keeping your voice casual.

leehan's eyes flickered down to his sculpture. for a moment, he didn't move, just absorbed your words in silence. then, he gave a small nod.

the conversation ended there, followed by another silence again. and you took that as your cue to return to your table.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

it was 6:30 p.m. when you finally finished.

your sculpture was done—polished, covered, and ready to be presented tomorrow. meanwhile, the person beside you? still in the exact same spot you left him in.

except, now, his project had actual progress. thanks to the sketch you had given him as a guide, the limbs no longer looked like they belonged in a horror exhibit. he still had a long way to go, but at least he wasn't completely lost anymore.

you packed your bag, hesitating for a second.

should i tell him i'm leaving?

you never did before. not once. usually, you'd just slip out without a word, and he never seemed to care.

but maybe, after today's surprisingly human interaction, it felt weird to just go without acknowledging him.

so, after a moment of internal debate, you finally spoke up.

"i'll get going," you said, pointing vaguely toward the door.

leehan looked up slowly.

you expected him to do his usual nod—you know, that tiny, barely-there bow that was less of a gesture and more of a muscle spasm.

but instead, he actually said something.

"okay."

not just a nod. a full, verbal response. it's flat, but at least it's a thing.

you nodded back, stepping toward the door.

as you left, you didn’t notice leehan watching you the entire way, not turning back to his sculpture until you had fully leave the room.

he has to figure it all out on his own now that his art genius classmate had left.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

ring. ring.

after a few rings, minji finally picked up.

"hello?" you said, pressing the phone to your ear while speed-walking toward the bus stop.

"hello? what's up?" minji's voice crackled on the other end.

"moka isn't answering her phone. are you guys still out?" you asked, adjusting the strap of your bag.

"nah, we just got home. her phone died," minji explained. "we're at her apartment. you coming?"

"mhm," you hummed. "i'll be there now."

"alright. don't get kidnapped. take care."

"wow, thanks for the reminder," you chuckled before hanging up.

you sat onto the bench at the bus stop, letting out a sigh. the bus was taking forever. long enough for you to consider filing a complaint. but instead, you just leaned your head against the metal pole of the shed and jammed your earphones in.

then— knock, knock.

you flinched, pulling out an earbud.

standing beside you was none other than moka's handsome barista from earlier.

"hey," he greeted, smiling slightly.

you quickly sat up, smoothing your clothes like that would somehow make you look less caught off guard. "oh, hi! uh… you're the barista from earlier." you pointed.

he chuckled, nodding. "mhm."

"are you… also waiting for the bus?" you asked, mostly just to fill the silence.

sungho let out a short laugh and shook his head, lifting the small bag in his hand. "just dropping something off."

ah, a delivery or something. not that it mattered. you were a little too preoccupied pretending not to remember the note. the one he casually slipped under your tissue at the café, complete with his phone number and a compliment scribbled underneath.

you thought about bringing it up. you really did.

but then again, what were you even supposed to say? "hey, thanks for the note, but i nearly choked on my drink when i saw it"?

yeah. no.

so instead, you awkwardly nodded. "i see. well… take care, i guess."

sungho, just nodded. he took a step back like he was about to leave, and you were about to sink back into your seat when—

"what's your name?"

you quickly looked back to him. but, before you could respond, the bus's headlights flickered behind him.

"seo y/n," you answered, flashing him a smirk.

sungho's lips curled up slightly to a small smile as the bus doors hissed open.

for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, maybe a take care or a see you around. but the moment passed.

instead, he just watched as you stepped onto the bus.

and when you turned back for a quick glance, he was already walking away, hands tucked into his pockets, disappearing down the street.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

"really? you met him?" moka whined, dragging out the words like she was personally offended by fate for not being there.

"yup." you threw a chip into your mouth, acting as nonchalant as possible, though moka's growing excitement was making that difficult.

minji sat on moka's bed, scrolling through her phone with the energy of someone who had heard this before. meanwhile, you and moka were sprawled on the fluffy rug, surrounded by snacks that were supposed to be for a "movie night" but had instead turned into a tea party.

"ugh, lucky. what'd y'all talk about?" moka leaned in, eyes gleaming like she was waiting for some heart-racing, k-drama-worthy story.

you frowned, trying to recall anything that might be considered even remotely interesting. "uh… he said hi, mentioned he was dropping something off, asked for my name, and… that was it."

silence, then-

"that's lame." minji finally spoke, still not looking up from her phone.

moka smacked her leg. "shut up, minji," before turning back to you with a grin "oh my god, he wants you."

you blinked. "that's a reach."

"no, because look," moka sat up with determination. "why would he even ask for y/n's name? he doesn't even know her!"

"well, no shit," minji scoffed, rolling her eyes. "why else would he ask for y/n's name?"

moka glared at her. "you're ruining the fun."

minji shrugged. "i live to bring logic into chaos."

you just shook your head, laughing. "anyway, forget about sungho. something weird happened today."

moka barely looked interested, probably expecting another "i lost my paintbrush again and i swear someone in the art department is gaslighting me" story.

but then you said the magic name.

"leehan-"

and suddenly, both of them snapped their attention to you so fast you thought you heard a crack.

"leehan?!" moka practically screeched, throwing her snack bag aside like this was now the most important conversation of her life.

"why? what happened? did he ignore you again?" minji raised an eyebrow. "thought we left that nightmare back in 10th grade."

you sighed. "no, that's the weird part. he actually… talked to me."

moka's jaw dropped. "what?"

"like, full sentences. he asked for my help with his sculpture."

moka gasped like you had just told her the school was burning down. "HE SPOKE? VOLUNTARILY?"

"yes! and not just a one-word answer. like, actual conversation. he even made eye contact."

minji snorted. "his dialogue options unlocked."

"he leveled up socially," you added. "well, he's already leveled up socially, i just meant, when it comes to me."

"okay, but what if it's a one-time thing?" moka waved a hand dismissively. "like when an npc suddenly gets good ai for one mission and then goes back to walking into walls."

you wanted to argue, but, she might be right. a part of you was curious, though. maybe it was just today, or maybe leehan had finally decided you were worth acknowledging as a human being. who knew?

so you just shrugged it all off. "guess we'll see."

and after that, the conversation shifted into something else entirely—probably a debate about whether or not one of your professors secretly lived at school. you spent the rest of the night laughing, overanalyzing everything, and eventually crashing at moka's place for a sleepover.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

and guess what? moka was right.

because by the next morning, leehan had officially reset to his factory settings.

you were sitting at your desk, mentally willing something, anything— miraculous to happen. maybe he'd give you another full sentence. mybe he'd iinitiate a conversation. but no, the universe wasn't that kind.

leehan did approach your desk, though, standing in front of you with his usual blank expression, looking down like you were nothing more than an obstacle in his path.

still, you held onto hope. you flashed a small smile, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. instead, he just unceremoniously dropped a folder onto your desk.

you blinked.

it was the proportion guide you lent him last night. but underneath it—your portfolio.

your soul left your body for a second.

your portfolio. the one with all your hard work. the one that, if lost, would've made you spiral into an artistic breakdown and probably quit life to become a potato farmer. you must've accidentally handed it to him, and if it weren’t for leehan returning it, it would've been gone.

you almost teared up. this was an act of heroism. you looked up at him, smiling wider this time.

"thank yo—"

but before you could even finish your sentence, he turned and walked away.

you sat there, stunned.

what was that? just last night, he was behaving like a functional human being, and now he was back to being as soulless as a department store mannequin.

moka was right. again.

and just like that, life resumed its usual routine until graduation. back to square one. same old leehan. same old you.

after grad party

every graduate was at the venue, celebrating their long-awaited escape from the prison sentence called high school. of course, college was just another prison, but at least there was a vacation buffer before the next round of suffering.

you had successfully submitted your portfolio and got accepted into k-arts—your dream university. minji had also been accepted into the same university as both of you passed your portfolios together, while moka, despite sulking for two weeks over being separated from you both, eventually forgave you.

"you guys still suck for leaving me," she muttered, munching on a piece of pork.

minji sighed. "oh my god, moka, you're going to snu. people would kill to be in your spot."

"okay, but who am i supposed to bully now?"

"you'll find someone," you assured her, patting her back. "you're very talented in that area."

she sniffed dramatically. "i know, but it won't be the same."

the three of you laughed, clinking your glasses together in a toast.

tonight was lighthearted, fun, and stress-free. a concept that had been nonexistent throughout senior year. no last-minute projects. no looming deadlines. just pure, uninterrupted joy.

you were at a table with your friends, laughing, playing games, living in the moment.

and then there was leehan.

seated at the table across from yours.

you weren’t paying much attention to him at first. but then, something felt off.

you could feel his eyes on you.

at first, you thought you were imagining it. but every time you glanced up, he was looking at you.

and not in his usual indifferent, "you are but a speck of dust in my world" kind of way.

no.

this time, he looked, different. his expression wasn't blank. it was full of emotion, thoughts running through his mind. he looked deep in contemplation, like he was having an inner monologue straight out of a coming-of-age film.

your forehead started to burn under the intensity of his gaze.

what the hell is going on with him?

he didn't look away when you caught him. he just, kept watching, like he was trying to figure something out.

you tried to play it cool, raising an eyebrow at him as if to say, what?

he didn't react immediately, just kept his gaze steady. then, after a long second, he blinked and looked down, breaking the moment.

your heart was beating a little faster than it should have been.

trying to shake off the weird tension, you simply nodded at him, before turning back to your friends.

minji and moka, of course, immediately noticed.

"oh-ho," minji smirked, taking a sip of her drink. "what was that?"

"what was what?" you asked.

moka gasped, gripping your arm. "was leehan just staring at you?"

"no," you lied too quickly.

"yes, he was," minji confirmed, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "and not in his usual i have no interest in your existence way too."

moka let out a dramatic gasp, shaking your shoulders. "oh my god, what if he likes you?!"

you let out a snort. "yeah, and what if i suddenly become a billionaire? let's stick to realistic theories."

the night went on, but even as you laughed with your friends and enjoyed the celebration, a part of you kept replaying that moment in your head.

because for the first time in years, maybe ever—leehan looked at you like you were more than just another person in the room.

THROUGH LEEHAN'S EYES

the hall is bustling with graduates—cheers, laughter, the screech of chairs against the polished floor. it's the kind of noise that usually fades into the background, something i could easily tune out.

but tonight, everything feels louder. the clinking of glasses, the bursts of conversation, the music playing through the speakers. the air smells like a mix of catered food and perfume, a scent that's oddly overwhelming.

i should be celebrating.

i mean, i managed to survive three years of this painful art strand—something i had no real passion for when i first chose it. the reason behind my decision was so dumb that i start laughing at myself whenever i remember it.

but even though i spent countless nights regretting my choice, i don't regret all of it.

well… except for some things, like i didn't valued it.

i look up, eyes naturally scanning the room, and then i see her. y/n.

she's sitting at a long table across the venue, laughing with moka and minji—who, let's be honest, have been a pain in the butt since 7th grade.

it's that time of the year again.

people are moving on, going to different universities, starting fresh. some are staying in the same city, some are leaving. everyone's talking about their future like it's something so clear, and exciting.

but tonight, none of that feels real to me.

instead, there's this weight in my chest, a combo of regret and guilt that i can't shake off.

because this might be the last time i'll ever see her. and i don't want things to end like this.

i get so lost in my thoughts that i don't even realize i've been staring at her for too long. too long to be casual.

and then, she notices. her laughter slows, her eyes directed towards me, and for a split second, i think she's about to say something, but she just nodded.

shit.

i panic and quickly look down, pretending to be interested in the tablecloth or whatever nonsense anton is talking about beside me. my heart shouldn't be beating this fast over something so small, but it is.

despite the chaos around her, the crowd, the music, the noise—she stands out.

it's always been like that.

like she exists on a different frequency than everyone else, moving at her own pace while the rest of us struggle to keep up.

like she's the only one truly living in the moment while i’m stuck in my head, always thinking, always hesitating.

she's always had this annoying ability to make everything else fade into the background.

and maybe that's why, even back in 9th grade, i couldn't help but notice her.

9th grade

"good morning, teacher," we all greeted before settling back into our seats.

"good morning, everyone. settle down," the teacher said, adjusting his glasses. "now, before we begin, i'd like to introduce a new student who will be joining us for the school year."

a wave of excitement rippled through the classroom. people started murmuring, whispering to each other like buzzing bees. i quickly turned my head toward the door, just like everyone else, but with the number of students shifting in their seats, my view was blocked.

having a new classmate sounded exciting—a small breath of fresh air after being stuck with the same faces since 7th grade.

then, with a small nod from the teacher, the new student stepped in.

she was a girl.

short hair, cut just above her neck, with soft, wispy bangs framing her round, slightly chubby cheeks. a pair of thick, round glasses perched on her tall nose, making her look a little nerdy but in a way that suited her.

then, she spoke.

"hello, everyone! my name is y/n. i'm 15 years old and just moved into the neighborhood down the street. i hope we can all be friends!"

she gave a light bow, her voice bright and clear, effortlessly filling the classroom.

and that's when i knew it.

i'm cooked.

my heart started pounding so fast i didn't even know what was happening anymore. it was like my brain short-circuited, and my body decided to go into emergency mode. my ears burned hot, my hands turned ice-cold, and before i could process it, my head snapped toward the window in an attempt to distract myself.

this was bad. really bad.

i heard the teacher assigning her a seat, and i prayed—please don’t be near me, please don’t be near me—but then

"you can sit there, next to that boy by the window."

shit. that was my seat.

but just as i was about to internally combust, a voice from the back spoke up.

"sir, han taesan sits there. he's just absent today."

oh, thank god. taesan thank you.

the teacher nodded and assigned her a different seat. i let out a silent sigh of relief. disaster avoided.

or not.

because during break time, she approached me.

i wasn't even looking at her, but i could sense her presence. i felt my muscle went tense, my back straightening reflexively. she was standing right in front of me.

"what's your name?"

oh my god.

i hesitated before looking up. and then—she smiled.

i can't stutter. I CAN'T STUTTER.

"...leehan. kim leehan," i blurted out before immediately pretending to be interested in the random writings on my notebook.

she didn't seem to mind my awkwardness. in fact, she continued talking.

"are you alone? you can sit with us!"

panic.

if i sit with her, i'll die. there's no way i can eat properly without choking at least five times in front of her.

without thinking, i shot up from my seat. "no, i'll be out. thank you," i muttered before making a quick escape. i did not look back. i went straight for out the room to find woonhak like my life depended on it.

for months, i avoided her. not in an obvious, rude way, but in a way that would save me from embarrassing myself.

every time i caught a glimpse of her from across the room, my heart started racing. i didn't know how to deal with it, so i did what any emotionally constipated 15-year-old would do: ignore her.

but then i started to notice that she was ignoring me now too. at first, i thought it was a coincidence, but the more time passed, the more obvious it became.

and honestly? it sucked.

had i ruined my chance of even being friends with her? was she annoyed with me? did she hate me now?

it was all my fault.

i kept overthinking it until i finally decided. enough is enough.

i needed to face my fears and actually talk to her. for once, i would initiate the conversation, not her.

so, i took a deep breath and walked up to her desk, where she was sitting with her friends.

thump thump.

i could hear my heartbeat—it was almost deafening.

kim leehan, calm down. this is not the time to back out.

she turned to me, blinking. she didn't say anything, just waited.

this was it. my once-in-a-lifetime chance.

"y/n, i just want to say tha—"

interrupted.

of course. of course, someone had to cut me off right at that moment. nd out of all people, it just had to be ham jinsik.

i took a step back as he effortlessly inserted himself into the conversation.

tall. handsome. confident.

there was a small pang in my chest, and i hated it. i watched as jinsik stood there so easily around y/n, talking to her like it was nothing.

meanwhile, i could barely get a single sentence out without feeling like i was going to collapse. of course.

jinsik was perfect, the perfect match for her.

i turned back to my seat, forcing myself to focus on my classmate behind me, while batting an eye on jinsik's back periodically. but before I knew it, she was standing in front of me again.

"hey," she said.

i froze.

"sorry about earlier. you were saying?"

there it was. that stupid, dumb leehan who turned into an unfunctioning robot around her.

okay, play it cool. don't let her notice.

i gave her the most casual, indifferent expression I could pull.

"…i forgot," i said flatly.

lies.

she paused for a moment, then simply nodded. "okay then."

and just like that, she turned back to her friends. i watched her walk away, my stomach physically feeling sick.

that was it?

we never talked or interacted again after that. i tried so hard to forget about it—to forget her.

but every time she was around, i felt everything all over again.

i thought we'd never cross paths again after 9th grade. but then, i overheard from them that she was going to seoul high school.

and so, like the absolute fool that i am, i shot my shot.

i took the entrance exams. i applied for the same course as her.

art, my biggest enemy.

but despite that, despite all my regrets, my awkwardness, and my absolute inability to function around her. i still got in.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

everything was a blur. one moment, i was a freshman still trying to figure out how lockers worked, and the next, i was a tenth grader, dragging my feet towards my classroom like a sloth that just learned about capitalism.

my brain was running at full speed despite my body moving at half capacity.

"what if we're in the same class?"

"you absolute goober, isn't that what you wanted?"

great. my inner voice was bullying me again.

i shook my head and picked up the pace, trying to act normal. but the moment i reached the door, i caught a glimpse of her.

inside the classroom.

instant panic. i did a full stop, took a step back, and stood behind the doorframe like some poorly written side character who wasn't supposed to be here.

okay, breathe. don't make this weird.

after a good minute of overthinking every possible interaction i could have with her in the next ten months, or 2 years even, i forced myself to straighten my posture and activated my signature move— dumb leehan exterior™. the ultimate defense mechanism. no embarrassing actions shall be performed under its influence.

i stepped in. and of course, she looked at me.

oh, god. oh, god.

do i look back? no. yes? no, okay, fine, i looked back. i knew the risk. my brain was about to explode, but i still did it.

after the long vacation, i'd be lying if i said i didn't miss her presence. so, in a rare moment of bravery, i nodded at her. a simple, casual, nothing-to-read-into nod.

and then, like the genius i am, i walked straight to the farthest seat possible from hers.

…"by god, i am an idiot."

what the hell was that? now she thinks i'm a loser.

i groaned internally but shrugged it off, pulling out a book to distract myself. a fish encyclopedia, of all things. because nothing screams casual high school student like pretending to be deeply invested in the migration patterns of a corydoras (except i'm actually deeply invested to it.)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

12th grade

it was 1 p.m. i had been here since 11 a.m. and had made zero progress on my sculpture. at this point, the only thing i had successfully created was a misshapen lump of clay that looked like it had personally witnessed the fall of rome.

frustrated, i turned to anton, my classmate and the only person who tolerated my nonsense in the class.

"man, how do you even do this?" i whined, aggressively poking my sculpture.

anton took one look and started laughing. "leehan, that thing looks like it's about to build itself and walk away."

i rolled my eyes and flicked his shoulder. "shut up, i'm genuinely stuck here."

anton smirked, crossing his arms. "then why'd you even take this class if you suck at it?"

"dumb, personal reasons," i muttered, waving him off. "whatever, i'll figure it out."

anton just chuckled, pointing toward the door. "alright, goodluck with that. i'm heading out. see ya."

i nodded, barely paying attention as i slumped back down, staring at my sculpture like it had personally offended me. then, somewhere between my frustration and self-pity, a thought hit me.

me and y/n haven't had a real conversation in two years.

we talked, sure—about projects, pair work (which, of course, made me internally combust every time), but a real, genuine conversation? nada.

and now, graduation was near.

i wasn's sure if i'd ever see her again after this. once, i overheard her talking about universities with a classmate. she mentioned busan. and let me tell you, i was devastated.

this was my last chance. i needed to talk to her before it was too late. just once.

but before i could even mentally draft a script, the door swung open. i looked up, and of course— the classic.

it was her.

she walked in, slowed down, and went straight to her station.

okay, okay. this was the moment. no ham jinsik around to ruin it. no distractions. i had to say something. anything.

and then, she spoke first.

"do you need help?"

her voice was softer than i remembered. possibly a trap.

wait—i was supposed to initiate this. but whatever. this was a blessing. i just needed to respond in a cool, interesting way.

"yes, please," i mumbled, immediately fidgeting with my fingers.

yes, please?

what kind of medieval peasant answer was that?

but before i could cringe myself out of existence, she walked over to my table, standing right in front of my disaster of a sculpture. and next to me.

this was bad.

not because she was this close (which, okay, also bad for my heart), but because she could see my embarrassing project up close.

her eyes scanned it. she was going to judge me. i could feel it.

"do you even know basic anatomy?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

ouch. but that was fair. "i'm… bad at it,"

she exhaled through her nose, something almost like a laugh "well, lucky for you, i don't suck at it."

and then, just like that, she started molding the clay.

i watched, completely in awe. her hands moved like she actually knew what she was doing. my monstrosity slowly turned into something that actually resembled a human sculpture. a miracle.

i glanced at her hands—long fingers, soft palms, steady movements.

wait, no. do not admire her hands, leehan. abort.

i suppressed a smile. if she caught me grinning like an idiot, i'd never live it down.

minutes passed, and she finished fixing my mess.

"thank you. a lot," i said, and for once, it sounded genuine. not my usual dumb act.

the moment felt still, like everything else faded out. i might've even gotten tinnitus.

then, she dropped the biggest bomb of the year.

"why did you take this class if you're bad at it?"

crap, anton asked the same thing. i should've prepared for this. think of a good lie, leehan. think.

"my mom… she wanted me to take arts." sorry, mom.

she nodded, saying something about not letting anything stop me from doing what i like. and then, just like that, she went back to her station.

the entire afternoon blurred past.

before she left, she handed me an anatomy guide. i barely touched it—just flipped through it while it's laid on the table, so she wouldn’t suspect anything.

but the moment she walked out, i actually opened and lifted it. like a normal person.

and then, something under it slipped out. a portfolio.

i picked it up carefully, not wanting to leave a bit of dent on it. her university portfolio.

i didn't open it. that was hers. so, i just shoved it into my bag.

it was almost 7 p.m. now, and i knew i wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. i sighed and pulled out my phone, calling my brother to bring me dinner.

and as the evening crept in, i sat there, staring at my half-finished project.

i admit it. i was a fool.

i've been a fool.

all the effort y/n and i put into breaking the ice—especially her efforts, was wasted. three years, gone. and for what? because i was too much of a coward?

i wanted to tell her everything.

that i secretly admired her all this time. that i wanted to know her more. that i wanted her sns number, at the very least.

but when i looked up, she was already getting ready to leave.

she walked out with moka and minji, her silhouette disappearing through the exit.

and just like that— that was it. the last time i'd see her.

to be continued...

[tmntxthings]

一∑Moth to a Flame・゜・。

author’s notes: this is my entry for @dancingdonatello ‘s competition :D this has been sm fun and I can’t wait to read everyone else’s stories!!!

prompt: "You like them...more? Is that it? Am I the second choice?" "That's not true..." "Then choose me. Choose us."

warnings: angst, situation-ship, aged-up characters, college au, alcohol consumption, jealousy, yandere tendencies? cliffhanger

—————————————————————————

Donnie didn’t know how much more he could take. His mind was simultaneously all over the place and singularly focused on one thing. You.

~

Mutants and yokai kind alike have been out for years. So in the ‘town’ he and his brothers grew up in, they finally came to be free from the shadows. As free as heroes can be at least. They still needed to be a bit secretive on where they lived, in case of revenge-seeking villains.

But with mutants out on the surface, New York had grown accustom to them. Well, as accustom as they can be…

Donnie has met many people. He’s been able to attend college. Mostly online. But he finds the time to attend some evening classes in person. He met you. A floundering classmate in need of assistance.

Usually Donnie can find an excuse to get out of helping every poor soul that crosses his path. That’s what the professors are for. The librarians. Hell the student mentors! But with you… he just couldn’t resist.

The study sessions were long. But in the end you were able to pass, “All thanks to you Dee!!” You had cheered shoving your research paper into his face for him to appraise your passing grade. Barely passing, but it showed your improvement nonetheless.

He had been about to tease you of this. Three months of his help and you hardly grazed by?! But the thought was cut short as you pulled the papers away from his face and up you jumped.

Arms going around his neck and squealing your joy. He was frozen for a millisecond before his arms twitched into motion. His hands going around your back, holding you. That was the first time you had initiated such skin-ship.

Sure there had been the occasional touching of hands, passing laptops, books and the like back and forth. There had even been moments of playful touch, nudging his arm with your elbow for his odd choice in coffee. A tap above his glasses when he got too focused on his own work to answer your sporadic questions.

The hug didn’t last very long in terms of time. Seconds merely. But it made a lasting impression on Donnie. With the class over, you had no other reason to see him again. The prospect had Donnie fumbling to invite you out, to do anything to prolong such an ending to this blooming relationship.

“What classes are you taking next semester?” He had asked. You promised to text him the list, already having to dash off for one last exam.

He worried that would be the end.

Thankfully it wasn’t. You texted him later that evening, telling him all about the rest of your day as well as the list per his request. Unfortunately the two of you didn’t share any other classes. And it seemed unlikely for the future as well, the two of you were on diverging paths. Donnie despaired.

But you found reasons to message him. By the time the next semester rolled around the two of you were study partners, no matter the subject. Donnie would help if he could, and usually he was able. But there was a shift in the relationship. Outings to the library and other study areas changed to coffee shops. Then to your place. It only felt natural to invite you over to his.

Preparations were put in place. As were warnings “Yes, I do live in a sewer with my brothers and dad.” And “No it doesn’t reek of waste or garbage.” And “Yes there is one rat actually, my dear Papa.”

You took it all in stride. The introductions to his family went as well as they ever did. Friends. The two of you were officially friends. Donnie couldn’t be happier. With such a title he took more initiative with online contact. His messages would ramble on, sprinkled with pictures and videos.

Semesters continued to pass by and the bond between the two of you only grew. In turn, with more trips to his home, you became friends with his brothers. With April. It was just natural.

And then there was graduation. A celebration was in order. Four years, you had been in his life for four years and he couldn’t imagine it without you. The plan was to dress to the nines, and go out on the ‘town’! Drinking and dancing.

Of course, his brothers were invited as well as a few of your other friends. Donnie was no stranger to clubbing. The bar scene had become somewhat of a regular occurrence once his friendship with you was solidified.

You liked to go out. You liked music. He obliged on a few occasions to be your dancing partner and thus every time after it was his official label. Donnie was adverse to the huge crowds. It didn’t offer much room for dancing, but he’d endure it for you. With you in his arms it all seemed bearable. The music that was so loud it thumped in his plastron. The heat in the room percolating from the sheer number of bodies. Even the taste of alcohol, on the very, very rare occasion you got him to drink.

It always tasted horrible. No matter the different shots or mixed cocktails. God forbid a beer. You had pushed all sorts of these beverages on him, eyes crinkling up at him with amusement as his beak wrinkled from disgust.

Those nights with alcohol involved always ended strangely. Your touch would light him up from the inside. He’d want to hold you closer, lean in as far as you’d let him. Pull at your waist, dig his fingers into your hips during the last dance before the two of you had to part for the night. Those nights ended with kisses.

And by the next day you would never talk about them. So he didn’t either. Even as his murky memory of all other events seemed to part with clarity for how you had panted heat into his mouth. He’d flush dark green at just the thought and have to swallow the spit that pooled in his mouth.

This had happened a handful of times. The kissing. And with no communication whatsoever afterwards it put Donnie on edge. He wondered why it happened at all if you didn’t want to acknowledge the deed once it was done. He wondered about what it said on account of his own self worth for him to continue to let it happen.

To look forward to nights out. To nights you pushed a shot glass his way. To want your lips on his by the end of it all.

So with this big celebration, Donnie was expecting the same routine if only highlighted by the fact that both of you were now graduates. He’d be your dance partner. The two of you would spin for an hour or two, or however long you wanted. And he’d order himself a drink this time. One that he found slightly bearable than the rest.

Only, that wasn’t what was happening. Drink in hand? Sure. Your hand in his other? No. He was grumbling over at the bar shooting hateful daggers where you resided on the dance floor. You were dancing with Leo.

Donnie grimaced as he took a long hard sip. It was like acid in his mouth. Donnie didn’t know how much more he could take. His mind was simultaneously all over the place and singularly focused on one thing. You.

You laughing as Leo twirled you around. How wrong it felt to watch your arms go up and around his brother’s neck. Donnie was a better dancer. He knew in his soul that he could beat Leo in any category. Waltz, disco, salsa, you name it, Donnie could dance it. But his prowess didn’t seem to matter. Which only further incensed him. Why were you doing this? How could you possibly allow Nardo to take his place? His rightful role. Donnie was supposed to be your dance partner. And the only time you were allowed to dance with another was whenever he deigned to skip such an outing.

He was here. Dressed in an aubergine suit. Jacket button undone. And his black dress shirt was unbuttoned as well. Three buttons plucked, showing off too much skin in his opinion for such a crowd. But he had been feeling flirty. Flirty for someone who wasn’t even glancing his way.

Donnie fumed once more. Cursing in his mind as he lifted his drink and threw his head back. Maybe the taste would kill him. His eyes squeezed shut as the liquid poured down his throat and he tried not to gag. Bad decision.

When his eyes reopened it couldn’t have been at a worse moment. Leo was dipping you, his face leaning dangerously close to yours, his hand snug on your waist. Leo said something in your ear.

Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the heat. But when Donnie saw your darkened cheeks, he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He stormed to the dance floor. Yanking Leo’s hand away from your body once you were upright.

“What’s up hermano?” Leo’s smile was grating. Donnie had to force himself not to snarl. He took your hand and pulled you after him. Leaving Leo. Leaving this place. He had to get out of here now.

“Donnie?!” You called out over the music. But you didn’t pull away. You let him lead you out of the club. Out on the sidewalk, then off to the alleyway.

“Is everything okay?” You asked once he finally stopped. When he turned to look down at you, your eyebrows were creased with worry. Lips pulled into a line. Donnie was cracking. He couldn’t do this any longer. Did you like Leo? Did you want a ‘face man’? Was he not enough anymore? Was he being replaced? The thoughts were suffocating him and he pulled you to his plastron, backing you into the building wall simultaneously.

“I’m here, but Dee you’ve gotta say something, I’m getting worried..” You mumbled into his clothes. Your arms going around Donnie’s shell, petting over his jacket. Offering him comfort. It wasn’t enough. He huffed his frustration.

“Should I go get your brother?”

It was the wrong thing to say. And this time he did snarl.

“No.”

Your hands froze. Falling back down to your sides. You’d never heard him so angry before. He couldn’t find it within himself to care at the moment. His displeasure written all over his face as you looked up at him.

“What’s going on?”

And Donnie remembered himself thinking that so many times with you. As you had took his breath away. And then again when you pretended like you couldn’t recall ever doing so.

“Don-“

He leaned down. Capturing your lips. Kissing you like you did to him. Only where you had made him breathless, this seemed to have the opposite effect. You puffed up. Bristling in his arms as you tried shoving him away.

It hurt.

He was much stronger than you. He could overpower you easily. But your push was like a blow to the plastron. He staggered back, all anger leaving him. A husk as he squeezed his fists shut, head hanging down as you berated him.

“What the hell was that?! Are you drunk?? Donnie what is going on? If you don’t fucking say something right now, I swear to god,”

“I don’t know!” He shouted back and it was enough to quiet you.

From there it was as if his mouth couldn’t be stopped. “I don’t know! I thought this was what we did. I didn’t hallucinate those three times you kissed me. Don’t deny it any longer!” He was heaving, face coming up to stare accusingly at you.

Your lips pressed together in a thin line once more.

“You kissed me! Drunkenly, but it was still there. And I can’t forget. I can’t pretend they never happened. I don’t know how you can.” His hands were in motion as he ranted. Throwing them out with the building of emotion.

“So I thought tonight would be no different. We’d get drunk. We’d dance. And we’d kiss! I want all of that. Even though I’d do it without the alcohol.” His voice cracked towards the end. But he continued to push on.

“But you danced with him. So I went and got drunk enough for the both of us.” He felt pathetic admitting this out loud. He staggered forward, unable to remain so far apart. Despite you having pushed him away. He was just a moth to your flame. He’d let himself be burnt.

“You like him more?” He asked in a voice so low it practically went unheard. His hand came up, a finger tracing down the side of your cheek.

“Is that it? Am I the second choice?” His lids lowered in time as he ran out of skin to skim. His hand fell away from your face but he had crowded you close to the wall again. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

“That’s not true.” You exasperated. But that hardly cleared up anything for him. If that was the case then what were you doing dancing with his brother and not him? Why couldn’t he kiss you? Why were the both of you still pretending to be friends?

“Then pick me. Choose me.” Donnie pleaded. He didn’t care how needy it sounded. He’d do whatever it took. Get down on his knees if he had to. Because you had become a part of his life four years ago. Four years of a presence he didn’t know he needed. Up until it was far too late. And now there was no turning back. He’d be damned if he let you get away.

[merakiui]

fairy-tale felicity.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, obsession, horse hybrid!reader, age gap (reader is 20/21 and riddle is 31), brief mentions of past abuse and neglect, codependency, kidnapping note - the lab has rescued a horse hybrid, and riddle is tasked with rehabilitating her. he bites off more than he can chew when, as his relationship with you progresses and the program boasts promising results, he finds himself getting attached.

As soon as Riddle clocks into the facility, right on time as usual, an assistant researcher barrages him like a freight train. Her entire demeanor kindles concern, a cloying, clawing sort that gives way to uncertainty and, subsequently, confusion.

Before he can ask, she interrupts in a clipped tone: “Dr. Crewel’s called you to the exam chamber.” She hurries along so quickly that he struggles to keep up, soles squeaking against too-clean linoleum.

“What’s happened?” He matches her pace and fixes her with a sharp stare. “Is everything all right?”

“There’s this horse…thing he found and—well, it’s hard to explain. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Riddle doesn’t push the matter further, sensing he’ll know soon enough. Crewel’s assistant wastes no time in leading him even though he has the lab’s layout memorized. It must be severe, whatever this horse-thing is. If it requires his specific presence, surely there’s a sensible explanation. After all, science prides itself on explaining the unexplainable.

He’ll take his chances and prepare for the worst.

The door is shut and the glass is frosted, indicative of privacy, but Riddle doesn’t hesitate to knock. At his superior’s command, the door slides open on smooth hinges. Riddle swallows hard and steps through with steeled nerves.

He was expecting this horse-thing to be distinctly centaurian or monstrously grotesque, so he’s surprised to see a woman lying on her back on a metal examination table, arms and legs outstretched and tied down. Her eyes are shut, and she’s dressed in a thin hospital gown. Riddle is about to ask what’s so odd, but then he sees your ears and legs. 

So not a centaur. Perhaps something akin to the fabled faun he’s read so much about?

But that’s not what’s so surprising. What is, actually, is the rough state you’re in. There are bandages wound tight around your arms, legs, and throat, and Riddle theorizes scratches, bruises, and lacerations are hidden beneath those clean fabrics.

“A timely arrival,” Crewel comments, looking at him from a handful of documents. 

Medical reports, Riddle assumes, watching veterinarians flit about to take vitals and run tests to gather heart rate, blood type, and even the status of your fertility. Invasive, yes, but the lab is thorough—a facet Riddle is most proud of. He shuffles closer, hazarding a glance at your bandaged legs. Ghastly chips and cracks run up and along your hooves. He notes you’re without horseshoes and grimaces.

“Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes? You called for me, Dr. Crewel?”

Taking one final look over what appears to be data on your current health, Crewel finally addresses Riddle properly. “I have a task for you.”

“Involving this hybrid?”

“Correct. If I recall, you mentioned you’ve dealt with horses before.”

“That’s true, yes…” He knows the path Crewel is treading and he’s dreading it. “In my youth, I participated in competitive horseback riding. One of our responsibilities in the Equestrian Club was to care for and look after our horses.”

“How many years was that for?”

“Eight or so. Admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve kept up with it.”

“I see. Then I assume you’re aptly aware of their biology?”

“To an extent, yes. I know their diet and habits. How to handle one. How to calm one. How to ride one. Etcetera. I’d say I have my fair share of experience.”

Toeing the line of piqued curiosity, Riddle keeps his eyes pinned firmly on Crewel even though the doctors’ hushed chatterings reach his ears. He tamps down the urge to turn and watch the hybrid.

“Internal structures are intact. Minor fracture in the left wrist,” one observes. “We’ll insert the microchip between her shoulder blades soon. Be prepared to move the specimen.”

“What’s the plan after rehabilitation? Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show?” another adds, detached but inquisitive.

“Not just that. Is it possible to breed her? If she’s more human than equine, does that not qualify her as a beastfolk? Although most of them are centaurs, right?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Crewel’s calling her a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?”

Riddle wonders that, too.

Crewel clips the pages together before handing them to Riddle for his perusal. “We responded to a call regarding her.”

Her meaning you, the hybrid. Riddle leafs through the documents, scanning each with his discerning greys. Calls weren’t uncommon; most of them were usually false, the result of people who didn’t understand that the meaning of a rehabilitation lab is found in its title and that they can’t just call to report their friend for being a fool in need of treatment (which was almost always untrue). But sometimes there were genuine calls—the ones in which hybrids needed help or rescuing or intervention of some sort. This seems to be the latter case.

“And does that explain the state she’s in?”

“Mostly. What we know so far is noted in the report.”

He finds it then—the official reasoning behind your condition. “Physical abuse and neglect,” he reads, running down the list as it grows longer and sadder with every word.

“I suspect she’s become averse to humans as a result of this severe maltreatment. She was given a sedative via tranquilizer dart. It was the only way we could cut her free from the cuff without harming her.”

“The cuff?”

“The shed she was locked in. Cuffed to a post—nearly frostbitten, poor thing—and fed scraps.” Crewel’s eyes narrow with disdain. “Rotten mutts, the lot of them.”

Riddle hums, speechless. What a tragic situation.

“Were the ones responsible caught?”

“Most of them.” Crewel brushes past Riddle to observe the hybrid up close. “She’s the result of unethical breeding, which isn’t as uncommon as we wish it was. But the case is in the hands of the authorities now. I’m not going to trouble myself with the misdeeds of a few bad dogs.”

“What will become of her? I imagine rehabilitation is our top priority?”

“Precisely. This is where you come in.” Crewel gestures to the slumbering hybrid. “You’re one of our best good boys, Dr. Rosehearts. As such, I’m entrusting you to look after her.”

“Look…after,” he parrots, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t possibly mean—”

“The lab is no place for her. Not in her current disposition. You’re in charge of rehabilitating her from home. Prove to her that humans aren’t all naughty pups in need of proper discipline. You’ll report your progress and findings directly to me.”

“I… I can do it. Naturally.” Confidence swells within him; he’s satisfied to have been chosen for such an important duty. But rehabilitation from home, in which he won’t have all of the helpful tools the lab carries, is daunting in its own right. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have willed her fear away. She might always fear humans.” He gazes sidelong at the hybrid and straightens his posture. “With all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a therapist.”

“I don’t expect you to be one.” Crewel turns away, tailored lab coat swishing with the motion. “You aren’t required to work miracles. That’s not within your job description. Besides, an ambitious pup will never succeed if he adopts Icarus’s mindset.”

Riddle scoffs around a laugh. “I have no intention of flying too close to the sun. I’ll do it in accordance with the rules.”

That earns him an approving nod, which is really all the validation he currently needs, before Crewel steps back to watch the vets prepare you for the microchip. Riddle stands beside him, hungering for more information.

“Aside from her past with humans, is there anything I absolutely must know? How old is she?”

“We’re thinking somewhere between twenty and twenty-one in human years. A fully mature adult by equine standards.”

He cringes at the gap. “I’ve no idea what the youth are like nowadays, especially not one who’s yet to be integrated into society.”

Crewel chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. “Will that be the foundation for your method of approach?”

“Ideally, I’d like to establish some form of connection—whether that’s by appealing to her human traits or simply appearing non-threatening. I can’t treat her like an animal. She’s human, too. But then… Well…” He shakes his head, sighing. This is a difficult equation with an unclear solution. Normally, Riddle adores these problems—the ones that get his brain turning. But this is troubling, and he can’t be clinical about it as if it’s something mathematical. He peers at the file once more. “She’s a thoroughbred? Huh. Vorpal was the same.”

“So you’ve experience with thoroughbreds.”

“I have experience with thoroughbred horses, not thoroughbred horse hybrids. But perhaps her thoroughbred nature matches that of Vorpal’s.”

Riddle worries his lip between his teeth. Thoroughbreds are notoriously hot-blooded. This may prove to be more challenging than I thought.

It’s not the first trial he’s been handed, and it won’t be the last. His entire life has been one big trial, lived out rigidly and righteously, and he’s learned to weather the difficulties by conforming to the long and often unspoken list of rules prescribed by his mother. There are rules for everything. Rules for when one should sleep if they wish to get a full eight hours. Rules for when one should speak if they wish to follow the guidelines for group etiquette. Rules for when one should have a certain flavor of tea or tart depending on the occasion. For thirty-one years of his life, he has followed all of them near-perfectly.

This circumstance is no different. The task has been assigned and, as he has dozens of times prior, he’ll follow the rules to see it through to the end.

But what exactly are the rules in dealing with a damaged hybrid? It’s the only word he can think of when he looks at you, however offensive it may be. It’s an objective observation: You’re damaged and alone, certainly afraid. He doesn’t want to picture the horrors you’ve endured—the dehumanizing experiences you’ve been subjected to at the hands of humans.

Riddle is human, and so this is very conflicting. How can he, a human, help a hybrid, who fears them like they’re nightmarish monsters? And they definitely are to you. If anything, he’s less of a human and more of a cruel beast in your eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep her here?” he ventures. The vets sedate you once more when it becomes clear the drugs are wearing off. Your tail swishes, fingers twitching, and then you fall still once more. His eyes track the IV tube to the needle pricking the top of your hand. “Safer, too. There are too many variables in my home. It wouldn’t be a suitable environment.”

“It’s separate from the lab, though—a fresh, stress-free space. Less chances of running into us, and we’re the last people she wants to see.”

“She won’t want to see me either.”

“One is better than a roomful.”

Riddle can’t refute that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, “but on the condition that you refrain from interfering directly. If I’m to rehabilitate her, then it is only me she’ll see. For now, at least. Before she can interact with other humans, she must first learn to trust one and that will be me.”

“Very well. Those are acceptable terms.”

“And I’ll need a week to prepare.”

Crewel considers the request before nodding. “A week gives me time to study her further, so I’ll agree to it.”

I’ll need to hybrid-proof the house, gather textbooks and information on horses and horse hybrids, look into dietary needs, write up daily and weekly schedules, research phobias and ways to treat them, draw up a plan of action… A backup plan, too. Just in case.

Surfacing from his inner ruminations, Riddle fixes Crewel with a stern look. “You’re going to study her in a way that isn’t hurtful, yes?”

“Of course. This requires patience and tact.” He leans over the examination table to peer at your ears as they twitch. Still sound asleep. “Rest assured, Dr. Rosehearts. No harm will befall your hybrid.”

“S-She is not my hybrid.”

“She is for the time being. I’ll give you one year.”

“A year is a long time to provide room and board for a hybrid. Besides…” He hesitates to think the logistics over before adding, “You’re asking me to shape my life around her needs. Not that I’m unwilling, mind you. It just feels…long. We can’t even be certain of the results.”

“If you’d prefer I send her to Dr. Hunt—”

At the mention of the morbidly eccentric researcher, Riddle shakes his head, a flicker of possessive fidelity sparking in him. 

“There’s no need. I’ve already agreed.”

“Good boy! Then I’ll take this week to collect more data, and by Friday morning we’ll deliver her to your doorstep.”

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but he doesn’t believe it.

Just how ready can one possibly be for an assignment as sensitive as this? He supposes he’ll find out in a week’s time.

In classic Riddle Rosehearts fashion, he drives himself mad with preparation.

If his meticulous schedules and plans are worth anything, he’s about as ready as he’s ever been. He feels as if he’s about to welcome a glass sculpture rather than a hybrid into his humble home, what with its many precautions. Corners have been covered with rubber guards, dishware and utensils have been locked away and swapped with paper and plastic, and he’s blocked off the second story with a safety gate. The type used for pets and children. It was the only thing he could think of while he debated whether he should lock the medicine cabinet or just move everything upstairs.

For one year—that’s exactly 365 days—he’ll live out his life on the ground floor of his home. And he’s ready.

Is he, though?

He pored over the files day and night, reflected on new data from Crewel, and drafted dozens of plans in preparation for your arrival. Most of these plans ended up crumpled and tossed in the rubbish bin, accompanied with a groan and a muttered complaint, but last night he reached an epiphany after finishing his third read of a psychology textbook on phobias.

Anthropophobia is the fear of people, he’d jotted in a new notebook just as the clock struck midnight. For many phobias, exposure therapy is a useful and valid method of treatment. Seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist, CBT is not a possibility and I can’t bring her to a therapist myself. That would involve its own setbacks and hurdles. Therefore, I’ll keep track of her progress as I attempt exposure therapy.

The textbook recommended he try approaching it with harmless hypotheticals: Imagine you’re interacting with a few people. At first he thought it might work, but in order for you to even listen to him you’d have to trust him. And you can’t trust someone if you’re fearing for your life. For a moment, he considered purchasing a horse costume and masquerading as one himself, if only to ease your anxiety, but that would constitute a dishonest practice.

Now, sleep-deprived and uncertain, Riddle attempts to bolster his confidence. He stands at his front door like a prisoner awaiting punishment, tapping his foot against the floor out of nervous habit. A grandfather clock ticks behind him, calling out seconds and minutes in low, slow, foreboding tocks. He flips through his notes to refresh himself even though there’s no need for that; he’s already reviewed five times since he woke up.

You’re overdoing it, he tells himself. But is he? It’s better to be overly prepared.

The sudden rap at the door startles him. He hurries to open it, almost tripping on the hardwood. Inhaling a steadying breath, he holds it for a moment and then releases it. He’ll be okay. He’s a scientist. A scientist in hedgehog slippers, but a scientist nonetheless. He can do this.

“Good morning, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting when he peers out at his snow-dusted lawn, but it definitely wasn’t this. You’re bundled in a thick coat, boots yanked up to your calves, and a woolen hat is pulled down over your eyes. To hide your equine features, he realizes. Hybrids are something of a taboo subject, especially those who can’t be classified as standard beastfolk. The divide that separates both is a slippery slope.

“She’s sleeping now, but I suspect she’ll wake in an hour or so. Her left wrist is still healing, so do be mindful.”

Riddle frowns. It’s not very kind to drug her every time you need to transport her somewhere…

The week and its events were rough on you. He knows this because he was there for the briefing. Riddle’s seen needles and pills forced into you more times than he’d like to admit, and he’s heard Crewel’s trademark, “This is the only way to keep a pup docile,” so often it’s become a haunting mantra. The first rule, he decides right then, is that there will be no sedation unless absolutely necessary.

How else is he to rehabilitate you if you’re unconscious for most of it?

Crewel steps through the threshold and lowers you onto the sofa. Riddle stands rooted to his spot, observing him as he ducks out momentarily and then returns with a suitcase.

“Clothing,” he explains, setting it down in front of Riddle. “As well as a few sedatives and sleep aids. Prescribed medications and supplements. Nothing you’re not already familiar with.”

Thank the heavens, he thinks with great relief. I didn’t even think about purchasing clothes for her.

“I won’t need them.”

At least not the sedatives and sleep aids.

“Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. It never hurts to resort to old tricks when training a dog.”

For once Riddle’s glad he’s the one in charge. Crewel views everything through the lens of a behaviorist and Rook Hunt is…Rook Hunt. Obviously, by process of elimination, he’s the most qualified for this job. Who else is going to advocate to get you fitted for new horseshoes?

“Would you like me to come into the lab at any point during this?”

“If you deem it necessary. If not, you know how to reach me. I expect an email detailing her progress every two weeks.”

“Right…” His gaze pans over to you. “What will happen after the year’s over?”

“The higher-ups will decide.”

As they have for every other case we’ve dealt with, his brain fills in the blank. Riddle doesn’t like that. Crowley does his research most of the time, but it doesn’t seem fair to send you off to Queen-knows-where if you’ve just started opening up to humans. Riddle recalls the furtive mumblings of the vets—Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show? Is it possible to breed her?—and feels himself growing ill.

“All right. Sure. Yes,” he babbles dumbly, shaking those thoughts out of his head. “I won’t let you down, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure that’s possible anymore. Not when the stakes are so high. This is an expectation, not an experiment he can toy with as he pleases.

The last of Riddle’s withering courage goes out the door with Crewel, swept up in a flurry of snowflakes. He heaves a sigh and then deflates, exhausted even though the day has just begun.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles, wringing his hands to calm himself.

He considers removing your boots and coat but thinks better of it. For a minute, he simply lingers. When it becomes clear that you aren’t going to wake anytime soon, he resolves to get started on breakfast to pass the hour. He may not be a five-star chef, but he’s had enough practice to know how to cook passable, edible meals. Although passable is not perfect, and even though he knows he should devote more time to cooking he’s never had that chance. He’s up before the sun’s risen, lukewarm coffee poured in a travel cup, and then he’s off to the lab. An unhealthy habit he ought to snuff.

Now that he’s homebound, he should make an effort to try a little harder. After all, he has a guest now. Riddle wants to impress, if only so he can finally hear someone other than Trey tell him his cooking is good. Genuinely good. He knows Trey only says so because good is a safe word with many interpretations, which is almost always succeeded with a line about how he’s willing to share a few pointers for improvement.

For now he settles on something easy, keeping all of your dietary needs in mind: oatmeal, diced fruits, an assortment of nuts, toast, and scrambled eggs. It’s less cooking and more arranging, but it’s the best he has to offer right now.

He’s in the process of setting the table for two when he realizes it’s highly unlikely you’ll be joining him. Gathering your plate and cup, he brings both into the next room over and sets them down on the table alongside a napkin and plastic utensils. With his hands on his hips, Riddle surveys his handiwork and beams.

It’s better than nothing.

His eyes find the suitcase then. It looks fit to burst, bulging with clothes. Crewel must have overpacked, but then that makes sense. Fashion is his passion, and he’d sooner shrivel than send you out into the world, which is currently limited to Riddle’s house, with plain attire. He wonders if any of the contents were designed by him or simply selected from the racks with taste and style in mind.

Riddle supposes it’s not important right now, so he drags the suitcase down the hall and into his room. Technically, it’s his study. But it will serve as his bedroom for the duration of this program. Your room—the eternally empty guest room—is right across the hall. The bed is small, but it’s cozy enough. He thinks you’ll like it, if only because it’s better than the dull lab with its hard tables and blinding lights.

He’s about to begin unpacking when a jarring crash pierces the air. Startled out of his skin, he stagger-runs out of the room just in time to see you splayed on the floor, plate overturned and food spattered. He opens his mouth to snap at you and then stops short. You notice him then, your eyes blown impossibly wide, nostrils flaring, and you scurry back as if burned.

“Wait!” he exclaims without foresight. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He surges forward, intending to come to your aid. You make a noise that sounds like a gasp and a squeal, your breaths coming in panicked huffs and puffs. He watches you curl into a cower and his heart aches at the sight. Gathering his composure, Riddle peers at the mess and then back at you.

Distance, he reminds himself. And patience. Take it slow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” He issues you an apologetic smile that sits awkwardly on his face. His tone is soft, an even approximation of tenderness. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe that, but it’s the genuine truth. My name is Dr. Rosehearts and I’m here to look after you. You remember Dr. Crewel, don’t you? The researcher with the black-and-white hair.”

Paralyzed, you blink back at him.

“W-Well… Ah—um. Ahem. Starting today, this will be your home.” Riddle risks another step towards you and promptly stops when your arms fly up to shield your face.

What did the book say? Proceed with caution, use an indoor voice, let the subject approach you… I don’t expect her to warm up to me right this very second. Still, there has to be some way to show her I mean well… If it was Vorpal, I’d adopt a calm demeanor and make myself appear harmless. Standing too tall would make me seem like I’m a predator. But that might not work. She’s human, too.

“I know you’re scared. I’d be the same if I was in your place. That’s perfectly understandable. You don’t know much of this place or who I am—and you might think it’s scary right now—but I promise this will be good for you. This place is nothing like the ones you’ve been at before, okay? It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here. I’m not going to get any closer. You can stay there if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”

Minding your skittish temperament, he retreats to the kitchen. When he returns, he notices you’ve pulled your hat over your eyes and shaped yourself into a ball in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, he sets his plate on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. You don’t say anything. “It’s good for you. The most important meal of the day, actually. Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast improves—” He swallows the rest of the statistic, flustered. Now is not the time, Riddle. “T-That aside, eat only if you’re hungry. I won’t force you, but it’s here in case you want it. I’ll be in the room just down the hall if you need me.”

Riddle departs for his study-turned-bedroom. He sits at his desk, opens his notebook, and takes a pause.

Was that the right method of approach? I introduced myself in an amicable manner, I was patient, and I didn’t show any signs of hostility. Despite everything, she probably finds my mere presence hostile… I shouldn’t have shouted like that.

With a regretful groan, he pens a reminder: Keep voice and tone in check. Always.

On some level, he understands. Or he’s trying to, at least. Every time he puts himself in your shoes, he winds up back in his childhood home, sitting at a desk piled high with thick texts on every core subject. And the one responsible for his entrapment in youth? A woman who is more warden than mother. His life has been a predetermined fairy tale since he was conceived. Even now, sitting successful in a relatively cushy position at the lab, he still feels like someone else is writing his story.

They’re holding the quill, scrawling his existence onto mystical pages, and he’s stuck following the script, bound by rules both known and unknown.

By the time he’s finished jotting notes, an air of dissatisfaction falls over the room. He should take a walk, clear his head, do something thoughtless. Anything to distract him from the encroaching bitterness of a bad mood. Riddle catches the time on the analog clock. An hour has passed. It’s been eerily silent. He doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nowhere for you to go.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.

Unsurprisingly, you’re still plastered to the corner like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Grey eyes sweep over the room, finding the breakfast he left you untouched and congealed. He’s about to frown when he notices something peculiar. The floor, which had once been a mess, has been cleaned. Riddle’s thoughts stall out into confused static.

Did she eat the contents off the floor?

Perhaps it’s not so farfetched. If that’s how you’ve been conditioned to eat, it’s only natural you’d follow that habit. He knows about routines well enough, for his entire existence has been lived out in strict, demanding routine, but this habit is one that fills him with an immeasurable pity.

You shouldn’t have to do that here. In fact, you shouldn’t have had to do that at all. No one should.

“I hope it was delicious,” he says, allowing a smile to bleed into his inflection. “I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to make sure you’re fed delicious, healthy meals. You won’t have to eat anything off the ground anymore.”

No response. He wasn’t expecting one. He knows you’re capable of speaking, for he heard your voice in the lab during the moments where you were kept awake for important procedures. Truthfully, he’d prefer to hear your voice when it isn’t filled with sorrow, fear, or a mixture of the two. But this is just the beginning. He doesn’t expect results within a day. A start is a start, and patience is a virtue.

“Dr. Crewel tells me you’re afraid of humans.” At that, your ears flatten on your head. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve been through for that fear to have developed.”

Riddle hesitates, unsure of the point he’s attempting to make.

“I understand—sort of, I think… Well, not exactly. But, to a relative extent, I understand how it feels to be alone and misunderstood with no one to turn to. Sooo.”

Not even a day in and I’m ruining it. At this rate, I’ll just look foolish and she’ll never want to trust me, let alone other humans.

“I’ll always be here if you need me. My study is right down the hall, and across the way is your bedroom. Dr. Crewel’s left me with plenty of clothes for you, so you can take that coat off if it gets too warm. Your boots and hat as well. Oh, and I’ve also got your vitamins and supplements. Those are important to take. I’ve yet to arrange them, but once I know when and how often you’re intended to take them we can start there.”

He needs this rigidity. It’s comforting. It’s familiar.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Um… You can use it at your leisure. The same goes for everything else here. You’re free to explore this floor or grab something from the cupboard if you’re hungry. I won’t mind.”

It occurs to him then, standing there and watching you huddle, that familiarity is one of the best medicines when taken in healthy amounts.

Inspired, Riddle rushes back to his study, plops down in his chair, and opens to a blank page. He’s got it—the perfect schedule. And it’s all formatted around familiarity! He writes like he’s coming up on a deadline, pen soaring across lined paper in a blind rush. His handwriting may be illegible, but the messy scribble is his and his alone. He understands the intent in the chicken scratch.

Adjusting my approach slightly. Going forwards, I’ll build our routine around familiarity, reads the concluding statement of his newly improved three-page plan. He tucks the journal away in a drawer, feeling more ready than he’s ever been.

At first, time felt slow and sluggish—an agonizing crawl into a far-off future. But before Riddle realizes it it’s already been one month, and he’s spent that time dutifully following his schedule. He wakes at seven, showers at eight, and begins breakfast at nine. You sleep on the floor and eat your meals in the sitting room, wordless and anxious. He learned you won’t eat if he’s watching you, so he’s taken to having his meals in the kitchen. It was awkward at first trying to gauge just how quickly you’d eat so that he could clean up—and one time he walked in on you scarfing down your lunch in a rush, which had given you such a fright that you almost choked—so now you have a little handbell you ring whenever you’ve finished.

Since you first started living with him, you’ve taken to eating from plates and bowls rather quickly. Riddle surmises he’d be the same if he just learned there are cleaner surfaces to eat food from. But he’s happy with this development. He wasn’t expecting you’d take to plates and utensils so rapidly.

In the beginning you regarded most of your meals with suspicion, so Riddle would take tentative bites out of his portions to prove the validity and safety of each. He’d say the same thing every time—“It’s very delicious. I think you’ll like it.”—and you would submit with flattened ears, feasting with your hands. He attempted to teach you how to use the plastic cutlery, but you’d been too fearful to let him get any closer and so he put that plan on pause.

Now, after plenty of dedication and determination, familiarity has been established. You’ve since shed your coat, boots, and hat—though they’re kept close in the corner; you won’t let him touch them—and now you dress in the clothes Crewel provided. He moved the suitcase into the room when it became clear you only ever get up to use the bathroom, allowing you to pick and choose outfits as you please.

Riddle wasn’t expecting it, but you’re surprisingly self-sufficient. You bathe without complaint and you clean up after yourself, stacking your paper dishes to make collection easier. You even take your vitamins and supplements without pitching a fit! He’s honestly impressed; his expectations were, admittedly, rather low when he watched you kick and scream in the lab. But this space is different. It’s nothing like the lab. Maybe you recognize there’s some sort of comfort in that.

You’ve yet to venture into the guest bedroom, but he won’t push it. This is already good progress and it’s only been a month. You may be nervous around him, hiding at every sudden, loud sound and trembling when he strays too close, but at least you’re somewhat receptive to him and the things he provides.

So it’s a surprise when, on a mostly unremarkable Tuesday evening, you call out to him.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

He forces himself to act normal, replying from the other room in the calmest tone he can muster, “Is something the matter?”

“Are… Are you really not going to hurt me?” The question is uttered so softly he almost misses it.

“I would never.” He rises from his chair, monitoring his noise level, and creeps closer. “May I look at you?”

“Um… S-Sure. That’s fine.”

He peeks around the corner and waves. “Hello.”

You flinch. “H-Hi…”

“Do you have a name? I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.”

“I don’t, sir.” 

Riddle blinks, taken aback by the formality. “There’s no need for ‘sir.’ Just call me Dr. Rosehearts.”

You avert your eyes and drag your knees into your chest. Taking a few deep breaths, you mutter a cursory apology.

“It’s all right. If you’re not opposed to it, may I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

He pauses, reflecting on the ones he’d written in his notes based on his observations. “How does (Name) sound?”

You nod your approval. “T-Thank you…for the name.”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re scared or uncomfortable.”

“But I… I want to talk! Ah. S-Sorry for being loud…”

“It’s all right. What would you like to talk about?”

“I… Um, sorry. I don’t… Um.” You bury your face in your knees. “I… I can’t look at you… I’m sorry.”

Riddle can’t believe it. You’re willingly engaging in conversation. It’s only been a month—not even, actually—but you’re talking! He wonders what’s working because something must be if you’re already trying to overcome your discomfort to speak. Is it the schedule? Is it the routine and all of the little things in between that help make it easier for you—the handbell and the distance and the patience? Or is it positive social contact you crave, so much so you’re shrugging off the fear in order to make a connection?

You don’t have much of a choice regarding socialization, considering he’s the only other living creature here, so maybe this was inevitable. Still, it’s amazing progress. He’s already itching to notify Crewel of this development.

“I think I can talk if I’m like this. Looking at someone’s eyes is too much for me.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m sure. It’s not so scary if I’m looking at the floor.”

“All right.” Riddle gazes at your empty plate. “Dinner was good?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Really?” He can’t stop himself. The question falls free. “Do you really mean that? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it. It’s delicious.”

Riddle smirks, feeling very accomplished. You can’t compare his cooking to anyone else’s, aside from whatever they fed you at the farm, and so that makes his the best. It’s an honor, even if said honor is awarded by default.

“I’m…not known for my cooking prowess, so I’m glad you find it enjoyable.”

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

He quirks a brow. “What have you had?”

“Round and red thing. Um… Orange thing with a green stem. Bland foods. Dry stuff.”

“Red… Apples?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit. They’re sweet. Very nutritional.”

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? I never knew that. I like them a lot.”

“I’ll have to buy some then.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do you any good if you were forcing yourself to eat something you hate.”

I should know. My mother’s cooking isn’t the most delightful cuisine.

Unseasoned some would call it. Ridiculously healthy, down to exact portions and perfect calorie counts. Riddle’s since learned to be more lenient with his meals, eating until he’s full rather than following the strict parameters he was once held to. Instead, he eats what he enjoys and keeps his health in check. He hopes to impart the same wisdom to you. You’ve already lived a nightmare. Now he’d like you to start living a wondrous dream.

“Oh. Um… T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles even though you’re not looking. “I’m aware you’re not very partial to human interaction, but if you’re willing I’d like to help you get comfortable with it.”

“I can’t.”

An immediate rejection. No surprises there.

“Would it be okay if we start small with just me? You don’t have to agree. I can leave you alone if you’ve had enough.”

“I…can try. You’re not very scary and you’re not mean. You’ve never forced me to do anything either…”

“I’m here to help you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re not lying? You… You won’t trick me later?” You lift your head to look at him, warily eyeing his face to search for a fib that isn’t there. “You won’t send me back to the farm or that cold place with the humans?”

I can’t promise that last one. Anything but that, he thinks. Once the year expires, you’ll be handed over to Crewel, where he’ll determine what to do from there under the jurisdiction of the higher-ups. But Riddle can’t share confidential information with you, especially since it’s something you won’t want to hear.

“I won’t do any of that. You have my word.”

The entire point of this program is to treat your fears and get you accustomed to humans. By the end of the year, you’ll probably be begging him to let you see and meet others. At least, that’s what he hopes will happen.

“And you won’t make me take any sleep medicine?”

“No needles or pills. I only ask that you continue taking the other medicines as prescribed.”

Nodding your acquiescence, you rise to your feet and take a reluctant step towards him. Silence stretches between the both of you. He watches, anticipating. But then you shake your head and take three steps back, pressing yourself against the wall.

“S-Sorry. I thought I could… Never mind.”

“You’ve only been here a short while, but you’re already making an attempt to communicate with me despite your apprehension. You’re very brave, (Name).”

“W-Well, you haven’t given me any reason to be scared. So… So I think I can trust you. Maybe…”

Trust is a powerful thing. A responsibility and a privilege all in one. Therefore, he won’t squander it.

That night, while in the process of drafting an email to Crewel, Riddle listens to your hooves on the hardwood as you move down the hall. He glances past his monitor to the small sliver of space between the door and wall, wondering if he imagined it due to his lack of sleep, but then he hears the guest room door creak open and shut softly.

Unbelievable, he thinks, stunned into silent amazement. She’s sleeping in the bedroom.

It feels too fast and too slow. Major progress on a minimal timeline. Again, he thinks he’s dreaming and so he steps out of his study to check the sitting room. It’s empty. You’ve even taken the suitcase with you. His mouth hangs open in muted shock.

Is she starting to feel comfortable here?

What felt like an impossibility at first is gradually becoming a reality.

The schedule worked.

Good things only ever come to those who wait. Perhaps this is a plausible proverb worth its salt. As the weeks pass and you continue to interact with him, Riddle begins to take note of your personality. You’re not nearly as fiery as Vorpal was, but you are very lively—so much so that it’s almost hard to keep up with sometimes. Riddle wonders if this is a side effect of the circumstances you came from. Forced to live a life of solitude, in which you were condemned to exist in silence and act as if invisible, you’ve taken to the idea of companionship rather swimmingly.

As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Riddle has done everything in adherence with his own set of regulations, strict in his dedication to personal forbearance. And you’ve made miraculous progress, a testament to his persistence. Crewel seems to approve of the results, voicing his opinions in emails worded with pleasant praise. Riddle couldn’t have predicted where he’d be by this point, but with this steady stream of improvement he theorizes you’ll be more than ready by the end of the arrangement.

He told himself he’d keep a healthy distance, if only to avoid feeling even more sympathy and thereby compromising this study, but he can’t help it. You’re growing on him.

In the wake of everything, he’s managed to amend his own schedule. Riddle thought he could sleep at his desk and all would be well, but you didn’t seem to like that he was neglecting his health in order to look after yours. To his surprise, you nagged him: “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? It’s your job to know someone’s health, so don’t forget about yours.”

Aiming to placate you, he made the sofa in the sitting room his bed. He does that a lot—placate you. It’s not his intention to be a doormat—and he’s not—but he doesn’t like seeing you in pain or upset. Once, when he tried to slip out of the house to go grocery shopping, you interrogated him as if he was guilty of some serious crime, fearful that he’d leave and never return. No matter how much he assured you, you didn’t believe him and so, wanting to keep your eyes free of tears and your heart unburdened, he decided to order groceries online and have them sent to his doorstep. It was simpler and it chased away any thoughts you might have had regarding an abandonment that would never come to pass.

Riddle doesn’t take issue with it. You’re learning as you go, and he’s realizing that hybrids are much more complex than he once imagined. Of course they’d be, though. They’re half-human, too, possessing much of the same emotional intelligence as complete humans. And sometimes you prove to be more insightful than he is—he, the researcher who spent the majority of his early twenties shackled to his schoolwork.

He wonders if you have any goals for your life. Any important items on a bucket list you might want to cross off. Or maybe you’ve never had the pleasure of indulging in these kinds of musings, for you’ve never been allowed that happiness.

Riddle stares at his reflection in the milk, stirring what’s left of soggy cereal with his spoon. It’s New Year’s Eve, but this will likely be the first year she’s ever felt truly free. Twenty-something years of nothingness… I can’t imagine what that’s like.

But he can. Partially. He lived it, grew up with the hollow in his heart—a void that needed to be filled with validation (and sometimes still does today). He was only ever whole when his mother recognized his efforts and told him what was right from wrong.

He’s not like that anymore, but some days it really does feel like he’s falling back into inherited habits, a caricature of the imperfect.

A paper plate drops down onto the table. Riddle flinches out of his spiral to find you lowering into the seat across from him.

“I hope it’s okay to sit here. It’s just that… Well, you looked sad and lonely eating by yourself. I thought I’d keep you company. It gets boring sitting in the next room over.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He coughs, coltish. “I’ve finished here, so you don’t need to force yourself.”

“Who said I was forcing myself? I want to sit here. If it’s okay, that is.”

“Oh. All right then.”

You beam at him, eating as if nothing’s amiss. He sits in silence. This is the first time you’re eating with him. Crewel will enjoy hearing about that in the next email.

“We’ve an hour until the new year,” he says, still awkward despite having known you for a little over three months now. It’s occurred to him that what he lacks in socializing he makes up for in logic. Although sometimes he envies those who can have stupid, mindless fun and not have to fret over reputations and repercussions. “Do you have any resolutions?”

“Resolutions for the next year… What’re those?”

“They’re like goals. Things you hope to accomplish throughout the year. There are all kinds of goals—personal and social and financial.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“New Year’s resolutions are notorious for being forgotten or discarded. Most people usually follow them within the first week before giving up.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s appeal in wanting to fix something you’ve been putting off. Sometimes we need excuses to do the things we don’t want to.”

“Do you have anything like that?”

Riddle hesitates around his answer. I should call my mother. It’s been some time. I should also reorganize my study. It’s starting to look a little cluttered. I should get better at cooking. I should learn new recipes…

“Not exactly,” he says instead. “My only resolution is to help you.”

Your ears perk up at that, and your tail swings freely from side to side. He cracks a small smile at this visible sign of merriment.

“I want to help you, too! I’ll talk more and I’ll help you in the kitchen. That way you’ll never be sad or lonely again.”

“Did I truly look so distressed?”

“It doesn’t fit on your face. I like seeing Dr. Rosehearts when he’s in a good mood, so please feel better.” You hold your hand out. “You’re the first human to be nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

Riddle peers at your outstretched arm. You’re standing up and leaning over the table in order to reach him. It’s an endearing sight. “I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing special,” he admits, modest.

“But it is to me. So… So thank you. I hope all of your resolutions come true, even if you don’t know them yet.”

He nods, finally closing his hand around yours. It’s warm in his grasp, a rightful fit that fills him with felicity. This is what life is all about, he soon realizes. It’s not just endless studying or mundane days spent cooped up in the lab. It’s about simple, slow pleasures—about little joys savored in peaceful solitude. It’s getting swept up in the sweetness of housebound happiness.

Riddle thought this was the stuff of legend, an impossible, idealistic fairy tale. Now he knows that’s not true because he’s living it, and it’s the most flavorful dream he’s ever encountered.

“Oh, that reminds me! They’re playing the New Year’s program on TV. Shall we watch the last few minutes together?”

You gasp, your eyes bright with wonder. “Can we?”

“Absolutely. I think you’ll like it. Do be warned, though. There may be fireworks. I know loud sounds aren’t exactly comforting for you.”

Riddle recalls the first time you heard the grandfather clock announce itself with its booming chime. You hid in the corner, trembling all throughout the night. At the time he could only try to talk you through the fear, unable to offer physical comfort. But now you’ve grown accustomed to the clock and its sounds.

“I think I’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, right? And you can just turn the volume down if it’s too loud.”

Humming his agreement, he stands from the table. He aims to be suave and falls short, the feeling bleeding into surprise when you release his hand and dash into the sitting room. He clicks his tongue and follows after you, amused.

The room seems much brighter when you’re in it.

“Hurry! Hurry! You said there’s not much time left. I wanna see the countdown.” You pat the sofa insistently.

Riddle claims the space beside you, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. He flips through the channels before landing on the right one. Just in time, too. It’s two minutes to midnight. With your stare pinned on the screen, Riddle’s free to admire you in secret. You’re practically vibrating with excitement, shifting and bouncing in one place. It’s impossible to imagine anyone wanting to hurt you when you’re too good for this world and its humans.

Perhaps that’s what makes it unfair.

The host holds a champagne flute in one hand and a microphone in the other, lifting it towards her co-host as they practice a playful toast. One minute left and then this tumultuous year will be behind him. He could spend it reflecting on every notable event from every month, on past years lived and lost to loneliness, but that would be futile. Nothing can compare to the time he’s lived with you, for those months are priceless and precious.

A timer displaying ten seconds flashes on the TV, descending through the numbers one by one. You stare, transfixed by the lights and sounds. Riddle watches you, drinking in your wide-eyed expressions like a man parched. The New Year is welcomed silently under his roof. No boisterous celebration needed. Distantly, just beyond his house or within the scene on TV, fireworks resound in joyous, explosive bangs. He intends to wish you a happy New Year, but you lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. He flinches, almost moving away out of instinct, but he remains seated. The contact is new but not terrible.

Opting to bask in the quiet alongside you, he clicks the volume down and watches what’s left of the program until you’re dozing. He’s never known peace quite like this before.

And while he guides you, sleepy and disoriented, to your bedroom, he wonders why he was ever trying so hard to stay impartial.

Three weeks into the New Year, Riddle’s woken at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. He blinks through the groggy haze of sleep, blindly feeling around for the switch on the coffee table. Lamplight casts the space in a pale yellow glow. You’re standing in the hall, fidgeting from hoof to hoof. He blinks, certain he’s dreaming, but you remain.

“(Name)? It’s late. What’s going on?”

“H-Hot,” comes your reply, thick and raspy.

Alarmed, he throws the covers off and sits up on the sofa. You flinch back, the reflex engraved into your being no matter how long it’s been.

“Sorry… Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just—ah. Um…” He swipes his tousled fringe out of his eyes, clumsy and half-asleep. “Come to me instead. It’ll be okay.”

You hesitate for a beat before staggering towards him, knees wobbling all the way. He listens to the shaky clip-clop of your hooves on the hardwood. “Feels weird,” you elaborate. “My head is all foggy…”

Upon closer inspection, Riddle realizes you’re sweating as if you’ve just run a grueling race. Now he’s wide-awake and worried. A potent combination.

“Let me check.”

He makes sure you see his hand first before he reaches to touch your neck, assessing your pulse. It’s pounding beneath his fingertips, a wild thrum of barely restrained ardor. He moves to touch your forehead next, but you seize his wrist. He stares at you, bewildered.

Shuddering like a leaf in autumn, you guide his hand to the space between your legs. Riddle’s breath hitches when he feels the wet patch soaking through your shorts. He stumbles away in his shock, tearing his arm out of your hold. You shrink back, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dazed while he watches you rub your thighs together.

Not good.

He knew this was coming, or he thought he knew. Admittedly, it was one of the last things he considered when making plans to house you. A major oversight that’s come back to bite him.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it bad?” You peer at him through lust-lidded eyes, your speech on the verge of slurring. “Am I gonna overheat and die?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s—you’re in estrus. I… I should’ve known better, but I didn’t and now—”

“Estrus? This isn’t sickness?”

“Have…” He swallows hard, palms unnaturally clammy. “H-Have you not experienced this before?”

“Mm, not that I remember… No, I usually—round things. A…pill. I was given pills,” you ramble in between high, reedy breaths, lashes fluttering. “Dr. Rosehearts, I can’t take it… S’hot all over. Make it stop. Please.”

Suppressants, he thinks and drags a hand over his face. It’s been put off for so long and now that you’re no longer on them it’s crashed into you all at once.

“I see. All right then. Well…” Riddle peeks at you through the cracks in his fingers. “I’m sorry. Had I known… If I was more adequately prepared, I’d have made sure to get you something… S-Something to help with…it…”

“You… You know how to make it go away, r-right?”

Riddle inhales sharply. “I…”

Riddle Rosehearts, don’t you dare, he reprimands himself. You know better.

Does he, though?

His mouth moves faster than his brain, sparing him the consequent morality crisis. Before he can slip into that debate, he instructs you to sit down and spread your legs.

“A-Are you sure that’ll help?”

“I promise,” he whispers, stressing the syllables. You take another moment to watch his face before nodding and obediently following his commands. He lowers to his knees like a sinner on trial, holding yours apart before they can close. “I’m here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, body tensing.

“Relax. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?”

“It’ll be a few days. The estrous cycle for a mare usually lasts around twenty-one days. There are two phases—you’re in the first. You’ll feel like this for about a week, but I’ll do my best to help where I can.”

If I can.

You whine when his fingers drag against your skin. They hook around the waistband of your shorts and he slides them down.

Sensitive, he notes, lips curving up into a tiny smile. Cute.

He knows he shouldn’t go any further than this. His thoughts are enough to scandalize even the most open-minded researcher, and he can’t possibly include this in his biweekly report. Just what would Crewel think of him? What would any of his colleagues think? You’re a specimen, the focal point of his research, and he’s kneeling before you with a head full of obscene imagery. Riddle really should stop before he crosses the line between right and wrong and surpasses the point of no return.

There’s no coming back from this—no chance of returning to the dynamic of scientist and subject.

But what else can he do? Leave you in this state, where you’d feel sticky and miserable throughout the week? At the very least, if he’s going to throw morals aside and embrace depravity, he might as well relieve you of this biological burden. He can deal with his own later.

If he wanted to be clinical about it, he could dress in his uniform, don a pair of rubber gloves, and put on a surgical mask. Perhaps that would ease his guilty conscience. But he’s already come so far; it’s too late for any of that.

“Just breathe. You’re all right.”

You do so, inhaling and exhaling in shaky intervals. His dick, half-hard and yearning, throbs against his pajama pants. Pressing two fingers to the damp outline of your pussy, he feels your slick soaking through the fabric and knows it’s pointless to try to will his erection away with bland, boring thoughts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to—not when your voice is in his ears, your every gasp more alluring than the last.

“Please…” You grab at the blanket, throwing your head back against the sofa. “Please.”

You don’t even know what it is you’re begging for, but you’re begging nonetheless. Riddle finds the sight adorably addictive. He pokes and prods, tracing your folds through your underwear to estimate the exact shape and size. He’s proven correct when he peels the sodden garment away, tossing it over his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty here,” he observes, the ribald remark coming out more refined and flattering than he intended. “Like a rose in bloom.”

You shiver and whine impatiently. “Hurry… Make it go away—please, Dr. Rosehearts.”

He wants to take his time exploring, the researcher side of his brain infinitely intrigued. But that’s not feasible when you look just about ready to melt into a puddle of sweat. So he does away with any ideas of foreplay, abandoning the thought of building tension when it’s already at its peak, and slides two fingers along your puffy slit. You gasp and shiver when those digits circle your clit, massaging the area generously. He’s not sure what he’s doing at first, the motions foreign to his clumsy fingers, but he’s studied so many anatomy diagrams in his time and it boosts some of his confidence. That’s really all that guides him along. There’s also the lust, but he’s ignoring it. Sort of.

Not really.

Riddle slides his fingers deeper, amazed at how easily they’re sucked in. You cry out and buck your hips up to meet his hand.

“M-More—oh!”

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles, but there isn’t any bite to the non-insult. “I’ve only just put them in and you’re already feening for more.”

“Sorry. Sorry… I—haa—I can’t help it.”

“It’s all right. Only fair, after all.” He glances up at you and smiles angelically. “This is to be expected. It’s your first heat.”

“First heat… You mean there’s more?”

Riddle’s breath catches in his throat. How should he explain it—that this will happen every breeding season and there’s nothing to stave the inevitable? Unless, of course, medicine is used to tamper with hormones and cycles. Riddle wonders if Crewel would send some over if he asked, but that would require telling him about this and he doesn’t want to risk being too grossly candid.

“It’s…complicated. You don’t need to concern yourself with the specifics right now. Let’s just focus on getting through this one, okay?”

“Okay.”

His other hand rubs appreciatively along your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

You smile and sink back against the sofa. Riddle sets to work driving his fingers in and out, curling them every now and then to stretch you and admire the way your pussy weeps. It’ll be a pain to clean the couch, but it’s not like he’s particularly attached to it. He’s due for a new one anyway. Your gasps fill the room with pretty pitches of pleasure. He gazes at your face as it flickers through desperation and desire, both blending together to make you look perfectly blissed-out. If you had any thoughts in that head, they’re all but pomace now. Surely, otherwise you’d be more coherent in between shameless moans.

There’s a side of Riddle that knows, and it takes all of his willpower not to address it. It’s just part of any animal’s biological clock. Of course you’d be thinking about it, whether consciously or not, during your heat. At the very least, if not your brain, your body recognizes the imperative to sink down on his three fingers all at once as if they’re a cock.

But he can’t lose in his internal war with ethicality. Because if he loses it’ll end with you pumped full of as much cum as he can possibly give, and then he’ll be known as the man who knocked up his hybrid specimen. It’s tempting like the worst drug, a sure-fire way to distort his linear logic. It’s bad; he knows. But it would be so much better to replace his fingers with the real thing and fulfill mutual urges in unison.

I wish.

He can’t, so he won’t fall prey to the charm of concupiscence.

It takes a few more determined thrusts and a pinch to your clit, and you’re squirting on his fingers with a pornographic squeal. He stares at the mess dampening the blanket in muted astonishment.

Riddle didn’t know a reaction like this was possible.

He’s humiliated at his inexperience. His lessons in anatomy have always been strictly scientific, and he’s never explored anything outside of that box. He’s never been horny enough to masturbate to porn either. To think the human body is capable of such a feat when caught in the throes of ecstasy… Just what else can you do?

You’re panting when you come down from your orgasm, eyes pinned on the ceiling. He knows you’re nowhere near satiated and so, after determining you’re okay, he continues his ministrations. He’s just being greedy now. Can you blame him?

“Dr. Rosehearts, I want—” your fingers wrap around his wrist, testing his restraint, but he resists the temptation— “I want more… Deeper. Bigger. Please…”

“I… I can’t,” he manages, the words strained with regret.

He wants nothing more than to plaster you to the sofa and rut into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and then soft and slow. Enough times to ensure you’d be staggering on unsteady hooves come morning. He’d do so in a heartbeat if not for the repercussions and the rules, an entire novel’s worth of them reminding him of the facts. He can’t win in a match against nature. It’s impossible.

“I’ll be good. I won’t ask for anything ever again. So please—”

Riddle heaves a mournful sigh. “I want to help, but this is as much as I can do—as far as we can go. I’m sorry.”

The risks are greater than the reward. I can’t.

But he wants to.

I could lose my job. I’d be outcasted. They’d never look at me the same.

You fix your lips into a despairing moue and pat the space beside him. “Then… C-Can you come up here? Sit next to me.”

With his fingers still thrust up inside you, he rises from the floor and moves in to kneel on the cushions beside you. His arm wraps around you to keep you steady while the other remains between your legs. This newfound proximity allows you to cling to him, and you fall back onto the sofa with him on top. Riddle adjusts the position to straddle you, trapped between your legs as they close around his waist. He props himself up with his other hand, placed right beside your head. You loop your arms around his neck and drag him down, endeavoring to pin your bodies like priceless art on a wall. He doesn’t object, allowing himself to be pulled.

Riddle peers into your glossy eyes. Fairy-tale tears cling to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks in delicate droplets.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Still the same,” you grieve, chest heaving. Your eyes trail down to the very obvious tightness in his pants, and you quickly blink overstimulated tears away. “You��� You’re in estrus, too?”

He almost cums right then when you press your palm against his crotch. Momentarily stunned, he bows his head and tamps down a gratuitous groan.

How, pray tell, is he supposed to win the war when he’s the weakest soldier of all, tethered to his restraint by a flimsy set of morals?

“No, not estrus. No, this is—” He hisses through his teeth, his brows furrowing. “H-Hold on. If you touch there…”

As he says it, he rocks against your hand. You squeeze him through his pants, and the hand that had been diligently caressing your cunt stops for a brief second. He can’t get carried away, but he’s already on the verge of cumming and you’ve only touched him twice. Not even skin to skin but through fabric! That must be a new form of pathetic.

“I wanna help you, too.”

“Yes—right, I understand. But it’s not—” 

Riddle swallows the rest of that sentence, breathing hot and heavy. His attempt to feign composure is weak. He knows there’s no point to it, but he tries anyway. A wasted effort. Before he can think any further, he reaches down to grab your hand. He lifts it to his lips, hesitates, and then presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You watch him through hazy eyes, warming beneath him like cinders in a hearth.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You grip his hand with renewed affection. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

Riddle can feel the blush setting his face aflame. “Perfectly fine. This is normal.”

His fingers delve deeper, searching for that special spot within, and the discussion ends there. Your protests taper off into lewd incoherency. He decides then that he’ll buy you a few toys to make up for tonight.

Better bloodless silicone than something with real risk, he concludes, watching you twitch and writhe.

He’s made up his mind. 

Or so he thinks.

You reach for his cheek, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. He smiles and leans into your touch. It’s fleeting, a mere few seconds of sweetness, and then that same hand is at the back of his head. You yank him down with surprising force and smash your lips against his. He freezes like he’s just fallen into arctic waters, his fingers halting inside of you.

It’s Riddle’s first kiss at thirty-one.

He doesn’t outwardly panic, but his mind is a muddle. He should kiss back, shouldn’t he? But he’s never kissed before! How does one even go about kissing? Is there a technique he should practice to perfection? Does that even exist? He’s drowning in so much distracting doubt that he almost misses the way your tongue slides across his lower lip.

If there exists a method to his madness, this is surely it.

Riddle kisses you like he’s dying. There’s no rhythm to the exchange. It’s a mere meeting of mouths and minds, brought together for the singular purpose of hedonistic indulgence. His thoughts are all but dumb mush by the third kiss. Not that he really needs to think about anything at all. You’re teetering on the edge once more; he can see it on your face. Your ears twitch at every new sound he makes, curious and content. You’re not afraid.

He’s so relieved. You trust him, and he trusts you.

Gasping into your mouth, he pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs hold of your hips, dragging you closer. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s already soiled his underwear, cum dampening the fabric. All at once he feels like less of a level-headed adult and more of an insatiable adolescent who’s just learned of sex for the first time. Which, technically, this is his first time. Yours, too. 

And he’s ashamed. Not because he came from kissing alone, but because he didn’t get to do it inside—and it’s a dangerous thought like this one that stokes the shame in his belly until it’s near-volcanic. Despite this, he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, still fully-clothed and achingly stiff. 

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

“What is it?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead.

A sob shakes through your body like a seismic tremor. “Please… Please just put it in. I can’t take it anymore. Hurts.”

“Next time. For now…” He swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not wise to make promises like that, but he’s come so far already. “This will have to suffice. I’m sorry.”

You nod even though you look like you want to argue. To make up for it, he peppers your face with quick kisses until a dreamy grin sprawls on your face.

“There we are. A pretty smile for a pretty lady. No sadness, okay?” He brushes your clit again and you’re gone, tipped over the edge into a mind-numbing climax. “Just relax for tonight. You’re in capable hands, my dear.”

The hours stretch on into a vicious cycle of hot and cold. You emerge from the haze long enough to snack on apple slices and toast before you’re inevitably pawing at his arm for assistance. He suspects the days that follow will be the same, exhausting not only his body and its physical and mental capacities but his patience as well. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t survive years of higher education just to lose to his dick. What sort of researcher would he be if he allowed that to happen?

Embarrassingly, the first item on Riddle’s list for next month’s necessities is a box of condoms. I won’t need it, but it’s important to be prepared, he reasons. Just in case. But even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie.

So he decides he’ll get two boxes.

Partway through the program, Riddle receives a benumbing email. Notwithstanding the upbeat, jazzy notes spilling from the record player, the melody doesn’t put his frazzled nerves to rest. If anything, it serves as background music for his worries.

I’ve been in contact with the higher-ups. They’re quite impressed with your results. If all continues to go well, we might just be able to find a home for her. A few buyers have already expressed interest. Keep up the fine work, Dr. Rosehearts.

- Divus Crewel

Riddle must have read those five lines a dozen times before he decides to confront the truth. The lab is making plans to sell you after rehabilitation.

“There’s no feasible way… What is he thinking?” Riddle mumbles, scrolling through old emails to distract himself. “This is a process. He can’t just—he can’t shove her into society and expect all to be well! She’s not some pet to be sold off either.”

He lowers his head onto his desk, fighting the urge to yawn and simultaneously filter through the stages of grief. It’s late. He should get to bed. But how can he sleep with this weighing heavy on his mind?

“Ridiculous,” he snaps with a scoff, returning to the email once more. “Risible, even. I won’t allow it.”

His fingers tap the keys one by one, hesitant at first. Eventually, he types a harsh, angry message that reads more like a rant than a respectful email. Riddle simmers in that tension while he deletes every word. It helps a little—grounds him enough to start drafting a real email. He types in time with the energetic sax and drums, each blending together to form a seamless flow. Relaxing in his office chair, he taps his foot to the rhythm.

Just then, his door opens. He sees your ears over the top of his computer and pushes away from his desk to take you in from head to toe. You look comfortable in your satin nightgown, tail frizzy and tangled from rolling around in bed. He’s reminded of the times he’d brush Vorpal, smoothing down his coat with even strokes.

“Dr. Rosehearts?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry… I’m a little busy with work right now and I lost track of the time.” He glances at the record player. “I’ll stop this so you can go back to—”

“Oh, no! No, please don’t. I like it.”

“Ah, is that so? In that case, come closer. Let’s listen together.”

He lifts the tonearm to play the song from the beginning. Music soon filters out of the turning vinyl. You hurry to his side, placing your hands on his desk and leaning in close to peer at the record player. He watches your tail swish languidly.

“Amazing… How does it do that?”

“Play music?” You nod eagerly, and he smiles. “The needle runs across every groove on the record, and from there it takes the vibrations from the moving record to make sound.”

“Wow. That’s so fancy.”

Riddle chuckles. “Actually, it’s a bit dated. I’ve had it for quite some time. Nowadays, everyone’s streaming music from their phones because it’s easier.”

That’s what the youth do, right? he thinks desperately, as if you might correct him.

“But this is so wonderful! I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s like…magic.”

“Is it really?” Riddle doesn’t realize he’s propped his elbow against his desk, his cheek resting casually in his palm. He snaps out of the daze moments later and clicks the email away even though he knows you can’t understand it. “Here—pull up that chair. You can move the books.”

You do as you’re told, dragging it over and plopping down without hesitation. “So what’s this song called?”

“It’s a classic. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ to be more specific.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a metaphor of sorts. He’s singing about how much his loved one makes him feel—that he feels very happy whenever he’s with them. Up in the clouds. On the moon. Of course this is an impossible feat for just anyone to accomplish—flying to the moon, I mean—so that alone is supposed to describe just how elated he is with his lover.”

“Lover? Is that like you and me?”

He knows you don’t mean it in that context, but he still flusters. Awkwardly, he coughs into his hand. “N-Not exactly… This is a love song. A romantic love song.”

“Ohhh.” You gaze at the record as it spins, head cocked to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like—” Riddle pauses, unsure of how to properly explain the concept of romance when he himself has never understood it. His mother and father are not a romantic standard by any means. Still, he has to make an effort. “There are different kinds of love. Romantic love is…love in which you can share intimacy and affection with another person. Like kissing or holding hands. Dating and marriage. At least, I think it’s something like that…”

“Then what about that time you helped me during my heat? Is that also romantic love?”

Riddle shakes his head, recalling that night with ferocious clarity. “That’s a little different.”

“How so? We kissed, didn’t we?”

“Y-Yes… But that was just a physical way of expressing desire.”

“Desire?”

“You don’t have to be in love to kiss someone. Sometimes it’s a matter of physical attraction. Besides, you weren’t thinking clearly that night.”

Neither was I, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh. But, Dr. Rosehearts, I like you because you’re nice. I think you’re very smart, too. And you’re always here to help! Physical or not, you’re amazing.”

Riddle blinks back at you. Your bold, plain-spoken nature never fails to surprise. He exhales a long breath, as if he’s losing air and slowly deflating, and places his hand on your head. You allow him to pet you, your eyes falling shut. He scratches behind your ears, carding his hand through your scalp. A wave of intense sorrow washes over him. In just two months, you’ll be on your way out the door and he’ll never see you again. He can’t allow that. But what else is he supposed to do to prevent that? He has a job to do and rules to follow. What he really needs is more time. More months to stall the inevitable.

A year passes much too quickly when it’s lived out in serenity. He’s gotten too used to living like this—to the beauty and bliss of friendly coexistence.

“Thank you for saying so,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your face. You lean into his palm, eyes flicking open to watch him. He runs his thumb over your cheek.

In just two months, he’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The song swells once more before trickling into a joyful conclusion. His arm falls to his side. 

“Let’s listen to another one, yes?”

“Can we really?”

“We can listen to as many as you’d like.”

“You’re the best!”

With a chuckle, Riddle rifles through the many records on his shelves, each organized by decade and genre. He skims through them until he lands on one in particular, pulling it free from its confinement. He admires the design on the sleeve for a short moment before taking the record out and exchanging it with the former. It’s packed away in its original casing, placed back on the shelf in its rightful spot.

“This one’s good, too. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He sets the tonearm down. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’ Another classic.”

You sit and listen to the music alongside him, absorbing every honeyed lyric. And then, after the instrumental has reached its excitable peak, you grin knowingly. “You sure like your love songs.”

Riddle laughs sheepishly. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

Some of his first records were albums and single songs purchased from his time abroad. He can’t remember what compelled him to poke his head inside the little record store set into some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location in a quiet corner of the city. Maybe it was curiosity or a longing for a new learning experience. He’ll never forget the wise words of the shop owner, though: “Music is special in that it’s like food. There’s something for everyone. And if nothing else, music brings us together and allows us to forget our troubles for a moment to soak in the song itself.”

Since then, Riddle’s developed an affinity for collecting records. New and old, they’ve filled the shelves in his study over the years. The shop owner’s words are abundantly clear now. Sharing music is a lovely thing. Sitting with you, delighting in the stories and messages woven into beautiful instrumentals, Riddle realizes he’s never known this feeling before. This gentle connection. Maybe he’s happy someone else can appreciate these songs alongside him, or maybe there’s more to it than simple enjoyment.

“Love songs are so beautiful…”

He hums his agreement, basking in the singer’s whimsical voice as he admits, “‘And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…’”

You fall silent then, and he assumes you’re listening and imagining all sorts of fluffy scenarios to pair with the tune. But when he turns to check if you’re still sitting there, he finds you staring at him.

“Is this one no good? I can change it. Would you like to hear something from another decade or in another language? We don’t have to stay in the fifties and sixties.”

“No, this is fine. I’m just looking at you.”

“May I ask why?”

“You looked so peaceful. The Dr. Rosehearts I know usually looks stressed or sleepy.”

Now acutely aware of the dark circles under his eyes, Riddle winces. He does have that look about him, doesn’t he? The gloomy, sleep-deprived sort that puts into question whether he’s the sociable type.

“I’ll make an effort to fix my schedule.”

“Please do so as soon as possible. You have to promise.”

He snorts, amused. “I promise, Dr. (Name).”

Your once-serious expression softens, and you giggle. “You’re the doctor here, not me!”

I’m not a very good one, he thinks. Good doctors don’t feel these things for their patients.

Frankie Valli fills the quiet with his heartfelt declarations: “I love you, baby. And if it’s quite alright I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing when he leans forward. The tug is magnetizing, tension budding and blossoming in time with the rhythm of the song. You meet him halfway to close the gap. It’s an innocent peck. Nothing as libidinous as last time. You drift away slightly, still staring into his soul. If he felt like it, he could move in for another kiss.

“C-Can we—”

And he does. Unlike last time, his lips mold to yours naturally. He’s still not very confident in his technique, or lack thereof, but this time he’s led on by a desire more potent than bodily cravings. Riddle places his hands on the chair to cage you in. You reciprocate in this manner, grabbing his shoulders to drag him closer. The both of you kiss each other breathless, unable to keep away. You dig your fingers in his hair and melt into the messiness. Riddle knows he’s not dreaming. That assumption withers into nothing after the fifth kiss.

It’s when the song has ended that he pulls back, his heart in his throat and his eyes blown wide. A single strand of saliva connects your mouths, snapping when you move further back. The feeling that courses through his body, electrifying his nerves with pinpricks of anxious excitement, is exhilarating.

“Yes,” he manages, hoping you’ll understand. His fingers interlace with yours. “Yes, we can.”

The tonearm is lifted from the record, but that’s as far as he gets before you’re seizing his wrist and yanking him towards your bedroom. He just manages to snatch a handful of condoms from his desk drawer on his way out.

Rather impatiently, you shove him down on your bed. He stares, stunned by your intrepid temperament, so much so that he’s almost boneless when you make quick work of his clothes. They’re thrown aside in your haste. You strip yourself of your nightgown next. The frilly fabric pools at your hooves. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to give you privacy, shielding his view. But then you’re crawling onto the bed and pulling his arms aside. You peer down at him, smiling hopefully.

Lying flat on his back, Riddle thinks he just went to Heaven and met an angel.

You palm him through his underwear, and he’s ashamed that he’s already hard and leaking pre-cum. You don’t seem to mind. In fact, he watches your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. The one thing he deprived you of in the midst of your heat when you needed it most, and now you get to have it. He’d be a fool to try to deny the fact that he’s also just as eager to sink himself inside you and make good on a promise he uttered long ago.

He squeaks when you seat yourself on his lap and wiggle your hips like a slut. Despite the fabric preventing raw skin to skin contact, he can still feel the outline of your pussy pressing against his erection. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, still in disbelief that this is even happening.

“I think about you a lot,” you admit suddenly, and his eyes flick from your waist to your face.

“What?” he mutters oh-so-smartly.

“When I’m in the bath, I think about that night you helped me and I—” You bite your lip, coy and shy and so cute. As if you couldn’t get even more appealing. Oh, you’re driving him wild. “I touch myself and pretend it’s you. I use the toys you got me, but it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Riddle’s eyes widen to a comical size. “Does…” His mouth dries up. “Does it have to be me?”

“Yes, it has to be you. Who else?”

His fingers dance along your bare stomach, tracing a path towards your breasts. Indeed, who else? Who else if not him, the only human qualified to care for and protect you?

“You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve helped.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“It was reckless. I couldn’t…”

You rock your hips. He hisses through his teeth. “I don’t care about risks and consequences.”

But I do.

Does he, though? Does he, Riddle Rosehearts, really, truly, honestly care about those things? He thinks he does—knows he ought to—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He’s still going to use a condom. So maybe he cares a little. He’s not that impetuous.

It takes some persuading, but he manages to convince you to get off of him long enough so he can pull your panties off. His underwear goes next. He intends to switch to missionary, hoping to be romantically memorable, if not predictably traditional. But you push him back down. He doesn’t object to this. Witnessing you take charge is more fascinating than anything he had in mind. Most of his ideas for tonight are plainly vanilla. He’d probably cum if you traced the palm lines on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, fumbling to unwrap a condom. He’s impressed when he rolls it on one-handed. He practiced that same trick weeks ago, determined to master it then and impress you later. It’s not a useful skill by any means, but it looks attractive. “If you’d rather we take things slowly—”

“I can’t wait any longer. Please,” you beg, querulous. “I need you right now or I’ll die!”

He laughs at your dramatics. “Well, in that case, we best not delay.”

Riddle drinks all of you in as you wrap your hand around him. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tensing on instinct when you line yourself up. The head of his cock prods at your folds. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands.

“Relax. It’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing him for good measure. He throbs in your hand. How is he going to restrain himself when he’s already on the precipice? You’ll be the death of him.

Your face contorts with concentration, brows knitted and lips pursed, and you bore down slowly. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, so he forces his eyes open. Awkwardly, he searches for your hands and, finding them, holds on tight. You offer him a wobbly smile, your fingers curling sweetly around his. It’s a slow process. You don’t seem to be in any rush and neither is he. Inches are swallowed gradually. He’s certain it’d feel better without the protection, but that’s something to consider for the future. Right now he’s focused on you, on the way you gasp and dig your nails into his hands, on the way your walls clench around his cock in a slick, sinful embrace.

“You’re doing so well.” One of his hands slides from your grasp to rub your hip. “Take your time.”

“Dr. Rosehearts—” you place your hand over his, flustered— “Dr. Rosehearts—”

“Riddle,” he blurts. “My first name.”

“Riddle… It’s lovely just like you.”

He flushes scarlet up to his ears. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess—” he groans when you shift on his lap— “guess it never occurred to me.”

I was trying to distance myself. If I’m Dr. Rosehearts to you, it’s easier to avoid the obvious. He sighs, but it comes out pleasured instead of wistful. What even is the obvious?

He can’t admit it outright because then it would be real—more so than a passing thought. He can’t even be sure if you feel the same! Why ruin a good thing? Riddle wonders if that question matters as much as it used to. After all, none of this will mean anything in two months.

“I’m gonna start moving.”

Your voice brings him back to the present. Why is he even looking ahead in the first place? Two months is plenty of time. Even though he soothes himself with this fact, he knows it’s not enough. He’s acting greedy and spoiled, coveting more than just temporary tranquility.

He’d grouse that it’s not fair, but it’s never been fair. He has no room to voice his complaints, and even if he does he’s certain he won’t be heard. This is a reality he must accept.

You lift yourself off of him and slam down in one quick motion. Throwing your head back, you gasp in unison with him. It’s snug and warm, but it’s perfect. You squirm and search for the right pace while he encourages you with a patient smile. Within no time, you settle into the rhythm, fucking yourself on him like a natural, and he can only admire your figure from below, his hands permanently laced with yours. You look and feel soft. It’s the only adjective flitting about in his head while he follows your bouncing tits, entranced like they’re the most fascinating thing on the planet. And to him, a virgin at thirty-one, they most certainly are.

The hand that had been petting your waist glides over to the space between your legs. He marvels at the way you’re stretched around him, inches sliding in and out with your gyrations. Loud, bawdy moans spill from your parted lips. Finding his confidence, he grinds his thumb into your clit to watch you come further undone. It prompts more whines from the depths of your throat.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, Dr. Rosehearts. Please keep touching me there!”

“Unless you tell me, I don’t intend to stop.” He didn’t even know his voice could reach a pitch as deep as it does, tinged thick with a ravenous lust. “You’re such a pretty girl… So sweet for me.”

“It’s—ooh!—just like the song.” You tilt your head at him, eyes glittering in the dimming dark. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Riddle thinks he’s losing his mind because, though it’s so far from funny, he giggles like an infatuated schoolgirl. “‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,’” he quotes, beside himself with euphoria. He meets your plush ass halfway, bucking his hips up into you. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Do you remember the rest? ‘Pardon the way that I stare…’”

“‘There’s nothin’ else to compare.’” 

“‘The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak.’”

“That’s it!” A bright smile blesses the beautiful face that’s left him besotted. It’s taken time, but you’ve blossomed under his care. He’s proud of you. “I’ve got good memory, don’t I? I only listened to it once, but I remembered the line.”

“You have excellent memory,” he praises, rewarding you with another gentle massage to your clit.

“Will you—mmh, haa… Will you play more love songs for me?”

Riddle hesitates. It’s just music. There doesn’t have to be any deeper meaning involved, and he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He thinks he should distance himself, dig a cavern before he falls any further, but that’s impossible when your bodies are so closely connected. And he likes sharing slices of his life with you. It’s like marriage but without the legalities or ceremony. You’ve never had a surname of your own. You could take his and the unofficial could become official within the confines of this little paradise.

“O-Of course,” he answers around a groan, his composure cracking.

The conversation falls apart when you set to work fucking yourself on him. It’s salaciously slapdash, the way the squelch of skin on skin reverberates in the room. He’s nearing the edge of ecstasy, as are you, and he feels free. Unbound by the rules, if only for tonight.

He allows himself to wade through passionate waters, his body ablaze with unquelled vehemence. Time trickles onwards. He rubs you to your peak, witnesses you squirt with a noisy cry. You call out for him and something in him snaps. His fingers dig into your hips and he drags you down on top of him. Riddle fucks you through your orgasm, fueled by your tearful gaze. You babble senselessly—how good it is, how you never want him to stop, how it’s too much and too little and just enough all at once. It’s not long until he’s reaching his apogee. Eyes shut, lips pressed in a thin line, he holds you still when he spills over.

Riddle comes back to himself seconds later, blinking through the fog. You pet his hair fondly, flopping beside him. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to your head to return the gesture. The two of you are a tacky, breathless mess, reeking of sex and sin. It’s an invigorating smell, waking him right up.

“Again,” you plead.

You shimmy enough for his cock to slide out. Riddle doesn’t know his limits yet, but he expects to be mostly flaccid. So it’s a pleasant surprise to find he’s still somewhat hard. Vibrating with a woozy sort of giddiness, his stomach a butterfly garden, he removes and ties the condom filled with his spend. He almost doesn’t believe it. His first time with you. More than just fingers and kisses. Sex.

He pulls you closer, flipping the position so that you’re caged beneath him and he’s on top. “Give me a minute and then we’ll go again.”

You open your mouth to demand more, so he grants that unspoken wish with a kiss. Your fingers wrap carefully around his cock while you lick languidly into each other’s mouths. It’s dangerous, the hold you have on him; he ought to have a new condom within reach. Just in case.

“You’re not tired?”

Riddle grins, smug. “I should be if I want to fix my schedule.”

You pout. “Do that tomorrow.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The night is long and sleepless, but, tangled in your arms, it’s the most bliss he’s ever known.

Like a dreadful harbinger of calamity, destined to descend at the expiration of two months, Crewel arrives a day earlier than what Riddle was expecting.

“Shit,” he mutters, carding his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You peer at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” he’s rambling to himself, pacing before the door. “I specifically said I would bring her in tomorrow. We still have one more day. This isn’t—this is completely unfair!”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You tap his shoulder and he startles.

“Oh, (Name)! Hello. Did I worry you? I’m a little…troubled. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He smooths his hair down. “Can you wait in the bedroom? I’ll be back. I just need to talk to someone. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

Riddle flashes you a soothing smile that’s mostly forced, but it does the trick. You linger for a moment before turning and retreating down the hall. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grips the handle and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind him. He feels brittle, like he’ll break at the slightest tap.

“Dr. Crewel, this isn’t what we discussed.”

“I thought I’d come a day in advance. That shouldn’t be a detriment to the results.”

“It is, actually. I haven’t had time to tell her about…” He shakes his head. “You can’t take her. Not today. She isn’t ready.”

“If your emails are any proof, I’d say she’s plenty ready.” Crewel folds his arms and eyes Riddle dubiously. “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the proper place to hold a private conversation.”

“I urge you to reconsider. She’s—Dr. Crewel, it’s only been a year. She’s not ready for other humans.”

“But she’s at peace with you.”

“And she won’t be with you—or anyone else, for that matter.” He steps in front of Crewel when he strides forward to grab the door knob. Riddle bristles, threatened. “I refuse to throw her back into an unsafe environment. We can’t even be sure the buyers will treat her well.”

“Of course we can. Background checks exist for a reason. She’ll go to a good home.”

“She doesn’t need a ‘good home.’ This is wrong, Dr. Crewel. I agreed to rehabilitate her. That was all.”

“And you’ve done just that. Nothing more and nothing less.” Crewel sighs. “Dr. Rosehearts, I understand your attachment is coming from a place of sympathy, but a good trainer knows to separate himself from the pup he’s looking after.”

You’re wrong.

Riddle opens his mouth to object, but Crewel’s eyes narrow. “Before you speak, I advise you to take your surroundings into account.”

With a stiff nod, he submits and opens the door. Crewel steps inside and peers around the interior in search of you. It’s then when Riddle notices the pack slung over his shoulder. It reminds him of a medical kit. His heart drops into his stomach.

“Who are these buyers? Are they safe? Trustworthy? Do they have any criminal offenses noted on their records?”

“The Felmiers are a reliable lot. They run a family-owned apple orchard in Harveston. They have a son around her age. I’m certain she’ll get along with him. Arrangements have already been made to deliver her by next week or so. Should all go well, I intend to follow that schedule.”

Riddle stares at him, gutted like a goldfish.

“You…” He barks out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Shrugging the pack off, Crewel sets it on the table. He slides on a pair of latex gloves before procuring a syringe from inside. He flicks the needle before turning towards Riddle. “Now then, is the hybrid around?”

“Are you mad?” he hisses, intercepting Crewel on his way down the hall. “No needles. No sedatives. She’ll go peacefully if you give me time to talk to her. With all due respect, Dr. Crewel, your sudden arrival will stress her out. She’s not expecting you. She’s only comfortable with me.”

“That’s why I plan to put her to sleep. We can avoid most of that.” Crewel gestures to the syringe. “Would you prefer to do it instead?”

“I’d prefer to do it another way.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” Crewel brushes past him. “I’d like to be back at the lab before noon.”

Riddle grits his teeth, frantically scraping his brain for a solution. There has to be something he can do—anything! He’s a researcher; it’s in his blood to be innovative and intelligent. But what else can he do? He has to protect you. He has to comfort you. He’s supposed to do all of these important tasks, and Crewel’s ruining it. Putting hard work and progress aside, he doesn’t want to destroy the trust you’ve placed in him.

Before he can get swept up in a panic, your frightened whinny pierces the air. His heart crumbles in his chest.

“Dr. Crewel, wait!” He hurries into the room just in time to find the lead researcher gripping your arm. You lock stares with him from where you’re cowering in the corner, tears running down your cheeks in salty rivulets. The uncertainty flashing in your eyes is almost tangible, spotted with flecks of fear. “Don’t panic. It’s okay! He’s just—we’re bringing you back to the lab for…tests. You’ll be okay. He won’t hurt you.”

But that’s a lie. All of it is.

You attempt to yank your arm back, but Crewel holds firm. “Be a good pup and listen to Dr. Rosehearts.”

“No! Let go of me!” You thrash, kicking out with your hooves and narrowly missing Crewel’s ankle. You glance fiercely at him, your expression broken and betrayed. “Dr. Rosehearts, you promised! You said you wouldn’t—you promised!”

He did, didn’t he?

With a clenched jaw, Riddle turns his back on you. There’s nothing he can say or do to make it better. You fight Crewel with everything you’ve got, crying out when the needle pierces your skin, and you continue to struggle up until the sedative takes effect. Eventually, your sniffles and sobs grow silent and your body falls still, breathing evening out into something peaceful. Riddle frowns at you when he turns around.

“You care. That much is apparent,” Crewel comments as he gathers you in his arms, passing Riddle the empty syringe. He stares at it, frigid and unfeeling. “But I expect you to exhibit just a little more professionalism next time.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again,” he grinds out, stepping aside to allow Crewel passage. “I’ll pack the suitcase and then we can be off.”

The drive to the lab is made in stifling silence. Riddle follows behind Crewel, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanche. By the time he’s made it to the facility, he’s a numb husk.

I should’ve done something.

But what can he do? This was unavoidable.

Like an empty puppet, he walks woodenly beside Crewel. He’s back where he began: the examination room where he first encountered you. Only this time it’s not for a meeting but, rather, a departure. Crewel lays you down on the metal table, delegating orders to the few lingering assistant researchers. They spring into action and strap you down. It’s the same rigmarole as before. Nothing new.

“The Felmiers… Have you met them in person?” he asks, absentmindedly skimming the file on the family in question. He reads what he can stomach and, though he hates to admit it, they really do seem like a safe match for you.

“We’ve talked over the phone a few times.” Crewel studies your hooves, checking each in case you’re in need of new horseshoes. Unlikely. Riddle made sure to reshod you two weeks ago. “You’re welcome to accompany me to their farm. I’m sure the hybrid would appreciate a familiar face.”

“I’ll consider it.” He sets the file down on the counter before reaching into an open drawer to procure cotton swabs, gauze, and antiseptic wipes—among a few other useful items. “I would like a moment alone with her once she’s awake.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to clear the air. Is that enough?”

Riddle considers the speed at which his deft hands work. “Twenty would be better. She’ll be disoriented and frightened when she wakes. She’ll need time to settle down so that I can properly explain her situation.” He glances over his shoulder at Crewel. “I’ll need a sedative in case she lashes out.”

Crewel nods towards an assistant researcher. “Get that for him, will you?”

She nods and speeds out the door. By the time she’s returned, the rest of the researchers have finished their assessment of you. Crewel smiles approvingly.

“She’s much healthier than she was a year ago.”

“Aside from correcting her eating habits, I made sure she took her vitamins and supplements.” Riddle rifles through another drawer for a scalpel and forceps. “We exercised regularly. Walked laps in the house. Stretches in the morning and at night.”

“Good.” Crewel runs a gloved hand through your tail. “I assume you used the special shampoo I recommended?”

“Of course. (Name) enjoyed it. Said it was very gentle on her hair.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let her live nameless under my roof,” he snaps, feeling around for the bottle of enzymatic detergent in the very back of the cabinet. He places it beside the growing pile on the countertop, pauses to reflect on what else he’ll need, and then crosses the room to grab a few cups from another shelf. As he pours the substance, he adds, “Did you expect me to call her ‘hybrid’ for the duration of her stay?”

This should be enough, he thinks, dropping the surgical tools in to soak.

“No. Although it did surprise me. There’s no mention of that name in your reports.”

“I wrote them in accordance with our protocol, hence why she’s referred to as the hybrid specimen.”

“I see. In any case, good work, Dr. Rosehearts. You’ve done well.”

“I always do.” Riddle smiles thinly. He doesn’t feel proud. He feels filthy—a liar who’s broken his promise.

You don’t deserve this. He gazes forlornly at you. You shift in your sleep, your ears perking as if listening.

Crewel notices you jerk in and out of slumber and snaps his fingers. The assistant researchers file out at once. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds Riddle as he departs. “Keep her calm.”

Riddle nods, watching the door slide shut behind Crewel. And then, after he’s disappeared around the corridor, he bounds over to lock it. The glass frosts over. Privacy at long last.

He yanks another drawer open in search of latex gloves and a surgical mask. Finding them, he heaves a relieved sigh and dons both.

“You… I trusted you,” you croak, struggling weakly on the metal table.

Riddle pivots on his heel. “I’m sorry. I—” He surges forward and stops when you squeeze your eyes shut in fearful anticipation. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

“And that’s inexcusable. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should’ve told you sooner. But I—” He hesitates, frowning behind his mask. “I’m going to fix things, okay? You have to trust me on this.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t. Because of you, the other human… You let him… The needle and the sleep medicine—”

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Dr. Rosehearts.” Feeble like a foal, you tug against your restraints. “Please don’t send me back… I’m begging you…”

“I won’t! (Name), I’d never. I’m here to help you.” He taps the needle twice. “We’ll talk later. I don’t have much time. Please cooperate.”

Your eyes slide from the ceiling above to the syringe. That’s when the real struggle begins. Animalistic, driven by instinctual dread, you thrash on the table. Your shrieks are shot through with stress, each whinny a reminder of unpleasant pain.

“Stay away from me! Get away! Don’t come any closer! Dr. Rosehearts—Riddle, please don’t…”

He hardens his resolve, wipes the area on your arm with a prep pad, and holds tight. “I’m sorry, but I must do this. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The needle pricks your skin. You hiccup around a blubbery sob.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the area to soothe you. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

“No… No, please don’t. Riddle, I wanna go home. Take me home.”

“And you will. Soon. I promise.” He stands dutifully at your side, watching the sedative run its course. Time drags on. Your eyelids flutter shut and snap back open. You’re desperately trying to stay awake. “Rest well, (Name). You won’t feel a thing.”

Your fight seeps away just as your body grows sluggish and still. “Don’t hurt me, Dr. Rosehearts…”

He smiles even though you can’t see it. “That’s a good girl. Just relax. I’m here for you.”

And with that, you fall.

He works swiftly, undoing the shackles and flipping you over onto your back. You slump like a limp, boneless fish, arms hanging loosely. If the circumstances were different, he’d be a bit more careful in handling you. But he’s working on a tight time constraint and there’s no room for error or struggle. 

Calm down. You can do this. Steady hand. Steady mind.

He exhales softly and then reaches to undo the tie at the back of your gown. The clothes you originally arrived in are packed away in a bag. He hopes you aren’t particularly attached to them because they’ll likely be left behind after he’s finished.

I think I could work at a coffee shop, he muses while wiping you down with another pad. Or I could do freelance work. Something low-profile.

His fingers waltz across your back, pressing down in search of a bump. He finds it right where he expects it to be: between your shoulder blades. He’s about to do something bad. Something against the rules. But, as he retrieves the tools from the cup and dries them off, he knows this is for the best. You can’t survive on your own in some quiet corner of the world. It doesn’t matter if Harveston is safe and peaceful. It doesn’t matter if the Felmiers will take care of you.

You belong with Riddle. He’s meant to look after you. It’s part of his job as a researcher. It’s because he’s the first human to have ever treated you with compassion that he’s allowed to do this. What may look like a bad thing to everyone else is just a step in the right direction. This is good.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

Riddle cuts into soft skin with precision, slicing along the area in which the microchip is contained. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let the idea of getting caught and punished deter him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows there will be severe repercussions. He knows he’ll never be able to show his face around the lab ever again. But if that’s the price he must pay in order to protect you from dirty, deceitful humans, he’ll gladly forsake his lofty station.

Anything to be able to spend the rest of his life with you.

He unearths the chip and plucks it out with the forceps. It comes free with minimal resistance. After setting it aside, Riddle pats the bleeding wound with cotton gauze. Crimson seeps into pristine white as soon as it makes contact. With a resigned sigh, he leaves it to soak up as much as possible before crossing the room to retrieve the sutures and remaining tools. It’s not a clumsy operation, even if he currently feels that way. Regardless, he would never do anything sloppy—no matter how important or inessential it may be. Although, if he were to admit to the truth, he works faster than he normally does, stitching you up with expert, unfaltering fingers.

Riddle’s not sure how much time he has left when he dries and bandages the area. He isn’t looking to find out.

“Let’s get you up,” he mumbles after tying your gown. It’s awkward, more struggle than success, but he manages to drag your unconscious body off of the table. Steadying you in his arms, he glances around the room to ensure he isn’t forgetting anything. It’s surreal—the last time he’ll ever find himself in this environment—but he’s ready. He has to do this.

If he doesn’t, he’ll never see you again. And who can say you’ll enjoy your life in Harveston? Who can say you won’t immediately call out for him when you wake in an unfamiliar home, greeted by unfamiliar people? He’d never forgive himself for abandoning you.

Riddle only hopes your grudge can be soothed. He’s not like the other humans you’ve feared your entire life. He’s shown you he’s different, and you believed in that—in him.

It’s not wrong. It’s a rescue mission, he assures himself, but the delusion doesn’t stick.

Instead of wallowing in his crime-in-progress, Riddle drapes your arm over his shoulder and, tucking the scalpel away, helps you over to the door. He staggers more than he walks, having to account for the dead weight, but he doesn’t let this hinder him. Worst of all, it’s not even the fear of getting caught that bothers Riddle.

It’s the fact he left the examination room a mess! The guidelines are there for a reason, but he completely ignored them and neglected to clean up after himself. That’s tantamount to stealing the specimen!

Not really. It does feel like it, though.

Riddle pokes his head out the door, glancing down the empty hall stretching on either side. He’s actually doing this. He’s breaking the rules—the law!

It’s worth it, he realizes. Every moment spent with you is a dream come true; he’s never been happier in this idyll.

Down the hall he goes, his lanyard swaying with every step. His keys jingle noisily, but he presses onwards. There’s no way around the cameras or the guard at the front of the building. He can bypass the latter with a smooth lie—so long as nothing stands in his way—but he can’t do anything about the mechanical eyes peering down at him. Riddle reckons it’ll only be a few minutes before the facility’s put on lockdown and Crewel gives the command to apprehend him and secure the hybrid subject.

To no one’s surprise, that’s exactly what happens minutes later. The intercom crackles to life and with it comes Crewel’s threat-tinged inflection: “I do hope this isn’t a blatant display of insubordination, Dr. Rosehearts. I’m willing to overlook this slight if you return the hybrid at once.”

So much for cryptic getaways… He’s almost certain Crewel suspected this from the beginning. Perceptive even in the midst of surgical chaos.

Riddle stops halfway down the hall, stares into the red eye of the CCTV, and raises his middle finger. The surgical mask conceals the nasty glower scrunching on his face.

And then the lights flick from blindingly white to deep, dangerous vermillion. The sirens come next, angry blares that nearly burst his eardrums. Riddle’s relieved you’re unconscious. The sounds and sights would have definitely startled you.

He sets off half-running, half-stumbling the rest of the way, narrowly ducking around the corner just as three guards rush past. For all of his adrenaline-laced courage, the thought of surrendering never crosses his mind.

Holding you close, Riddle takes a tentative step into the hall and yelps just as something zips past his face, nearly grazing his cheek. His arms wrap around you with a possessive firmness. A tranquilizer dart lies on the tile. Riddle’s certain it would have embedded itself in his neck had he been just a centimeter closer.

That can only mean one thing.

Rook Hunt missed on purpose.

“I must thank you for the glorious chase, Roi des Roses. It was as invigorating as it was enjoyable!” He beams and, rifling through the pockets of his lab coat, produces another dart to load into the barrel. One shot. This one, Riddle knows, will hit its mark. “I’m afraid this is where our paths must finally intersect.”

As a last-ditch effort to have some parody of the upper hand, Riddle draws the scalpel out and points it at Rook. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says, his tone a smidge louder than necessary. “I just want to make it to the exit.”

“You’re more than welcome to without the extra baggage. I’m sure you of all researchers should know how important the little trickster is.”

“And I’m sure Dr. Crewel’s told you to use any means necessary to subdue me.”

He smiles an odd, secretive smile, the type of which betrays any and all sentiment. “It truly pains me to turn my arrow on a fellow companion. What indescribable woe!”

Riddle stands unyielding, holding you as far from Rook as possible. He considers his options. Hand you over to Rook and face the severe consequences for equally severe actions, or attempt to escape even though it may be impossible by now. Any other researcher would have proven significantly less difficult, but this is Rook Hunt. He knows how to corner and capture his prey with unapologetic swiftness.

Riddle’s more miffed that he got so far and still failed. Was he doomed the minute he met you? Forever fated to never know another ounce of felicity ever again?

He looks down the hall, his hardened features set in grim determination. Even if failure looms on the horizon, he lives to beat the odds. He’s Riddle Rosehearts! It isn’t in his nature to fail. He always overcomes adversity. This is no different than a perplexing equation he studied to death in grad school.

“I understand it’s wrong,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I know what I’m doing and I’m content with my choice. I can’t let you take her from me.” He turns his fiery stare on the researcher, unaffected at being held at gunpoint. “I’m resigning, and she’s coming with me. I’m not going to compromise, so I’ll have to ask you to stop standing in my way.”

It’s as simple as that.

Rook’s sharp gaze softens into something sympathetic and, much to Riddle’s shock, he lowers the tranquilizer gun. “You love her, don’t you?”

Oh.

That’s the emotion he could never place. One he’s ignored for so long. All this time, Riddle Rosehearts, who thought himself incapable of it, is in love.

“I do,” he confesses, a strain in his voice. He holds your unconscious body close, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. “I love her, Rook. And I—there’s no way I can allow this. You have to let me go.”

“I intend to.” Rook tucks the gun in its holster and holds out a brass key and a folded slip of paper. “I only wanted to see what you’d do when faced with a challenge. As expected, you aren’t so easy to sway once your mind’s made up.”

Riddle peers at both, suspicious, and glances at the security camera mounted high in the corner. Rook follows his line of sight.

“It’s been disabled, courtesy of moi. I can’t say for how long it will remain so, but we’re free to talk at our leisure for now.”

Riddle wonders if he’s telling the truth. There’s no time for deliberating. The emergency lights fulgurate; sirens scream. He has no choice but to trust him.

“Why?”

“Love is a marvelous, mystical thing. To take that from another person—to bury it when it’s only just beginning to blossom—do you not find that unfair?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“I only wish to bear witness to the beauty of love in all its forms. Your love is a spectacle worthy of an audience.”

“But this is…” Riddle lowers his voice even though it’s drowned out in the wailing alarms. He’s not sure why he’s trying to get Rook to debate him on it. “This is illegal. I’m stealing.”

He laughs. “Aren’t we all? Whether stealing hearts or tangible materialism, we’re all thieves.”

That…is not how that works.

“You’re really going to let me go? You’re risking your job, Rook. Everything.”

“So be it. How else can I call myself le chasseur d’amour if I’m not willing to put everything on the line to do so? If I were to falter here just because of a little danger, I wouldn’t be able to observe your romance.”

“I…see. Well, thank you. Sincerely, thank you.” He swipes the key and paper from Rook. “And this is for…”

“An address to an unused residence.”

Riddle’s brow furrows.

“Vacation homes. We use them sometimes. This one hasn’t had company to fill its walls in a while. Perhaps you’d like to stay there with your amour?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all! The house is small but secluded. No one will suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And you’re just…giving this to me?”

“I’m not using it, and you can’t return to your current residence. Where else are you to rendezvous if not the countryside?”

“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

“Oh, Roi des Roses, you’re much too formal! All I ask is that you live happily with her.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I will. That’s a guarantee.”

“Then please don’t let me stop you. Be on your way. I’ll buy you some time.”

He nods and pockets the items, keeping his eyes on Rook while he hobbles past with you at his side. The promising enchantment of a bright future looms distantly ahead.

If there’s one thing Riddle misses most about his old life, it’s the music. Late nights spent holed up in his study, relaxing to slow, soulful notes or tapping his foot to match the tempo of a fast, fluffy falsetto. Sometimes he wonders if the bushes out front are trimmed or if the flowers crawling up the trellis on the side of the house are getting enough sunlight and water. Sometimes, if he flicks through the people in his life like channels on TV, he wonders what they’re saying.

As far as anyone’s aware, Riddle Rosehearts is no more.

He’s since built himself up as a phony, bleached his hair a pale, cool-toned white-blond, and changed his identity. Rook helped where he was needed, a self-proclaimed master of disguises. Riddle doesn’t go out much, but when he does it’s in a small corner of the country—an area with sprawling farmlands, where neighbors are nonexistent for stretches. The town is tiny and quaint. It’s quiet here. The ideal getaway.

And it’s all his. A comfortable life filled with nonstop joy.

He really wishes he had his music, though. It’s just not the same turning the dial on the radio in hopes that one of the stations will reach and have a good queue.

It was difficult adjusting to the change, the scenery, the environment of a new house. You slapped him across the face when you woke up, called him a liar and hid from him. He deserved it. Mostly. It was with great patience that he explained the situation, insisting he never had any plans to hand you over to Crewel or the Felmiers. You came around after the third day, plodding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around him from behind. You made him promise a real promise, one sealed through hot, heady kisses. One that couldn’t be broken so easily.

For the hour the pasta bake sat in the oven, he vowed to never lie again. Over and over, a record on repeat, Riddle spoke those words with sincerity. They punctuated each thrust, pressed into your mouth like a delicate tongue tattoo.

It’s been a year since then and Riddle, for whatever reason, has yet to confess to a very important truth. By this point, he assumes it’s evident. An unspoken understanding. But then you haven’t said it either. He wonders if you know how.

Does he know how?

“I was thinking,” you mumble, sitting pretty in your floral-print sundress. The window’s cracked slightly to let in a spring breeze. It brings with it thoughts of damp earth, fresh produce, and budding flowers. Backdropped by reflective glass, where a plot of empty garden waits just beyond, you’re a reverie taken and transplanted in reality. “We should plant something in there.”

Riddle sets his cup on its accompanying saucer, following your gaze to the soil outside. “What would you like to grow?”

“Strawberries. Definitely strawberries.”

Briefly, he imagines picking a basket’s worth of strawberries with you. Standing side by side in the kitchen, mashing them into paste to make marmalade or syrup. Baking dozens of tarts with them. Dipping them in chocolate. Eating them as they are. Truly, strawberries are one of the best fruits.

“We can do that.”

“Wouldn’t that be so cool? We could have an entire backyard of strawberries! You’d never have to worry about going to the market again. Not for strawberries, at least.”

He chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Humming your agreement, you lift an apple slice to your mouth. Riddle watches you nibble with a smile. Whenever he looks at you he feels weak and wordless, dumbly entranced. An infatuated fool.

You lick your fingers clean next, seeming quite pleased with yourself. Riddle moves thoughtlessly, leaning over the tea table and taking your hand in his. You blink up at him once and then his shadow is eclipsing you. The gap closes; mouths press together. A wind chime sighs, caught up in a breeze. Riddle moves around the table to get closer to you, resting his hand on your thigh. You grab at every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his back. Fingers creep along your leg, brushing your dress up higher and higher. You hum against him, your body warm even though the house is relatively cool.

In the crisp, sunny afternoon, you taste like apples and green tea. He savors it with every kiss, chasing after it like it’s to be his final meal.

As if unwrapping a gift, he slides your dress from your shoulders. Bare skin winks back at him, a soft, unmarked landscape begging to be tilled and filled with love. He’ll never get over the sight. It always leaves him breathless. You respond in kind, tugging at his clothes and whining impatiently.

He nudges at your clit, rubbing you through your panties. You slacken against him, gasping around the tongue tangled with yours. He’s not sure how much time the both of you spend kissing and fondling, but you’re perfectly dazed when he tugs your underwear down. It’s soaked through with your slick. He marvels at you—beautiful, blissful you. Sweat sticks to your body, but with the sun pooling in through the parted curtains it looks more like a delicious glaze. 

He’s hurrying to pull himself from his pants when he stops. “I shouldn’t. Your heat’s scheduled to start any day now. I really shouldn’t…” Foolishly, he attempts an escape, but you grab his face and hold him still. Looking at you now, Riddle realizes he doesn’t want to leave your embrace.

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

“Are you sure? What if you—”

“That’s the whole point of why I go into heat, right?” you murmur against his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were in heat now with how you burn holes into his eyes. “Why wait until then when we could do it now?”

“But do you—” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Life has been too comfortable lately. Surely he’s in for something terrible… “Do you want this?”

You give him a strange look. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Your thumbs brush along his cheeks. An affectionate giggle falls from your lips. “I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but even so I worry. Without proper planning… Not that it’s risky or anything… I just want to be prepared for when—” The rest of that sentence cuts off abruptly. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

Your laughter is musical. “I love you, Riddle.”

A wide, toothy smile claws at his face, lifting it with a boyish jubilation. He feels silly, but he’s happy. So overwhelmingly happy.

Riddle wraps you up in a hug. “So do I! I love you—so, so much.”

You match his enthusiasm with celebratory laughter, drunk on abundant emotion. He said it and it came easy. He said it and he means it.

He said it and you reciprocated.

Oh, what a magical thing love is! To be wrapped up in it as if it’s a blanket fresh from the dryer—it’s refreshing and joyful. Warming his soul, melting the ice in his heart. He’s smiling so much it hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and it’s so freeing. So weightless and wonderful. Like floating down the sweetest stream, living the love from his dreams. It’s everything he’s never known, and it feels good.

What comes next is a rush of wandering hands and never-ending kisses all over, stamped into each other’s skin. He doesn’t bother to strip you completely, and you’re much too desperate to pull him out of his clothes. Everything’s messy, a theatre for the half-dressed.

It’s to a relieved sigh when he finally enters you from behind. Relief trickles into tears, and the both of you are crying through your moans. He plasters you to the windowpane, unbothered by the noisy debauchery of it all. Soft breezes filter in and mingle with the scent of salt and sex.

“I love you,” Riddle confesses again, leaning over you to grab your chin and turn you towards him. You kiss him desperately, clawing at the windowpane for support. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It’s an addictive, spirituous phrase.

“M-Me too—ooh! So much! I—mmh!—love you so much!” you babble, ears pricked forward. A delirious smile curls on your lips.

He peers at your reflection in the window, admiring the bunched ruffles in your sundress and the way your palms press against the glass. He wonders what he’d be doing if he hadn’t met you. Perhaps he’d still be the same Riddle Rosehearts, enduring lonely, cyclical days. Working for a purpose he thought he’d lost. Bent over a metal table, dissecting all kinds of stuff for his research. Feeling the empty void grow larger and larger with every passing year.

There’s no need to entertain those dismal recollections any longer, though. He has a purpose now. He’s fulfilled.

Riddle doesn’t need to look too far into the future to know he’ll be content. Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or years from now, he will always know happiness when he’s with the one he treasures most.

Pinned to the window, you’re falling first. Riddle runs his fingers through the soft strands of your tail, cooing at you like one might a pet: “That’s it. Go ahead and cum for me, my dear.”

Obedient thing that you are, you heed his command.

He rubs your hip encouragingly. You’re on the verge of collapsing, so he grabs your wrists and yanks you back up against him. He ruts into you with more force, knocking you against the window like you’re nothing more than a boneless doll. And then he’s driving home in a final thrust to flood your gummy walls with his spend.

Blinking through your tears and panting heavily, you float back to reality. He steadies you when you stagger on wobbling hooves, feeling only slightly bad that he’s to blame for that. But the prideful part of him relishes in having fucked you so good that you can hardly stand.

He kisses your cheek. “You did so well.”

“I wanna go again…”

He slides out, much to your displeasure, and helps you sit down. “Let’s take a break. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Another cup of tea?”

Stubborn to a fault, you pout at him. Sitting grumpy in that chair with your ears flat on your head, looking a right mess, you’re the cutest, most darling sweetheart he’s ever seen. It almost convinces him.

“Come now. We have all afternoon to waste away.” Riddle cups your cheek. You turn from him with a huff. He watches you scowl at nothing in particular. “Don’t look so glum. I never said we couldn’t go again.”

“But I can go again now! I don’t need a break.”

“You almost fell over. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to dignify that with a retort. He takes your chin in a gentle grasp and guides your head towards him. You hold his stare with unwavering resolve.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to close the space. “That dress suits you.”

“It’ll look better on the floor.”

“Will it?” he asks, playing along with a raised brow.

“It will and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck, your voice tickling his ear. “So take it off properly this time, okay?”

Riddle intends to do just that.

[disneyprincemuke]

the overachiever * fem!driver

she's just a little competitive, that's all

pairings: logan sargeant x fem!driver, sebastian vettel x fem!driver, oscar piastri x fem!driver, liam lawson x fem!driver

notes: YAUUUR i'm back with em femdriver updates dawg

(series masterlist) | (📂 the rookie season)

oscar leans to the side as he avoids the ball hurled at him at seemingly an alarming rate — could have possibly taken his head off if he hadn’t moved fast enough — then turns back to the pair on the other side of the court. “oi!”

“loser!” she pumps her fist in the air and hops over to her teammate on her side of the court, hand lifted for a high-5. “do better.”

oscar rests a hand on his hip, chest heaving as he whirls around to where the ball had bounced to. “this was supposed to be a chill game. what is your problem?”

liam laughs, clutching his stomach as he threw his head back. he catches the girl’s hand and nods. “sore losers, aren’t they?”

“isn’t this your first time playing padel?” logan scowls. “how are you already so good at it?”

she shrugs as she puts her racket between her legs, readjusting her ponytail. “you know i can’t stand when i’m bad at things. of course, i prepared myself for today.”

when oscar had invited them out for a game of padel, he had expected it to be a first out of many short games. what nobody had expected, though, is for the girl — who claimed to know nothing of the sport just a week ago — to be absolutely dominating them on the court.

there is a reason they hadn’t invited the rest of their friends or anyone else from the grid. they just wanted to slowly take their time to learn the ropes of the game so that when the season goes underway, they don’t embarrass themselves when they get invited to games by other drivers.

but of course, the overachiever did her research and is already excelling to a certain extent. it’s just something they’d had to endure over the years: her in-explainable need to be good at everything immediately. if she’s not good at it from the get-go, she loses interest quickly.

“how? how could you have possibly prepared yourself for a game of padel? you didn’t even have a racket until 3 days ago,” logan scolds, throwing his arms in the air as the frustration slowly gets to him. there’s just something about her beating him in absolutely everything that’s sort of absurd. “i was literally with you when we went to get your stupid racket!”

“there’s this thing called youtube?” she hums with an eyebrow raised with the roll of her eyes. “and i asked fernando for some tips. so i’m kind of… like… a pro.”

“doesn’t make you a pro,” oscar scowls with a frown as he shakes his head. “makes you a bit of a nerd, though.”

“well i am graduating with a degree in information technology in a couple of months. so, perhaps, i could be a nerd,” she hums, with a giddy grin, “at least if the whole racing thing doesn’t work out… i have a way out. unlike you dropouts!”

“a woman in stem!” liam cheers. “if you graduate first class, i’ll buy you a car. what’s your current grades?”

she presses her lips together, nodding as she tries to formulate a plan for her education. “if i study harder for my final exam in a week, i could make that happen. i’m a pretty solid b grade student.”

“i meant a toy car, you freak,” liam frowns, scowling at her. “you think i’m getting paid loads as a reserve driver?”

“i overheard the team discussing you the other afternoon. who knows? we very well may be teammates next year.”

“i sure hope not,” logan butts in with a snort. “that wouldn’t do anyone any good — two idiots in the same team.”

she tilts her head, blinking innocently at him. “what do you mean? williams seems to be doing great with that kind of lineup this year.”

logan clenches his jaw, puckering his lips as he looks at her. “okay.”

“enough fighting,” oscar rolls his eyes. “ready to lose again, logan?”

the american sighs. “yeah, i guess.”

“god, don’t you know what a demonstration means?” max clutches his stomach, hunching over as the pain shoots through his torso. he watches the ball slowly bounce on the ground, right after hitting him in the stomach.

beside her, penelope giggles as she approaches max in concern. “are you okay, maxie?”

max shakes his head, glancing at the young child before dropping to his knees as he groans. “no, p. she bullied me!”

“she’s so strong!” penelope cheers, hopping over to the older girl with a screechy giggle. “but you should say sorry, maybe!”

“you’re right,” she grins, patting penelope on the head. “i’m sorry, max.” she leans down to max’s ear out of penelope’s hearing range. “that you got outplayed by a girl.”

max lifts his head to glare at her. they were just teaching penelope how to play football, the older girl describing earlier how to score effectively after she expressed interest in the sport. when she was asked to demonstrate the move, max didn’t expect her to kick the ball so hard.

“i knew that was coming. you’re so harsh!”

he was expecting a semi-strong kick to his stomach — something that he could catch and bear before they continued their small game of football. but no, she kicked the ball as hard as she could and almost incapacitated him.

though, perhaps incapacitated is too strong of a word. but he still does feel it in his gut, stumbling back in confusion when the ball came into contact with him.

can he really blame her, though? he sort of gets it: the need to be good at everything to please people. maybe it’s the eldest sibling trait.

“i was in varsity when i was in primary school,” she presses her lips together with a small smile. she holds her arms out to the younger girl and gestures towards her parent’s house. “i could get blythe to make us orange juice, p. do you want some?”

she sighs and drops her hands. “you can do better than that.”

logan drops his stance, his hands resting by the side of his body. “what do you mean? i don’t want to hit you so hard.”

“why? it’s not our first time sparring,” she scowls, wiping the side of her face on the sleeve of her shirt. she lifts her hands again, inside a pair of boxing gloves, and protects her face. “come on. hit me like you mean it.”

“i’m not going to hit you,” logan mutters. “we’re just warming up until benny and noah get here, right? that’s what you said.”

“yeah, but,” she darts a hand out, barely missing logan’s face when he leans back to avoid her punch, “i want a real challenge before they get here. come on, logan.”

but logan doesn’t fight back. instead, he takes several steps back when she tries to approach him, both arms darting out in an attempt to rile him up into a real spar.

“stop trying. i’m not doing this with you,” logan sighs, touching gloves with her everytime she tries to reach forward for him. “i know you were in martial arts growing up too, but i wasn’t. i’m just here because you asked me to be here.”

she grins. “exactly. so, fight back. don’t be a coward.”

“you’re not going to rile me up into a fight. i’m not you.”

“it works sometimes.” she dips down slightly and throws a punch into his stomach, prompting a huff as it hits him. “hit me back.”

“no way. stop asking me to do that.”

“coward.”

“okay.”

she touches his thigh with her feet, the taller boy stumbling slightly. “you’re just gonna let me do that to you? do something.”

“you’re not gonna get anything out of him.” a familiar voice makes both of you turn your head towards the door, benny walking in with a small smile and a gym bag over his shoulder. “very patient, this guy.”

“you clearly did not live in the same house as him for years,” she laughs, running over with her arms opens to get a hug. “will you spar with me until noah gets here? logan is so boring — he never hits me back.”

“hey!”

“sure! but you can’t cry when you lose.”

“maybe.”

sebastian tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows. “are you sure go-karting is what you wanna do over summer break? don’t you have other things to do?”

“we’ve done everything she wants to do,” oscar says begrudgingly as he puts his helmet on. “she cried this morning saying she misses racing.”

logan also looks tiredly at sebastian, shaking his head as he takes his helmet out of his bag. “i woke up to her sleeping on the couch hugging her helmet, by the way.”

the girl scoffs, punching logan’s arm as he unveils a secret he was sworn to never say to anybody else just this afternoon. “no, i was not!”

“ah, don’t be so shy about it,” sebastian smiles. “i also felt like that in my rookie year. all i could think of was being out on the track.”

“i guess i could study for my exams.” she exchanges glances with the 3 men around her before shrugging. “oh, well. time to race and beat your asses.”

“oh? you think you could be a 4-time world champion?” sebastian raises his eyebrows. “i’d like to see you try.”

“you clearly haven’t met me,” she hums, stopping in her track to turn around and face sebastian. she holds a hand out between them. “hi, i’m the most competitive girl you’ll ever meet. and i will beat you at go-karting today.”

while that doesn’t actually happen that evening, sebastian laughed as he climbed out of his go-kart at the end of their 10-minute race. she swears to him that someday she will be good enough to beat him in equal machinery (a go-kart).

which oscar begs to argue that she’s simply overdramatising the situation. but she just knows it’ll happen eventually.

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock @leilanixx @ironmaiden1313 @angsthology @cherry-piee @christianpulisic10 @elliegrey2803 @33-81 @nikfigueiredo @namgification @happy-nico @darleneslane @localwhoore @sadg3 @a10vely-yutazen @mellowarcadefun @glitterf1 @megatrilss1885 @peqch-pie @gentlyweeps-world @woozarts @meadhbhcavanagh @2bormaybenot @inejismywife @love4lando

[thehouseofurmotha]

ミミ❤*•.¸♥ 𝓜𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓮 ♥¸.•*❤彡彡

Pairing: Shinso x reader

Soulmate au! I looooove soulmate au's in this one the first words you speak to your soulmate is tattoo'd somewhere on your body! There are other types of soulmates tho like more subtle ones too where you crave whatever your soulmate is eating, have a clock that counts down etc etc. Also I fear I did not have the patience to write all of the events for the sports festival so it kinda sucks 😭

Okay giving y/n a quirk in this one too

Quirk: Sakura! You can create sakura leaves, with the leaves you can control them similarly to how Hawks can control his feathers, while also being able to create things out of your petals.

Downsides: migraines from over use, as well as the more you push your quirk the weaker the items you make become. (Imagine this is present mics voice guys)

Warnings: Sports festival arc 😔, swearing, angst

Summery: Meeting your soulmate goes happens in the most unexpected way.

You fight shinso in the first round instead of Midoriya

"THE SPORTS FESTIVAL?" The class all shouts in unison, after what they had just went through, they weren't sure if this was the best idea.

"Yeah, Aizawa-Sensei are you sure that's a good idea after the USJ attack?" Kaminari is the one to voice everyone's concerns.

"That's a valid concern Kaminari, but the Sports Festival is the most watched sports event across the world. Before the development of quirks people watched the Olympics, but now if you enjoy watching competition you're watching the U.A. sports festival. It's not something that we can just simply cancel. Security will be increased tenfold compared to other years." This seemed to satisfy your classmates concerns. Trusting whole heartedly what there teacher has to say. "You guys will have the next two days to prepare. Don't take this lightly, pros from all over the country will be watching and scouting."

And with that he dismisses the class, allowing you and your classmates to go change into your uniforms and work on training.

You work on allowing yourself to propel yourself through the air with your petals. You forge them to make wings of sorts on your back. It works pretty well, but flying in the air is definitely something you'll need to get use to. Ending back on the ground due to an overwhelming nausea caused from motion sickness.

Aizawa throws a bottle of water at you, it hits your arm causing you to look up at him. "Smart way to use your power, being in the sky can give you many advantages while doing hero work."

"Thank you Aizawa-Sensei." The water quickly helps you feel better, and the praise from your teacher puts a smile on your face. Knowing that you're on the right track gives you the motivation to keep going.

As the school day finally ends, you're tired but there's a feeling of satisfaction knowing that all your hard work will be put on display at the School Sports Festival. Not just any school either, U.A. the top hero school that you somehow managed to get into. You honestly don't really remember how you did it, you do know that you scored extremely high on the entrance exam. This entire school year has felt like a fever dream.

The only thing that you think could make it any more feverish, was to meet your soulmate. You knew that this was the age where quite a lot of people ended up meeting their soulmates, and you desperately hoped it would be the case for you. Being able to grow up with your soulmate, would be a blessing. With this, there was also that voice in the back of your head that you never would meet them. It's definitely not an unheard of thing, some people just never do find their fated partner.

There were many different ways people found out who their soulmate was. You were lucky enough to have the most obvious form, the first words your soulmate will ever speak to you is tattooed on your body. Yours is on your side specifically. The words aren't the most romantic, but they bring you comfort saying, 'so you have an impressive Quirk huh?, I've never seen anything like it'

You still desperately craved to meet your soulmate. And as you drifted to sleep that night, you thought about them. And who they might be.

The day of the sports festival had finally arrived. You sit in the 1-A waiting room feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety. You really wanted this to go well for you. To have the pro hero's see you and scout you for internships. It was such a exciting idea. They announced that the first event would be an obstacle course. With your ability to fly this should be a piece of cake for you.

As they announced the start, it suddenly dropped to frigid temperatures and you watch as multiple people get Frozen to the ground. You managed to react quickly enough to get yourself in the air before it manages to reach you. As you get into the sky you see 3 different people ahead of you.

Many people may be competing to the winner of the first event, but all you wanted to do was stand out, but not enough that people would think you're too much of an enemy.

You manage to make it through the first round coming in 5th place and you're more than happy about it. You take the time between rounds to allow yourself to breath, you hoped that you hadn't used to much power flying for the entirety of round one. But whether you did or not, you would keep pushing through.

Midnight announced that the second round would be a cavalry battle. Depending on what place you came during the obstacle course, determined how many points you were worth. Other than the first place winner, who had a million points. Every person higher than the last had 5 points added. So the person in 42nd place had 5 points and then it went up from there.

Since you had come in 5th place, you were worth 185 points. You were so glad that you hadn't fight so hard to be in first place. Part of you pitied Midoriya for the large target that would be placed on his team.

At some point, while you had been lost in thought. A certain purple headed tired looking guy had started walking towards you. You snap out of your thought to see him standing in front of you. You hadn't seen him around before, so you figured that he wasn't in the hero course class 1-B. Maybe a support course student by the look of it.

"So you have an impressive Quirk huh?, I've never seen anything like it." As the words come out of his mouth a burning sensation starts in your side and spreads throughout you. You freeze, staring at him in shock. You realized that the moment you spoke, he would know who you were. He would know that you're his soulmate.

Before you can even think you start running away from him. You want to turn around, to speak to him but your body won't let you.

A second later your snapped back into reality, crashing into someone's chest. You look up and realize that it was Todoroki. You immediately move backwards and start muttering out apologies.

"Oh, it's okay y/n. Are you okay?" He looks at you with what you think may be concern.

"Oh yeah I'm okay!" You give him your normal positive attitude, you couldn't let what just happened distract you.

"I was coming to find you anyways, it seems you don't have a team so will you be on mine?" You give him a small nod in response.

"Of course, I promise to do my best." With that you smile and are warned that the cavalry battle is starting soon.

Somehow in the matter of 15 minutes, your team managed to get the one million headband and win. You honestly feel as though you had blacked out, still distracted by what had happened earlier. But you did your part, and so did the rest of your team resulting in the win.

The last part of the sports festival was finally upon you. The one on one individual battles. You were horrified to find out that you would be fighting against him, who you found out is named Hitoshi Shinsou. Your soulmate, who didn't know he was your soulmate.

Well your lost in thought, Ojiro comes over to you. In your time at U.A. you and him had started to become friends.

"Y/n you cannot speak to him while fighting." He looks so serious as he says this.

"Uh why?" You're genuinely puzzled at this, not that you really wanted to say anything to him.

"His quirk is brain washing, the second you speak to him he can get you to do anything he wants. That's how he got me to join his team, that's why I dropped out." You feel bad for him, knowing how excited he was about the sports festival.

"Thanks for the heads up Ojiro." Part of you wants to keep this in mind, but all you want to do is talk to him.

"I know this may sound selfish, but beat him for you and me." And with that he walks away leaving you to prepare yourself for your battle.

Internally you start to freak out, not knowing if you could do this. And suddenly all the time has passed, and you're standing in the arena waiting for midnight to tell you to start. Your heart beats so fast you think it might beat right out of your chest.

"Let the battle begin!" Midnight calls out and everything suddenly feels so much more real. This is actually happening, and there's actual pro hero's watching your every move.

"So your the girl that ran away from me earlier? Well there's no running now." There's a smirk on his face, like he's over confident.

You remain silent carefully creating petals but keeping them out of sight from him.

"Hm? Still nothing to say, what a shame. Of course a pretty face like yours has nothing to say. No opinions, no nothing just meant to sit there and look pretty." You know he's just trying to get into your head, and you hope that if he knew he wouldn't be saying this things.

Once you feel you've made enough petals, you quickly shoot them out to restrain him. Pushing him closer and closer out of bounds.

"Ooo look pretty girls got a pretty quirk. Fitting huh." You take a good look at him. Studying his features. You can see on his face you knows he isn't going to win. Not if he doesn't get you to speak.

"You know you're lucky, to have such a hero like quirk. People like me, who don't have physical type quirks what are we supposed to do?" You can head the pain in his voice, you can feel his pain. And it starts to cloud your judgment. But you keep pushing to get him out of bounds. He is certainly fighting back.

"So this is how it's going to go? You're not actually going to fight me? Fine, be a coward."

This almost gets you to respond to him. But you know you can't, you have to win this battle. It feels like your future career as a pro hero depends on it. You need to stand out, to let people see you.

Finally you get him right to the edge. And for some reason, you start to cry.

"What the fuck are you crying about? Does the pretty girl feel bad for not giving me a chance to put up a real fight." And with that you push him out of bounds and he looks at you with hatred.

You take a deep breath, feeling it go all the way through your lungs, "I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

You immediately see the shock in his eyes as he clutches he's side.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You knew this whole time you fucking knew. You- you fucking hid this from me. And you tell me now of all fucking times. You're genuinely an awful fucking person. I wish you had just kept your mouth shut." The longer he rants the louder he gets and you're sure the whole stadium could hear him. You start to sob harder as he starts to come towards you. He doesn't look like he wants to hurt you but it's clear he's not happy either.

Before he can reach you he's knocked out by Midnights quirk. You fall to your knees sobbing and begging his unconscious body for forgiveness. Quickly you brought away from the prying eyes of the audience by Midnight.

At some point you ended up in a room with both Midnight and Aizawa.

"Alright kid, do you know why he got so angry? I mean I get losing sucks but that was a different type of angry." Aizawa, your teacher is the one who breaks the silence.

"It's my fault- it really is- he's- he's my soulmate and I figured this out earlier before the Cavalry battle began. I couldn't break myself to speak to him after he spoke to me first. So I ran away. But then- after the match ended I couldn't stop myself- I didn't mean to speak to him- but I did- and it's my fault.." You stare out the ground, not brave enough to look up at either Aizawa or Midnight. Some hero you'll be.

"Alright kid, I'm only gonna say this once so you better listen alright?" You just give a small nod to let him know you're listening. "You were put in a rough spot, you found out during a time where you were already under a load of pressure. You didn't know how to handle it, sure you didn't go about it in a great way. But you're a teenager." He sighs, you look up with him and is met with tired eyes. Just like his.

Midnight chimes in, "It's just fate hun, this is how you were supposed to meet. And I know it may be scary now but it'll work out." Aizawa just grunts in agreement.

"Thank you.." It comes about barely a whisper but they hear it.

"He should be awake soon, we're only on the second match of the first round and you'll be last in the second, so you should have some time to talk to him if you so please." With that statement from Midnight, her and Aizawa leave the room. Leaving you alone with just your thoughts.

Before you have time to think about it, your legs are bringing you to Recovery girls office where he was being held.

You pace in front of the door for 5 minutes before gaining the courage to knock. You hear a gruff 'come in' and you know that he's awake. You take a moment before carefully opening the door.

"Oh. It's just you." He says it like he's upset, but you can see the relief on his face.

"I'm sorry, I just, I didn't know what to do." You look at him, begging silently for his forgiveness.

He sighs, "I get it, I guess. You were in a tough spot and I probably would have done the same. I shouldn't have freaked out on you."

"It's okay, I deserved it."

"No, you didn't I was out of line. I have a lot to work on if I ever want to be a hero."

"I think we both do." As your gaze meets his again, suddenly you realize how everything has changed.

"Thank you though, for not actually fighting me. I don't think I would have been able to live with myself if I had caused you pain." He looks up at you, with his knees pulled to his chest and his head resting atop of them."

You give him a slight nod in response not knowing what to say. "You know, I always wondered what scenario would cause my soulmate to be telling me they're sorry we had to meet like this. But I guess I get it now."

"Your words to me were so much better than mine. You deserve better, and I'll spend my entire life trying to be the better you deserve." His eyes widen and it looks like he might cry.

"We'll do it together." And then everything in the world feels right. Like this is exactly where your meant to be.

Alright chat I fear I did not eat this one up 😔 but we thug it out. I've spent to long on this trying to figure out out so I give up 😞😞 please forgive me if it's bad 🙏 as always my requests are open and happy reading! <3

[soobnny]

classmate au | kim sunoo

❝ no one is allowed to borrow my art materials except for (name) ❞

heeseung | jay | jake | sunghoon | SUNOO | jungwon | ni-ki

kim sunoo

sweet, sunshine, best friend kim sunoo

it was kind of SO obvious he wanted to be friends

like he wants to be close to you soooo bad and maybe it’s bc he saw u playfully bullying riki

it was love at first sight and an instant best friendship the moment you finally met

your seats were assigned so u were sat next to each other

THANK GOD U WERE

you two are basically inseparable now

sunoo strikes me as the type to just walk into the classroom and walk straight towards where you’re seated

at school events, he’d leave his backpack on the seat next to him to reserve you a seat

then he’d go “(name)!” while waving from his seat it’s actually kind of embarrassing

there is never anxiety of being seated next to a stranger bc sunoo has your back

he’d grab an extra mini fan from his bag to give to U bc these school events r always so scorching hot

sunoo does that “leaning against your locker while you get things” thing

he is so unaware of how HANDSOME he looks

oh and btw if you don’t attend class, he probably won’t in solidarity

in the chances that he does attend class, he usually sends you photos of his notes and everything you need to know

he’d be like i’m soooooo bored 2 minutes into the class without you like it hasn’t even STARTED

just prepare for his spam messages

after class, you’d buy street food and just gossip over it

you’d stare at what he bought and he’d roll his eyes before pushing the stick towards you so you can bite off it

YES feeding each other … normal best friend things

anyways moving on

another thing in my vision is that he’s the provider of art materials

the teacher suddenly lets you make a poster????

you know you’re secured bc sunoo is ur bff and will let only YOU borrow his supplies

“sunoo, let me borrow your colored markers”

“ok, which colors do you want” ☺️☺️☺️☺️

flat out will say no to everyone else tho

he’s kind of intimidating honestly despite having the sweetest smile

LIKE he’s friends with everyone but not friends friends

do you guys get what i mean

he is just a completely different person with you bc he trusts u the most and he just becomes CRAZY

like yall let him keep his crazy too much .. thank god you’re there for him to unleash it to

he’s one of the people who plays volleyball with riki and friends

but he’s absolutely horrible please save him

altho … why does he look so handsome playing even tho he can’t receive the ball? 🤨

he’d just laugh and crumble in embarrassment and you’d be the number one person cheering for him

(update after ella’s rb,, full credits to her) u would def put the blame on his teammates

“RIKI DO BETTER” even if it was 100% sunoo’s fault like so real

weird specific love language? buying each other water

he’s playing volleyball? you have a bottle of water for him in case he wants to sit out the game and watch with you

you’re finished with your physical education practical exam? he’s waiting for you with his big ass water jug

BUT LIKEEEE why is there a change in the air suddenly 😩😩😩

why is your best friend so boyfriend material actually

he holds your hand… holds it so firmly

sunoo gives the best hugs too

he makes you laugh and he’s so thoughtful with his stupid water and his art materials

even carries your things for you sometimes

AND yall take good photos of each other

“does my hair look fine?”

he’d reach out to fix it … tuck it behind your ear or look at you so intensely before going back to smiling n saying yup all good!

during the sports festival, yall are off joining some type of singing jingle cheer competition which is usually the first event

so you guys just joke around for the rest of the week, watch some events, and take LOTS of photos

you would laugh at your classmates

maybe even cheer for some of your friends

just as long as you’re next to each other

you probably bad mouth the opposite team BUT TO YOURSELVES .. not out loud

would clap so hard when your team wins a point !!!

also back to the taking photos detail

he’d just be dragging you everywhere to take photos bc when is the best time but NOW

ofc u do take his photos .. u ltrly take the Best

“sunoo, look, you’re so handsome here!”

and then you look up at him to see his reaction and he’s already looking at you

uh oh.

your faces are so close to each other like SO close

let’s step back and check the label 😂

BEST FRIENDS !!!!!

tho he does save u out of ur misery by asking you out a week later

bc apparently the sudden shift in air also happened to HIM

he brings it up as a joke first bc he’s testing the waters and he’s not trynna get rejected

“imagine if we were dating…..” and a long lingering pause in the air afterward

if you joked back with like a “LOL”, he’d know u don’t feel the same

but you ltrly go 😮 and so speechless bc why is he suddenly bringing this up when you’ve spent the last few nights thinking about him

did those tiktok manifestations work

did that tiktok audio actually get sunoo to like u back

“um… well! well, you see…”

“i like you”

“THANK GOD”

you guys are like waaaaay more inseparable now that you’re dating

your friends will fake vomit around u .. but don’t worry it’s just bc they’re bitchless

while u and ur bf sunoo are happily in love

btw he gets jealous easily TEARSSSSSS

he gets all pouty but don’t worry, you just have to Hug him and give him a kiss and he’s all smiles again

oh, and i feel the need to inform you that hugs are his favorite thing in the world

and CHEEK kisses like specifically cheek kisses.. he loves them

his ideal dates r just when you’re at each other’s house

you can order takeout and do your skincare together … watch the latest movies

his family loves you too

so much that they include your favorite snacks when they go grocery shopping

“sunoo, get those chips that (name) rly likes. u dont know when she might come over next!”

like they are ANTICIPATING you

enjoy dating i love sunoo

note. credits to user @.luvknow for the layout of this post! let me know what you think! please discuss these with me i’m crazy

[sh1-n0bu]

can i request something?? can you do modern relationship with scara??

✿ 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖! ✿

characters: modern!scaramouche x nb!reader

warnings: modern au!!!, fluff, crack, my poor attempt at humor, scara has a bad relationship with his moms, written with high school au in mind, scara being bad at feelings, headcannon format, raiden shogun goes as raiden shino since shogun is a title rather than a name and all…

notes: when that one song u used to religiously listen to when u were younger and cringier suddenly comes rushing back in for a fic idea

oh dear gods, where do we even begin with this one?

tsundere to the max and we all know, his moms knows it, you know it, the entire school knows it, even the online friends he plays games with knows it

which explains on how you knew that scaramouche had a crush on you the moment he started showing small signs of it. waaaaayyyy before he even understood his own emotions and feelings and came to terms with it

safe to say, he is super easy to read. like, a motherfuckin open book that’s full of illustrations made for kids. at least, that’s how it feels to you anyways

has a bad relationship with both of his mothers and his older sister but at least he tolerates his older sister better than his mothers, which is a good thing. at least he has someone to turn to when something goes wrong

him, his mom ei and his older sister are carbon copies of each other alongside his aunt. the first time you went over to scara’s place to prepare for an upcoming exam, you almost got whiplash from just how many similar purple people were there

like… low-key concerning with how you easily mistook his mom ei with his aunt or his older sister with his mom ei

safe to say you made a fool out of yourself for the first few meetings with his family

his other mom, miko, is very… eccentric to say the least. teasing, sly, quick-witted, charming and charismatic. you and scara joke around that miko was a fox or a demon in her former life

his older sister, shino, is quite the sweetheart one the other hand. quiet, reserved, socially awkward and friendly if you go over how her normal face looks so emotionless and dead. reminds you of a soldier or a puppet with how shino is so willing to fulfill ei’s wishes or words to the T

his aunt, baal, is an absolute sweetheart. the ultimate sweetheart actually. such a sweet woman she is with her soft words, warm smiles and motherly affections. she offered you a hand-made cookie when you were about to leave simply because you were scara’s friend!

yes, you cried to the amount of kindness and scara made fun of you for it

you would never peg someone as mean, introverted and arrogant as scaramouche to be friends with the popular, soccer kid from school did ya’? well you are wrong because scara and childe are best friends!!! as childe claims

the ginger-head made a bet with scaramouche saying that you two’s friendship won’t last. cue scaramouche and his over competitive ass coming over and latching himself to you to make sure that your friendship would last

AKA childe’s plan to make scaramouche realize his feelings and come to terms with it has officially started!

likes to occasionally play video games such as wuthering waves, minecraft, resident evil, silent hill etc etc. hates first person shooter games cuz it’s so not his style and he hates the annoying boys that he comes across during the game

will never say it nor mention it but sometimes he plays those ‘using not a single part of your brain’ type of games like playing as dentists or doctors. hell, he even likes to play dress up games from time to time. he just loves the aesthetics and the different designs of the clothes, itches that inner aesthetic lover part of him. but he will NEVER mention it or be caught playing it. scaramouche would rather die

something tells me that his music taste would be more leaning into electronic or scene music. odetari, 6arelyhuman, kets4eki — you name it. sometimes, enjoys those gentle and soothing sounding anime openings too

he has sanrio plushies. more specifically, hello kitty ones

had an obsession with the cute white cat growing up and he never grew out of it

the moment he first found out that you like plushies or pink things or sanrio related things, he knew he gotta gift you anonymous sanrio gifts on your birthday or on special occasions. it was his early stages of courting you

was absolutely appalled when he was found out because whaddaYA MEAN HE LIKES SOFT AND THOSE STUPID PLUSHIES AND SANRIO RELATED THINGS?! NUH-UH, YOU MUST’VE SAW A DIFFERENT PURPLE HAIRED, BOWL HAIRCUT HAVING GUY CUZ SCARAMOUCHE WOULD NEVER LIKE THOSE STUPID THINGS!!!

he aint fooling anyone

takes his relationship slow since he has some big trust issues yet also attachment issues. pick a struggle tbh

had a panic attack after he officially, finally, after years of crushing on you, like literally acting like your boyfriend years later when he asked you out on a date because woohoo!! he asked you for a date \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/ but also shit, what type of a first date would you like ლಠ益ಠ)ლლಠ益ಠ)ლ

yeah, he had to do something he hated the most. ask his moms and sister for advice

after a lot of talk, discussions, secretly stalking your social profiles or you in general to see what you would like, scaramouche decided to take you out for an arcade date

you two had fun, he was glad you had fun, played bunch of different games together and even managed to win a cute matching plushies and keychains!! kuromi for him and melody for you. he was so glad that you liked it but he won’t say it out loud

walked you home after your first date, to your front door and bid you good night and “hope you had fun tonight, idiot” chu!! on your cheek before making a mad dash back home

the type of boyfriend who would lovingly bully you

“why the fuck are you wearing that? it’s making your stupid face look cuter than normal”

“who in their right mind would choose the green one? yellow looks better on you. no, the soft pastel one, not the bright one you idiot”

“you wanna die? who said i was ever gonna stop loving you after you turn into a roach? i’m gonna keep you in a special glass case until you change back dumbass”

yeah… just say you love them already, scara

your contact name on his phone is literally my idiot٩(╬ʘ益ʘ╬)۶

would lovingly call you names as he leaves soft kisses on your face

“you’re a fucking idiot but it’s fine, you’re my idiot”