#i need to remember my inking pens more...

[madameisaacpereire]

cheerily, francis.

❝The last time you set eyes on Francis Abernathy was Henry’s funeral, eight years ago. Why you haven't kept in touch better, you don’t know. But then again, maybe you do.❞

The first person to visit Francis after his attempt is you.

been sitting on this one a long time, unsure how to end it. have fun crying

the guardian angel collection

   The moment you open the letter, the envelope falls to the ground. Your hands tremble, and you barely remember to grab your purse or coat as you rush back out onto the streets of New York, front door gaping open behind you. You wave a hand in the air, gaze never wavering from the stationary in hand. A cab to the train station. A train to Boston. You read and re-read the letter your entire way, trying to make sense of those neat swirls of pen ink.

  “Dearest Angelus:

    I wish I could say something that might make you feel better. My life has been in a process of dissolution for a good deal of time now, the details of which I don’t intend to bore you with. You need not know each sordid detail, only that I’ve considered you so dear to me since the moment we met that I cannot depart without leaving you a few words.

   I’ve thought a lot about what I’d like to say to you as my time on this plane wraps up. It occurs to me this may be much harder for you to accept than anyone else, due to the way things ended with Henry, and more than anything I’d like your forgiveness for that.

   I have done more than you know, yet it is, perhaps, what I haven’t done you’d find most disappointing. I wish I could say more. But I promised Henry. If I run into him on the other side, we’ll wait for you. I swear we’ll tell you everything. Don’t rush it.

   I saw your engagement announcement in the paper. Give my love to the lucky old sod, though I’m certain he’s undeserving. Take care of yourself. Be as happy as you can. Remember me as I was at the country house that first summer. When it was just the four of us.

    And don’t be too disheartened by any of this, darling. Please.

     Cheerily,

                  Francis”

   The last time you set eyes on Francis Abernathy was Henry’s funeral, eight years ago. Why you haven't kept in touch better, you don’t know. But then again, maybe you do. It would be too difficult to see each other regularly, now, Henry’s absence a dazzling reflection in each-other’s company. You aren’t meant to smoke on the train car. You do anyway. Heavy, bitter, walnut flavored smoke dulls your senses. Nobody complains, though you’re certain you receive more than your fair share of dirty looks.

  Ash swings back and forth through the air gently, dropping from your cigarette, and streaks gray across your beige slacks. You hardly notice. You don’t hear the stops, or watch the watercolor East Coast towns and cities whirl by. Every now and again you hear murmured prayers in a voice weak and feminine and unrecognizable; you haven’t considered yourself a practicing Catholic in years- not since Henry’s death- but desperate people always seem to find faith, don’t they? And in this moment, you’re desperate. 

   It takes you no time at all to turn up at the hospital, once you’re off the train. Your shoes click against the linoleum floor. Your voice cracks, but the nurses don’t, of course, no matter how much you plead. A pretty blue eyed blonde rests a delicate hand on your elbow, engagement ring glinting in the garish hospital light. Her hair is tied back by baby blue ribbon, a matching cardigan buttoned tight. She reminds you of Marion, dimly. 

    “I’m Priscilla,” She introduces herself brightly, even through the traces of worry creasing her face, “Which of Frankie’s friends are you?”

   Hearing him called something so domestic and sickeningly adorable is jarring. You’d used that same nickname once, as a joke, and Francis had ignored you for two weeks as penance. You can’t detect any thoughts behind Priscilla’s crystal eyes. An ache presses deeper into your chest. She guides you to the waiting room and brings you a paper mug of hot coffee. You tip two sugar packets into it absently, though you haven’t taken sugar in your coffee in years.

   You wait for what feels like hours before you’re allowed into Francis’s room. They’ve settled him someplace private, at least, so he won’t have to endure the humiliation of having a roommate. He looks frail and microscopic in that bed, wrists wrapped tight in white bandages. He looks pained, then settled once he notices you behind Priscilla- who he sends to fetch an array of meaningless items as soon as she lets him get a word in edgewise. 

   “Tell me you have a cigarette, angelus.” He reaches a shaking hand out. 

   You tap one out of your pack and light it for him, happy to supply comfort while you can. He smokes greedily, like at any moment it’ll be taken from him, and tips his head back against the thin hospital pillow in rapture. You sit in the chair beside his bed, but he motions you over as though such distance is preposterous, so you sit gingerly on the edge of the hospital bed. He clutches your hand in his like a lifeline and there’s so much you’d like to say. None of it feels right. Francis must know this. He helps himself to another cigarette the moment he finishes this one, working the pack from your pocket.

   “She has this idea in her head that I ought to quit.” He says after a moment, disdain and despair dripping from his words. 

   “Are you really engaged?” You ask, lighting a cigarette for yourself.

  “Oh, yes,” He sits up a little more, wincing when he tries to put weight on his wrist, “I have to. My grandfather’s going to cut me off if I don’t.”

   “Melodramatic.”

  “Quite. I was seeing a lawyer before. A bit of a drunk. Harvard graduate, anyway, but my grandfather found out about it. He wasn’t pleased, to say the least.”

  You squeeze his hand gently.

   “My cousins call her The Black Hole.” He rifles around in his bedside drawer, retrieves a framed photo of Priscilla, and ashes his cigarette on it. He holds it out for you to do the same.

  “Why is that?” You ask, amusement curling up the corners of your words like burning parchment.

   “She sucks all the conversation out of the room the moment she steps foot in it.” 

   You laugh. It’s the first time you’ve really laughed at something in a long time, at least, in this carefree way. Francis laughs too, though it comes out more pained than yours as he twists the engagement ring on your finger.

   “I was dreadfully disappointed when I saw you were engaged.” He says after a moment, all traces of humor gone. 

   “Mark’s perfectly nice.” The words come out jagged and defensive by mistake. You never told him where you were off to, you realize guiltily.

   “I’m sure he is, darling, of course. But we would have had considerably more fun with this whole marriage deal, I’d like to think. I’d much rather have asked you.” He’s trying to mask his misery, but you pick it out anyway. 

   You lean down and kiss his forehead softly. You’d have married Francis in a heartbeat, honestly, had he asked first. There’s nothing you won’t do for a friend so dear to your heart, and the two of you have always gotten along so well. Spending years in his company would be a treat. All the time you'd have to read, discuss, how you'd orbit each-other in that well worn, comfortable way. 

Even so, you would have missed the romance. Perhaps it’s for the best.

   “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.” You murmur against his forehead before you sit back up. 

   He smiles. It’s wan and awful, but it’s a start.

   “As am I, darling. As am I,” His eyes are glassy with something he blinks away, clearing his throat, “Now tell me all about this Mark. I’m desperate for distraction.” 

    You squeeze his hand and move closer, until you’re lying side by side. It’s reminiscent of all those nights that first summer, spent talking late into the night. He’d kissed you once, back when he still hoped he might like women in some capacity, and it had been dreadful. Not even the smallest spark. You had both laughed, then, and sworn never to speak of it. The memory warms your heart; you were young adults together, however short lived, and this you will always share.

   “These pillows are ghastly, aren’t they?” You muse as you settle in.

   “I’m being very brave, not complaining about them.” Francis says gravely.

   “I should say you are! They should give you a purple heart or something, just for that.” 

   “The Nobel Peace Prize.”

   “That too.” You laugh softly, bringing your cigarette to your mouth.

      You’re both quiet a moment. Thoughtful. Then:

    “He doesn’t take sugar in his coffee,” You start, “He likes cream better. But he’s tall, incredibly so, with this beautiful dark hair and attracts attention just by existing. He works for Henry’s father.”

   Francis listens as you talk, absorbing each word with equal importance. 

   “I think today is the first time in months that I’ve lit my own cigarette more than once- he’s really rather gentlemanly, you know. Blue eyes- like sleet or ocean fog. A very… very slim sort of frame. He isn’t home very much, he’s incredibly dedicated to his work and all, but he’s always bringing me things. Little presents and such. And he’s okay with being…”

   “Second best to a dead man?” He supplies.  

    “Yes.” You don’t know that you’ve said it aloud before this moment. Tears prick at your eyes and nose.

   The hospital bed digs into your bones, you now notice, and the room is rather chilly. Hospital rooms always seem to be, at least in your experience. You wonder how long until Priscilla gets back. Perhaps it’d seem indecent, the way you’re lying, if she walked in on it, and yet you aren’t certain you care. Not really. This is Francis and you, as you’ve always been. A clock ticks in the background. Monitors beep and nurses stroll by, scrubs bright blue and unflattering. You much prefer the uniforms nurses wore when you were a girl- those soft blue dresses and plastic aprons- but times have a way of changing, whether you’d like them to or not. 

    “There really are so many things I wish I could tell you. About Henry and… well, everything that happened after you left.” 

    “I could piece it all together, I imagine, if I wanted to,” You cross your ankles, “But I like things how they are. Nice and neat. Clean, if you will.”

   Francis nods.

    “More for myself than you, I suppose.”

    “Isn’t every confession?”

     “I do think he loved you, too. In his own way.”

      This surprises you a bit. Not Francis saying Henry loved you, this feels obvious even if it never occurred to you in words, but the ‘too’ he tacks on. The admission that Francis has known, perhaps for years, how you feel for Henry. The fact that he’s had the decency not to say. 

   “I know.” 

   You’ve known all along. He loved you, or believed to, in a way you’ll never understand. A way you never really trusted him with. A way you aren’t sure you would have enjoyed or survived. 

   “Perhaps everything happened for the best.” You sigh and lean your head on Francis’ shoulder.

    “In some ways.” Francis agrees.

    You’ll have to return home tonight. And you should call Mark, so he knows you’re alright and doesn't make himself sick with worry. But that’s something to think about later. Right now it’s just you and a dear friend, staring at a crack in the wall without words. It’s sorrowful and relieving and nice, too, that you’ve gotten one last trip to the past. Perhaps you'll all meet up on the other side, as Francis said, and maybe then you’ll have answers. But you don’t want to rush it. You have time.

[tobsart]

doodle of gerry keay!!

[bmpmp3]

You've heard of Jars of Eyeballs, now get ready for:

Vials of Eyelashes

[superhoeva]

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid. 

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.” 

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.” 

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not  sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[sxorpiomooon]

What kind of person are you truly? The good and the bad - a pac reading

for the days when you feel like no one knows or truly understands who you truly are, including yourself<3

Paid readings

tip me

Pile 1-

What's up with you guys and the number four? Were some of you also attracted to the fourth pile or what? Washing machine heart comes to my mind but I said heart? These people might love talking about love and might be interested in philosophy as well. Do you guys like nail paint? This pile is very feminine, even for the ones that feel like they are not you are trust me. You guys might have a good venus placements? Perhaps libra I'm not getting much pisces but could be cancer as well. You guys are calm and compassion "hold me, console me" played in my head I said heart again instead of head. You guys might love the sea? You guys also like cinnamon girl by lana del rey. Do you enjoy juices or perhaps coffee? I heard "I can bring others happiness without sacrificing my own" and honestly please do learn that. Stop making unnecessary sacrifices that are not needed stop pulling yourself in the front of a train. You don't have to be the one in the front of the bullet every time. Oo you guys like good shoes and I think they'll suit you well. You are calm and comforting providing comfort to way more people that you know while constantly being hanged on by a thread yourself oohoo start sewing or crocheting you guys might be good heard gemini perhaps bc it's done via your hands. People also see you as an "ideal feminine woman" btw alot of girls around you might want to be like you. Do you guys like winters or mufflers hahahahhaha. You are someone who likes to hype other people ho do you like concerts? Someone passionate and determined I saw an ink pen and jo march. You have a spark in you and remember no matter how much other people might try to steal it it will remain yours no matter what.

Pile 2-

OOO this is the pile of our high achievers and ambitious people the ivy league and the pile that is on the top. You guys like to be aware of everything happening around you I keep seeing a newspaper you keep in touch with all the news and buzz around you. Very quick to notice eyes and body movements lmao. You like to be two steps ahead of everyone I see you living your life very dramatically hahah bc it adds twist. This pile has people with very very high standards and that want to and will make it very big. You guys are constantly building yourself up and levelling yourself up via your skills. Constantly learning to be at the top and never lose their position I keep hearing ceos and all that. You guys love to have titles in front of your names might have capricorn or virgo asc in their d10 or I'm seeing sun rahu conjunction or something. Wants to be at the top and will be at the top. I see these guys being winners public opinion also matters you alot in a way that you want everyone to see your success and clap for you and so they will. You guys want to be at the authority this might piss alot of you but y'all might be like your father's like him started playing. You guys might have control issues and might start acting up/tweaking when you lose it. Stop ignoring other aspects of life

Pile 3-

I thought of the word "therapist" before I pulled the cards and looking at the cards y'all need to talk to one instead of being one<3 to start with the good you guys are brilliant leaders and bring happiness whenever you go. It's like a street filled with unhappy people will be happy and bought to joy if we send you there. You have the ability to make things and people work. You have the ability to make things feel hopeful and have people wishing of the best even when they almost gave up. You are able to hype other people ho and sort of bring them hope. You are sucessful and some of you might have good family backgrounds as well privileged in some manner? Alot of respect or authority is just handed to you I heard resources? This pile has people that are OBSESSED with working not because you like it or something bc this is just something that happens to you naturally. You don't know how to never not work. You also might sometimes be obsessed with the luxurious things not because tou like it but because you want to show off or like prove it to other people? I think some of you didn't have these luxuries growing up so now when you are capable of having them you own them even when they bring you no happiness. This pile has alot of unresolved traumas and a emotional baggage. This pile might have or will have to leave alot behind to get in this position. Honestly I feel like this is not who you are currently but this is the future you. I feel like this reading is for the people who just need to hear that they will be okay and they will make all their big dreams that seem unreachable or unattainable to other people come true. I'm rooting for you my pile 3

Pile 4-

you might forget things while speaking or thinking only your mind might get foggy? This pile might be struggling with some of their issues alone I'm seeing face acne but could be any other issue that you are insecure about. You guys sort of choose to deal and suffer alone. I heard "void" and a song that translates to "please don't go like this" keeps playing in my head might be scared of getting left by people or might have the fear that they will never be known and loved for who they truly are. But how would you even know that when you will never reveal or let other people see who you truly are? in order to be loved for who you truly are you must first reveal to other people who you truly are. This pile feels ashamed to ask others for help. This pile might like lip gloss/lipstick or might look good in them. It's crazy how they deal with their problems and issues alone because all and everyone's eyes are always on them. Everyone is always looking at you and all the eyes are always on you. My pile four, you shine so bright and I think you do know this but I don't think you are able to truly grasp how much bright you shine. It's like if you are in a room full of people there is only you in front of people's eyes. And this is not something that's romantic but something that there just is. You are truly charming and enchanting. Your presence demands to be looked at and be appreciated. You make people feel hopeful and look at the bright side. You can find the light for other people even in the darkest of the streets. A true poetic by heart naturally filled with the desire to create and articulate. It's very tragic how everyone's always looking at you yet you are so lonely and alone. I heard poetic again and saw a dove? You will find your match my pile four. You will find the love and light that you give to others. Fourth of July by sufjan stevens started playing. You guys might like the piano too.

[senipsenipsenip]

Dipper sighed as he felt another pen crack between his molars. Great, Mabel was definitely going to make fun of him for the ink stains on his mouth when she got home. He could hear it now, Wow Dipper, I knew you were a nerd, but I didn't know if I left you alone you'd start kissing your homework.

Dipper sighed and threw the pen into the trash with the other three he'd already snapped. It wasn't fair - he spent the whole summer fighting monsters and saving the world, why did he have to learn the stupid Great Depression's effect on American Literature or whatever. He glanced at the calendar. Only a little over a month until winter break. Grunkle Stan and Great Uncle Ford had promised to try and make it back to Gravity Falls so they could host the twins for the holidays. Sure, they had only been on the open ocean for a couple of months, but the two of them decided it would probably be best to start with a shorter trip then build up from there. After all, despite their age, they were still rookies. Besides, there was nothing on the sea that would help jog Stan's memory other than Great Uncle Ford's questioning. Being on home soil would hopefully bring back some more of Stan's forgotten past.

Dipper's phone pinged. He frowned. That shouldn't happen. He had his phone on Do Not Disturb so he could finish studying. The only alerts that would still pass through were texts from Mabel, Grunkle Stan, or Great Uncle Ford. Mabel never texted when she was out with her friends, and it's not like there was a lot of cell reception out at sea. Curiosity peaked, Dipper unlocked his phone.

It was Stan. More specifically, Stan's boots on the deck of the boat. It was a video, and before Dipper could press play, three little dots appeared indicating Stan was typing. Dipper sat back and waited. It usually took Grunkle Stan awhile to type out his messages. He always blamed the too small phone screen, saying it wasn't designed for fat fingers and cataracts.

What does this mean?

Dipper frowned at the message. Was he asking Dipper to decode a message? Why wouldn't he just ask Great Uncle Ford? Unless...oh gosh was Great Uncle Ford in danger? Did they need help? Why wouldn't he call? Dipper turned his volume up as high as he could, pressing play with a sweaty thumb.

The video started on Stan's boots, but quickly shifted as Stan started pointing his phone at something on the...oh. The wooden planks Dipper had seen Stan standing on weren't the planks of the boat deck, they were floorboards for an outdoor patio. A patio that was full of people speaking...some sort of language. Something Nordic maybe. Geez, weren't they freezing? Maybe not because...Nordic.

The camera was pointed at the door separating the bar from the patio, specifically, the top right corner where a set of speakers had been hung. Oh, Dipper realized. He's trying to record the music. Dipper held the phone to his ear. Maybe Stan was trying to figure out a secret code in the lyrics? He was pretty sure he had told Stan all about that day when they saved Wendy from Robbie's horrible music. This sounded a lot different than Robbie's music though. It was way more upbeat and -

...comin' through, that girl is youuuu...

"Oh my God," Dipper groaned, letting his head fall to his desk. Of course. Of course that's what would be playing. Of course a Nordic bar would be blasting Icelandic Pop Sensation BABBA.

Now Stan's message made sense. He had heard the song and felt "The Itching". That's what Stan had taken to calling it when he could feel himself starting to remember something, but needed a little extra help making it make sense. Stan said it was because it felt like an itching in the back of his brain. Dipper was pretty sure he called it that because if he announced he had "an itch that needs scratching" it was always a fifty-fifty toss up as to whether he needed help with a memory or literally wanted someone to help him scratch himself. Sometimes it was both. Either away, Stan got a kick out of how many times he could trick Ford.

Dipper grimaced. Maybe he could get out of this one. After all, Stan doesn't need all of his memories...right? He could forget some of the more embarrassing ones.

It's a song by BABBA. He typed. It's called "Disco Girl." There. The fact Stan's going to know that Dipper can identify the song is embarrassing enough, he doesn't need to remember The Incident.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Oh. OK.

Dipper sat his phone down. There. That was that. He didn't need to feel guilty about how Stan somehow managed to sound disappointed with two words. Besides, he had homework to do. He was a busy guy. Yep, not gonna think about it.

His phone pinged.

Made me think of you.

Okay. Starting to feel guilty now. Dipper sighed. Even over text message, he could hear the tone of voice Stan would say it in. That tone where he would say something like it was just a careless aside so that you wouldn't think he was taking something seriously, so then you wouldn't take it seriously, so that he could tell himself you didn't take it seriously because you thought he wasn't taking it seriously and not because you don't take him seriously or care about him seriously or -

Dipper frowned. Maybe these English classes were doing something after all. Apparently all of that fictional character analysis made him better at analyzing his uncle.

He could picture Stan now, having already sat his phone face-down on the table, wondering why there was some memory of Dipper that Dipper didn't want to share with him. Oh man, he probably thinks Dipper's tired of helping out with his memories or something.

That's because you heard me sing it once. Dipper wrote. That should be enough to jog Stan's memory a bit.

The three dots. Heard or saw?

Dipper groaned. Maybe Stan was just messing with him. He probably remembered the whole thing and was just trying to get Dipper to regale him with the story again so he could laugh at him.

Whatever. Dipper would be the bigger man.

Both. You walked in on me after I got out of the shower. You really need to learn how to knock, man.

There. That should be enough. Hopefully Stan and Ford will get back on the boat and see a giant Kraken or something equally as awesome so Stan forgets all about this conversation.

He exited out of their message thread and opened up his thread with Great Uncle Ford. Whatever "clever" joke Stan wanted to make at his expense would probably take forever to write. Might as well take advantage of the good cell service while he knows they have it.

Hey! Are you with Grunkle Stan?

Three bubbled appeared. Dipper didn't have to wait long. Ford was a surprisingly quick texter.

Yes, we're exploring the town together. I take it you're the one he's been texting?

Yeah. He had an itch. Nothing crazy, just a song he heard this summer he couldn't remember the name of. Okay, he probably could have told Ford. Especially after learning about the whole Kiss-Bot incident, Dipper's BABBA incident definitely didn't come close. But c'mon, wasn't Dipper allowed to have at least one family member who thought he had a shred of dignity left?

He smiled. Probably not. After all, he was a Pines.

Ah, that explains his behavior then.

Dipper frowned. Behavior? Is he okay?

Oh yes, of course. My apologies if my language was alarming, Stanley says I tend to word things "dramatically". He's simply trying to ask the table next to us if there are any music stores nearby. I didn't realize children still used physical CDs.

Wait. Stan is looking for a music store? Why specifically mention children? Dipper typed slowly, wording his questions as discretely as he could.

Oh? Is Stan looking for a CD?

The bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Dipper frowned. They reappeared.

Disregard my earlier message.

Oh they were definitely up to something. Two could play at that game. You don't live with a professional con man all summer and not learn how to get what you want out of someone.

Okay. Hey, Grunkle Stan showed me a bit of the patio. Can you send a video too? Would be interested in seeing where you are.

Of course. One moment, please.

Dipper sat his phone on his desk while he waited. Realistically, he should be working on his homework while he waits. It's not like he'll be able to focus on anything when Mabel gets home. But, it's not like he can focus on anything now, mind buzzing as much as it is.

After three minutes and fifty-three seconds, Dipper's phone pinged. He grinned and pressed play.

The video started pointing toward the other side of the patio. Made sense, Ford was probably sitting across from Stan at their table. Stan was nowhere to be seen though. He must have stood up to speak to the table next to him. Dipper could see townsfolk sat at their tables in heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. Everyone was wrapped up in their own conversations, and while Ford panned slowly across the porch, Dipper recognized another BABBA song playing faintly in the background. The owner must have had a playlist going. There were fairy lights strung up across the porch, street lamps helping illuminate the night. Wherever they were must have been in the middle of some small town, probably no bigger than Gravity Falls.

"Ford!" Grunkle Stan's voice rang out. Dipper quickly held the phone up to his ear again. There was a loud metallic grating sound - probably Grunkle Stan pulling out his chair to sit down again.

"You're never gonna believe it!" Stan sounded excited about something.

"A moment, please, Stan," Ford murmured.

"We don't have to go to the music store! Those people didn't speak English but the guy who runs this place does a little. That internet translator did the rest."

"Google, Stanley."

"Whatever. Anyway, he said he'd sell me the CD he's playing right now when he closes up for the night."

"That's great Stan. Hold on a moment I'm just trying to film this for -"

"Dipper's gonna love this! I think. It's sort of coming back to me. I think that memory he helped me with, I think..."

Stan trailed off. Dipper pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the video had ended, but Ford was still dutifully scanning their surroundings with the camera. It looked like Ford had stood up, holding the phone high above his head to show Dipper the coastline beyond the porch railings.

"I think I told him I was proud of him that day." Stan's confession was quiet. But Stan quiet. Which meant loud enough to be picked up on Ford's camera.

Ford's movement stopped. "You did? Why?"

"Well. I sorta did. I think. He was tryna prove he was 'a man' or whatever, so I told him he was. He stood up for what was right even though no one else agreed with him. And then I think I uh...ripped my shirt off and showed him my chest hair. Maybe I should get him to fill in some of those blanks there."

Ford laughed. "I don't remember it taking much to get you to take your shirt off."

"I'm a gross, old man now, Ford. We'd all prefer if it stayed on."

Ford hummed. "So how much is the CD?"

"Eh, he wants like 500 Kroner."

"Seems overpriced."

"Well it's gonna be free."

Ford sighed. "Stanley..."

"What?" Stan cried indignantly. "He's obviously tryna scam me anyway! Besides, it's worth it. Dipper will love it! It's a CD of a band he likes from Iceland stolen from Iceland. Trust me it'll be worth the -"

All sound stopped. The video had ended. Dipper sat at his desk, a small smile on his face. He had been so worried about Stan remembering one of his more embarrassing moments but...Stan remembered it as a day that Dipper made him proud. Huh.

He exited the video and saw that Ford had sent him another message only a minute after sending the video.

Please disregard that video. Terrible audio quality, I have to retake it.

As Dipper began to type a reply, he saw three bubbles appear. He waited.

I'm going to infer that the delay in your response is because you didn't see my message in time and already viewed the video. My apologies, I forget how strong the audio quality of phone cameras are.

Three more bubbles.

Please act surprised.

Ah well. Dipper had omitted the truth a couple of times tonight. What was one more? He started to type.

Sorry, I was working on my homework while I waited for an answer. Guess I got distracted. Should I not watch the video?

Three bubbles. Ah, I see. Yes, that would be for the best. I'll take another video for you now. In the meantime, keep up the good work!

Dipper sat his phone back down on the table and picked up another pen. Might as well do a little more homework so he wasn't totally lying. But first...

He opened his message thread with Stan.

Need help with anything else?

Nope. Go to bed.

Dipper laughed. There it was. The curmudgeon was back, trying to hide the fact he was a big softie underneath.

It's earlier here you know. If anyone should be in bed, it should be you.

I'm old. I do what I want.

Okay old man. Love you!

Sap.

Dipper snorted and sat down his phone. A moment later, it pinged again. He glanced at the screen and saw it was another message from Stan. It was only two words, but they knocked together like flint and steel, lighting something warm in Dipper's chest.

You too.

AN: A continuation of this! I kind of just want to write a bunch of one shots going with this. Some ideas are brewing!

[bitchface24-7]

Could you make a dark Yandere Viktor story?

YOU BELONG TO ME - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: Viktor's your childhood friend, your best friend in all honesty. You've always harboured a crush on him, but you've never had the courage to confess; assuming he doesn't feel the same. Besides, he's always caught up in his work anyway. It's only when Councillor Salo makes a move on you does Viktor react, and he reacts in a way you never imagined before.

warnings: yandere/obsessive/possessive Viktor, childhood friends to lovers, jealously, angry confessions, marking, suggestiveness, dark ideas not voiced, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. Oooh this hit a sweet spot I'm ngl. I'd be all too happy being Viktor's, idk if that's concerning of me. As I've said before, this man controls my libido LMAO (I think he'd be shocked and a little smug if he was real and he knew that 😭)

It’s a day like any other. You hang out with Viktor and Jayce in the lab, you watch them work, you help where you can, and you talk easily with the two of them.

Everything changes when out of the blue, Councillor Salo enters the lab.

He's never entered the lab before. He's never been interested. Why all of a sudden is he here now?

Obviously for his own gain. He requests Jayce to make him something as he overtly ignores Viktor. The two talk as Salo reminds Jayce of the councils meeting coming up in the next hour.

Jayce quickly flits around the room, trying to get everything necessary for the talk regarding Hextech. As Jayce rushes around the lab like a busy bee, Councillor Salo turns his attention onto you.

And this makes Viktor’s blood boil.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You're causally leaning against Viktors desk when Councillor Salo walks up to you, a smug look on his face as he watches Jayce.

“You’re new. I've never seen you before. I'd remember a face like that.”

Your lips thin a bit as you attempt to smile, it feels more like a grimace honestly, “I’m here every day. I'm just not an official partner of Hextech.”

Salo’s eyebrow quirks as he looks you over, you're tempted to shield yourself with your arms, Viktor’s writing has stopped. His hand gripping the fountain pen tightly.

“Ah, that's why I've never seen you during the Hextech conferences we hold. I would've paid more attention if you were there.”

The pen Viktor is holding creaks as you nervously laugh, “You shouldn't say such things Councillor. Especially with the founders in the same room.”

Salo hums and brushes a piece of hair off of your forehead, you gasp lightly in shock and you hear a snap behind you. The pen in Viktor’s hand has shattered, and dark ink stains his pale skin.

“Its only the truth. If you ever want more— riveting company. You know where to find me.” and with that, Councillor Salo walks away, taking Jayce with him as they leave the lab. The door shuts behind them and the room is plunged into silence.

Your eyebrows are furrowed and you gasp at the state Viktor is in. His face is furious, his hand is dirty, and he’s glaring at you.

He's never glared at you before.

“What the hell was that?!” He asks, his tone dark and sharp. You look at him in shock, not knowing what to say.

You've never seen him this angry before, and its kind of making your stomach jolt with butterflies.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Viktor can feel his lips snarling as he looks at you. You're his. You've been his since you were kids and you asked him how he made his toy boat.

He's infuriated. You allowed Salo to get close to you. To touch you. You didn't tell him off, you didn't dismiss him. You allowed him to proposition you right in front of him.

(Viktor knows they need the council on their good side but he doesn't care right now)

You looks like a baby deer caught in the headlights. Your eyes are big and pleading, your face is a mask of shock, and your lips are parted lightly in disbelief.

“I don't— I don't know. That's the first time we've ever spoken to one another.”

The flame in Viktor's gut barely recedes at that. He wants you once and for all. He wants to kiss you, hold you whenever he pleases, he wants to defile you and ruin you for anyone else.

(He's also tempted to collar you and chain you to his bed in his apartment. You'll never be able to leave him. He won't let you.)

“You let him proposition you, right in front of me. In front of Jayce.”

You can't help but scoff at that, you didn't let Salo do anything. As if you expected him to talk to you like that.

“Don’t you dare blame me Viktor! I didn't expect or want him to talk to me like that! As if I were nothing more than a body to warm his bed, as if I didn't have anything else to offer.”

Viktor bites his lip and sighs heavily, “So you should’ve stopped him! Did something at least!”

“And what? Ruined our relationship with the council?! Making it impossible to get funds for Hextech! Besides why do you even care?!”

Viktor jolts up from his seat, coming damn near nose to nose with you, if you didn't know any better, you'd think he didn't even need his cane. His anger overtaking his chronic pain.

“Because I love you! Because you're mine! You've been mine since we were children and I won't let some slimy snake-like Salo get his disgusting hands on you before I can!”

A gasp of shock escapes you as you look into Viktor's dark eyes, his clenched jaw, and snarled lips. He�� what?

You jerk forward and kiss him desperately. You can feel him jolt in surprise before he kisses you harshly back, his ink-stained hand coming up to cup a part of your throat and jaw. Your skin now stained with ink from Viktor's broken pen.

The two of you briefly break your kiss and Viktor places his forehead against yours, the two of you panting lightly, “I love you too, just in case you didn't know. I've loved you since we were kids.”

Viktor smiles, his teeth proudly on display. He kisses you gently before angling your head to the side; peppering kisses and hickies on the unstained side of your neck.

“I am yours and you are mine.” He casually states into your neck, biting the juncture harshly. You groan at the pain, his teeth marks are going to be imprinted into your flesh for quite some time.

“Until the end of time.”

Viktor groans lowly in his chest and crushes his lips back to yours. You must look like a mess right now, messy hair, stained neck and cheek, hickies, a brutal bite mark on your neck, your lips plump and red due to the harsh kissing.

God you look ruined and Viktor hasn't really done anything to you yet.

“I want everyone to know you're mine. I've been dreaming of this since we were teens. Let me, please let me. I'll do anything.”

You sigh and card a hand through Viktor’s hair, “I won’t stop you, as long as I let everyone know you're mine too.”

Viktor removes himself from you, lightly backstepping to look you deep in your eyes, “Deal. I wouldn't want it any other way. Your place or mine?”

You smirk lightly and drag a finger down his chest, “Whos to say we have to leave the lab? Jayce won't be back for another few hours, and our places are too far.”

The dark look you get in return as Viktor ushers you to the futon in the corner of the lab tells you all you need to know.

He's gonna rock your shit.

FIRST YANDERE!VIKTOR REQUEST DONE! This was so fun and omg Id die if he talked and acted like that with me he's so 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

[n0rmal-cat]

what if reader gave up on their job or quit BECAUSE of the moth and the butterfly constantly bullying them. like i wouldn't be able to work in that environment at all lmao

Yandere bugs- you want to what?

[sorry for the late upload the storms are really bad here so i haven’t had power all day]

Reader nervously walks into bee’s office “ma’am I need to talk to you about something”

Ms. Q looks up from her desk “of course honey what is it that you need to tell me”

Reader puts an envelope on her desk “it’s my two week notice…”

Bees eye twitches but she continues to smile sweetly “you’re leaving?” She tilted her head.

They flinch “well don’t get me wrong I like the job…but moth and butterfly have just been getting to me, the constant insults and making fun of me, it’s too much”

Bee gripped her pen so hard it exploded, the ink splattering on both herself and the desk. “Are they now?”

“Ma’am?! Are you ok?” Reader looked at her confused and concerned.

“I’m fine honey” she wiped the ink off with a small handkerchief.

“Honey won’t you please consider leaving the family? I’ll have a talk with both of them and make sure that this treatment will never happen again”

Reader thought about it, they were already so nervous about quitting in the first place. And they didn’t want moth and butterfly to get mad at them over the talk…

“I don’t know ma’am-“

“Reader, please at least let me try to fix this” she stood up from her desk to take readers hands, reader looked into her big black eyes.

“Ok…”

“Good very good, now you take the rest of the day off and I promise that by tomorrow we won’t have any more problems,” her circles readers wrist with her thumb.

“Yes ma’am” they nodded

Reader quickly left the room with hot cheeks, bee continued to smile until the door shut.

She pressed the pa button on the desk “would moth and butterfly please come to my office”

She waited with an annoyed expression, putting her neck back to crack it.

A few moments later both bugs came through the door.

“yes ms. Q?”

“Yeah what’s this about we never get called down”

She glared at the two of them “shut up! Do you know what you’ve done?!”

The two jump in surprise “ why what the hell did we do?!”

She throws the letter at moths face “ow!”

“Do you know what that is?! It’s readers two week notice, they want to quit because you two fuckers don’t know how to act!”

Moth reads the letter as butterfly looks up in shock.

“Leaving?! You can’t be serious, did you actually let them?”

“Of course i didn’t let them go, now tomorrow I don’t want a single word to come out of mouths. And if I catch you two doing anything fire both of you on the spot”

“I didn’t know it affected them this much…”

“We’ll try…”

Come the next day both moth and butterfly seemed to be outwardly voiding reader at all costs. It was definitely more peaceful than they thought.

They smiled to themselves as they continued to work.

“Reader, how has your day been, any troubles?” She put a hand on readers shoulder.

“It’s been good, actually I got so much more work done today then last week” reader smiled at her for the first time.

“I’m glad, remember you can talk to me at anytime for anything”

“Whoa thanks ma’am that’s actually really nice”

“Haha alright you get back to work now”

Over the next few weeks reader starts receiving small gifts and cards with apologies written in them.

It’s not like they didn’t know who they were from, they honestly were just glad that it was all over with.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

ANAKIN SKYWALKER HEADCANONS

Author's note: this may be.. different

Anakin Skywalker who has an incredible long-term memory but an awful short-term memory. He is the type to remember something from years ago in painstaking detail—like the exact color of your dress the first time he saw you or a specific phrase you once said that made him laugh—but completely forget why he walked into a room five seconds ago.

He’d be so frustrated with himself, too:

«I can rebuild an entire podracer from memory, but I can’t remember where I put my damn lightsaber five minutes ago!»

If you would just tease him about it, his lips would twist into a pout;

“Well, at least I remembered the anniversary of our first kiss.” (Cue him smugly crossing his arms while you roll your eyes.)

Anakin Skywalker who has a diary that he writes in with a glittery gel pen;

He’d sit cross-legged on his bed in the quarters, hunched over the journal with the sparkly pen in hand, writing furiously:

«Mission Log: Obi-Wan still doesn’t get it. He says I’m reckless, but who saved his ass again today? Oh, right, me. Also, y/n smiled at me when I said goodbye, and I’m not saying it means anything, but maybe it does. Anyway, I need a new purple pen—this one’s running out of glitter ink.»

Anakin Skywalker's diary would be filled with doodles of podracers, little hearts around your name, and the occasional rant about sand;

Humming softly, he bent over the page, scrawling your name in his bold, messy handwriting. He frowned, mumbling under his breath about his uneven letters before shrugging it off. Next to your name, he started to doodle little hearts, as if each colorful heart was the show of his affection. Pink, silver, gold—he used every glittery color he had, filling the margin with love-struck decorations.

He paused, tapping the pen against his lips thoughtfully before scribbling, «You’re my favorite everything», right under your name. The ink shimmered in the dim light, catching his eye in a way that made him grin.

He felt ridiculous, like some love-struck teenager, but he didn’t care. This was for you, even if you’d never see it. A quiet, glittery tribute to the person who made the galaxy feel a little less dark.

A soft knock startled him, and his head snapped up, his heart skipping when your voice came through the door.

“Anakin? You still awake?”

Scrambling, he slapped the diary shut and stuffed it under his pillow, cheeks burning as he tried to change his expression into something casual. “Uh, yeah! Just… meditating!”

When the door slid open and you stepped in, his breath hitched. You were in your sleepwear, hair slightly tousled, and that soft smile on your face made him melt. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Meditating, huh? With glitter on your fingers?”

He looked down, cursing under his breath at the sparkling pink smudge across his thumb. “Uh… yeah, it’s a new technique.”

Anakin Skywalker who has a sketchbook, where he draws A LOT of things. Podraces, you, ships, speeders, random people on the street

Anakin Skywalker who once brought you flowers after a mission;

He trudged through the Jedi Temple’s halls, boots barely making a sound on the polished floor as he fidgets with the bouquet in his hands. Well, bouquet was a generous term. It was more of a sorry-looking cluster of flowers, their once-vibrant petals now limp and pale, some barely clinging to their stems. A petal fluttered to the ground just as he took another step, and he stopped mid-step to glare at it, like he could will it back into place.

He groaned softly, running a hand through his messy curls, smearing a streak of dirt across his cheek. This had seemed like a good idea earlier. Why does everything he does fall apart before it even gets to you? His pout deepened as he plucked out the most shriveled flower, tossing it to the side with a defeated sigh.

Finally, he reached your chambers. Standing outside the door, he took a deep breath, smoothing down his tunic with his free hand and rearranging the flowers one last time. Maybe if he held them at just the right angle, you wouldn’t notice the sorry state they were in.

The door slid open, and there you were, rubbing sleep from your eyes, your expression softening the second you saw him.

“Ani?” you murmured, stepping aside to let him in.

His voice was unusually sheepish as he held out the flowers, eyes darting everywhere but your face.

“I, uh… I picked these for you. On my mission. But, um… they didn’t exactly survive the wait.”

You looked down at the wilted bouquet in his calloused hands, a few petals already scattered on the floor at his boots.

“They’re perfect,” you said softly, reaching for the flowers.

He blinked, pout fading into something almost hopeful. “You don’t have to say that. They look terrible—”

You cut him off with a kiss, lips pressing to his tenderly, hands resting on his chest. He stiffened for half a second before melting into you, his arms wrapping around your waist, the bouquet forgotten as it dangled by his side.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you whispered against his lips, kissing him again for good measure.

He huffed, but his cheeks were pink, his free hand gently stroking your back. “I just… wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Even while I was out there. I saw them and thought you’d like them.”

“I love them,” you assured him, cradling his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt smudges on his cheek. “And I love you for bringing them to me, even if it meant walking through the Temple like this in the middle of the night.”

Anakin Skywalker who sneaked out with you to lower levels of coruscant;

As you passed by a flower stall, the vibrant colors caught his attention. He paused, eyes scanning the rows of flowers, before reaching out and plucking two purple blooms—one light lavender, the other a deep, rich violet.

“Perfect,” he murmured to himself, flashing you a smile as he walked back to you, holding the flowers gently.

“Here,” he tucked the lighter lavender flower behind your ear. Fingers lingered on your skin just for a moment, a little touch, a little enough to make your heart skip a beat. You giggled softly, cheeks flushing.

He grinned mischievously, then slid the darker flower into the breast pocket of his jacket. "For me," voice low, teasing.

You stared at him, smile widening as the warmth spread through you. “Now, that’s a perfect match,” you whispered, giggling.

“Mm-hmm,” the grin on his face stretched even wider. You could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, the way his lips curved up as if to say, «this is my favorite moment ever»

“Got it,” you said with a laugh, pressing your hands together like you were taking a picture in the air.

Anakin's face softened for a moment, and then a gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Wait, wait,” he said, holding his hands in front of him like he was about to snap a photo, just like you did. He mimicked your pose, grinning widely “Got it,” he repeated with a smirk.

Anakin Skywalker who as a young baby used to give you flowers from Jedi temple garden;

“This is for you!” he’d chirp, holding the flower up as if it were the most precious gift in the galaxy.

You’d kneel down to his level, heart melting into a puddle at how shyly he’d avert his gaze, cheeks tinged pink. “For me? It’s beautiful, Ani.”

His smile widened, bright enough to rival with the Coruscant sun. “I thought it’d look pretty on you,” he’d mumble before stepping closer, his small fingers fumbling to tuck it behind your ear.

Affection swelled in your chest as his fingers brushed against your skin, before he’d pull back to inspect his handiwork with thoughtful expression. “There,” he’d declare softly, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Your little arms would wrap tightly around his neck, voice muffled against his shoulder. “Thank you, Ani. You’re my favorite Jedi, you know that?”

“You’re my favorite everything.”

Anakin Skywalker who would eat most of your food he'd find in your chambers

Anakin Skywalker who smells like vanilla

Anakin Skywalker who loves when you stroke his back in the morning while he's still sleepy and just nuzzling to his pillow;

Soft, golden glow of the sunrise gently filtered through the curtains in your chambers , casting a gentle illumination across the side of the room. Anakin laid sprawled across the bed, body entangled in sheets. His breathing was slow and steady, tousled curls sticking to his forehead in a mix of shadows cast by the night and the faint morning light. You, propped up on one arm, tenderly stroked his back, fingertips gliding over his skin while time to time pressing gentle kisses to his bare shoulder. The sensation stirred his body slightly, and he shifted beneath your touch, acting like a contented puppy who curled up to enjoy the affection.

his words laced with a lazy, sleepy drawl. "Don’t stop," he murmured, a soft groan escaping his lips with his eyes remaining closed. With a gentle smile, you continued your gentle caresses, tracing small circles across his back, watching him shift and sigh while his muscles relaxed under your touch.

But as you took your hand away to change your position, he stirred once more, rolling onto his side to face you. His eyes were half-lidded and clouded with the remnants of sleep, a soft, pleading expression in his tone. "C'mon... more... please," his hand reaching out towards you, pulling you closer, fingers grazing along the sheets. You let out a soft chuckle, but without hesitation, drew closer to him and your hand shot out to find itself in his curls. With delicate fingers, you ran them through the soft strands, lightly massaging his scalp, causing a small hitch in his breath.

Anakin Skywalker who read tons of books, watched a lot of videos about gardening all to make you proud that he could seed tulips and make them grow

Anakin Skywalker who secretly sips on your coffee, always muttering that «sharing is caring»

Anakin Skywalker who makes «your mom» jokes

Anakin Skywalker who constantly hacks their stats in every video game he plays

Anakin Skywalker who uses the word «fuck» like a comma.

Anakin Skywalker who definitely has a roblox account and even though he's a softie, he bullies some kids there;

He logs in with the most ridiculous username, something like DarthSlayer69, and his avatar is over-the-top—dark cape, glowing red eyes, and a lightsaber accessory. He’s spent way too much time customizing it because, of course, he has to look intimidating.

And then? He enters some innocent game like Adopt Me! or Brookhaven and immediately starts causing mayhem.

"Get off my property, kid," he types in the chat, standing in front of a house he didn’t even buy.

In Tower of Hell, he’d purposely push people off platforms, then type: "Too slow. Guess you weren’t strong enough."

If anyone dared to clap back, he’d go full into fighting back; "Do you know who I am? I’ve fought in wars. You’re just a noob with bad Wi-Fi."

When you walk into the room while he’s cackling at his antics, you took one look at the screen, and roll your eyes.

"Anakin, are you bullying children again?"

"No, angel, I’m teaching them a valuable lesson." He'd say too smugly

Anakin Skywalker who uses two-in-one shampoo and conditioner yet still has the softest hair ever, which obviously makes you mad because you have to use tons of products to make your hair look decent.

Anakin Skywalker who fixes your lightsaber too often;

Anakin leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched you sheepishly place your lightsaber in front of him. His expression was equal parts of amused and exasperated

"Again?" he drawled, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as you fiddled with the hem of your tunic. "It... broke."

"It broke," he repeated, tone dripping with mock disbelief. He picked up the hilt, turning it over in his hands like inspecting some troublesome droid. "No, sweetheart, you broke it. What did you do this time? Smash it against a rock? Use it to pry open a door?"

"I didn’t!" you protested, immediately crossing your arms in self-defense. "I was fighting, and—"

"And you lost control," he finished for you, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You know, lightsabers are meant for precision. Not..." He gestured vaguely, as if mimicking you wildly flailing the weapon around.

Your face flushed at that, and you jabbed a finger at him. "Are you going to fix it or just stand there and tease me all day, Master Skywalker?"

At the sound of his full title, he grinned, as if it alone was enough to satisfy his ego. Setting the hilt down on the bench, he reached for his tools. "Oh, I’ll fix it. Like I always do. But you know..." He shot you a sly glance. Uh, oh.."If you keep this up, I’m going to start charging you."

"Charging me?" You blinked, incredulous. "With what? We don’t even use credits in the Order!"

He leaned in closer, smirk deepening. "Not credits, sweetheart. Favors." his eyes roamed down and up your body

Your stomach did a little flip "Favors?"

He nodded, picking up a small tool and starting to carefully disassemble the damaged saber. "Mm-hmm. Maybe you take over my chores for a week. Or you could cook dinner for once instead of ordering ration packs. Or..." He set the tool down and leaned in again, voice dropping to a near-whisper, eyes darting down to your lips. "You could just kiss me every time you break it."

you scoffed "That’s a ridiculous system," you muttered, but you didn’t pull away when he leaned even closer

"Is it?" he murmured, breath warm against your skin. "Seems fair to me. I put in the work, and I get a little reward."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. "Fine," you relented, leaning in to close the distance between you. Your lips brushed against his in a soft, quick peck, and you felt him smile against you.

When you finally pulled back, he looked far too pleased with himself.

"See?" tone smug. "Much better payment than credits."

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty

[ijustwannabecool]

The Wrong Letter

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?

Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!

THE WRONG LETTER

The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent

⸻

The flat is still.

There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.

Exhaustion lives in your bones now.

Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.

You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.

It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.

You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.

You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.

You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.

I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.

Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.

But that version of you never existed, did he?

No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.

I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.

So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me

⸻

You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.

M. Hamilton

312 Grafton Way London NW1

You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.

You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.

It says:

L. Hamilton

213 Grafton Lane London NW1

You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.

But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.

It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”

⸻

A Week Later — Monaco

He notices the envelope right away.

It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.

L. Hamilton

He sighs.

Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.

Still, something about it makes him pause.

He’s been restless lately.

Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.

And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.

Then twice.

Then again—slower.

By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.

The words dig beneath his ribs.

It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.

The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.

He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.

He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.

And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.

⸻

He stares at the letter again the next morning.

He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.

But he did.

Twice.

And now—again.

He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”

Same.

Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.

The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.

And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.

She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.

She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.

Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?

He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.

Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.

It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.

And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.

You didn’t do that.

You just wrote.

And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.

I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.

If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.

Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.

If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.

—L

He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.

Just an initial.

Nothing else.

No fame. No clues.

Just words.

He hesitates before sealing it.

He could throw it away.

He probably should.

But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.

The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.

⸻

Back in London – Three Days Later

You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.

It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.

Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.

You write back that night. Just one line:

Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.

⸻

It becomes a ritual.

You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.

Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.

⸻

Letter #2

Dear L,

I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.

And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.

You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.

I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.

⸻

Letter #3

Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:

I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.

I forgot how much I hate almond milk.

As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.

My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.

(...That’s probably too much information.)

This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.

And I think that says something.

Still writing, —L

P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.

⸻

It keeps going.

Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.

You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”

You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.

He picks up on it. Of course he does.

⸻

Letter #5

Dear Y/I,

I think we forget how brave softness is.

Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—

You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.

Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L

(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)

You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.

You don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s becoming something you need.

You write back the same night.

⸻

Letter #6

Dear L,

It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.

I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.

I wanted to tell you.

And I don’t even know your face.

But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.

So I’m sending you something too.

It’s small. But it made me think of you.

— Y/I

(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)

⸻

And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.

You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.

Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.

⸻

Letter #12

Dear L,

I thought about deleting this letter.

I still might.

But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.

There was someone.

He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.

But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.

But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I

He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.

He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.

He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.

But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.

⸻

Letter #13

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know if this will help, but...

You don’t speak in whispers anymore.

Not to me.

Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.

And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.

But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.

You’re not nothing.

I hope you never forget that

—L

And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes raw.

Always honest.

⸻

Letter #15

Dear L,

I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.

To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.

You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.

Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.

It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.

And I think... that’s more important.

— Y/I

⸻

Letter #16

Dear Y/I,

There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.

But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”

I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.

But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe it just has to be honest.

Like us.

—L

(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)

⸻

You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.

And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.

⸻

You don’t set an alarm anymore.

Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.

You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.

It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.

You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.

You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.

It holds his letters now.

You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.

⸻

Your day unfolds the way it always does.

You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.

You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.

You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”

You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.

⸻

At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.

“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.

You fight the smile. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”

She gives you a look but lets it go.

⸻

The school day ends.

You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.

And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.

Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.

You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.

Inside?

A note.

And a photo.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.

But I found a little moment of stillness.

I thought you might like it.

You feel like stillness, sometimes.

Like breath.

More soon.

—L

(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)

You press the photo to your chest. And smile.

⸻

He wakes up in yet another hotel.

He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,

it’s Barcelona.

The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.

He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.

Another debrief after that.

Then sim work.

Then setup.

Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.

He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.

There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.

Always does now.

Wherever he goes.

Just in case.

He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.

“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”

He smiles.

And exhales.

⸻

The paddock is chaos.

People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.

He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.

He does the dance.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.

Back to her.

To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”

He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.

⸻

He takes photos quietly.

A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)

He frames the shot. Clicks.

And hears a voice behind him.

“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”

He jumps slightly, turning.

It’s Charles.

His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.

“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”

“Yeah. Personal one.”

Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”

“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.

Then, without thinking, he adds:

“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”

Charles tilts his head. “She?”

Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”

Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”

But he’s smiling.

Because that’s what she does to him.

Makes the world feel quiet again.

Even here.

⸻

That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

Today was loud.

The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.

But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.

I think you’re right.

This isn’t much.

But it made me feel quiet.

And when I feel quiet, I think of you.

—L

(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)

He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.

He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.

⸻

The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.

⸻

Letter #28

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know what this is anymore.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way.

It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.

I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.

(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.

Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.

Still yours,

—L

⸻

You read that letter three times.

Then again the next morning.

You walk through your day differently now. More alert.

More tender.

You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.

⸻

Letter #29

Dear L,

You said you don’t know what this is anymore.

I don’t either.

But I know what it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.

Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...

You already saw it.

You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.

And that scares me.

But it also makes me feel whole.

— Y/I

P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.

⸻

Letter #30

Dear Y/I,

This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.

I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.

So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.

But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 

To just be a man next to a woman he respects.

Not a name.

Not a brand.

Just L.

(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)

— Still just L

⸻

You reread that paragraph.

“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”

Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.

You could.

But you don’t.

Because whatever this is—it’s enough.

And you trust him.

⸻

Letter #31

Dear L,

When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.

“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”

I found them again last week.

And I cried.

Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.

You didn’t fix me.

But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.

You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.

And still—you see me.

More clearly than anyone else has.

— Y/I

⸻

He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.

The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.

But none of it matters.

Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:

That he matters without being anyone else.

That she wants him, not the idea of him.

That she’s ready.

And just like that—

He knows.

It’s almost time to tell her who he is.

⸻

It was raining the day you wrote the draft.

Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.

This was the kind of rain that felt mean.

That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.

It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.

You were already crying before you picked up the pen.

And you shouldn't have written it.

But you did.

Not to him.

Just... to yourself.

A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?

You wrote:

Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.

You folded it.

Slid it into your drawer.

You didn’t sign it.

Didn’t intend to send it.

You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.

You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.

⸻

Four days later — Monaco

He gets home late.

The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.

He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.

Her letter is there. Waiting.

He smiles before he even opens it.

But the smile fades.

Line by line.

Word by word.

He reads the first sentence.

And stops.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”

It feels like a slap.

Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A test.

But it’s just... her.

Questioning all of it.

All of him.

And he—

He doesn’t know what to do.

⸻

He doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Not at all.

He wants to write something. Anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.

So he doesn’t write.

He disappears.

⸻

A Week Later

You feel it before you know it.

The silence.

It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.

You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.

And then it comes.

One envelope.

No letter inside.

Just a photo.

A paper airplane.

Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.

And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:

I didn’t know I was disposable.

You sink to the floor.

The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”

Because it wasn’t meant for him.

That letter—

That damn letter—

Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.

You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.

And there it is.

The real one.

The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:

You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.

You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.

Too late.

You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:

“Please come back.”

⸻

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then two.

You don’t write.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?

“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?

“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?

“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?

You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.

You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.

But tonight—

You do.

You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.

And then...

You write.

⸻

Letter #32

Dear L,

I sent you the wrong letter.

That’s the truth.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.

But I sent it.

And I know how it must’ve sounded.

Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.

But I didn’t. I don’t.

I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.

I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.

You gave me my voice back.

And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.

I understand if that’s unforgivable.

But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:

You are not disposable.

You never were.

You are everything.

And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.

Come back. — Y/I

⸻

You don’t send it.

Not right away.

You fold it.

Place it inside the box. And wait.

⸻

Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco

He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.

Even though it hurts.

He’s been quiet too long.

Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.

Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.

But then—

He finds her real letter.

Not on purpose.

It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.

He flips it open.

And there it is.

The handwriting.

His heart stops.

He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.

And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.

She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.

And that—

That’s what finally breaks him.

He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.

⸻

The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.

Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.

And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.

He won.

But it feels empty.

⸻

TWO DAYS EARLIER

“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.

“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”

He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”

Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

It’s been almost two months since her last letter.

Or rather, since his last letter.

The one he didn’t send.

He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.

⸻

Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.

They’ve got a shot at pole.

Maybe more.

Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.

His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He finally lifts his eyes.

She softens. “Still thinking about her?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer.

“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”

Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”

He looks away.

⸻

RACE DAY

The car feels good.

Better than it has in weeks.

Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.

Maybe it's adrenaline.

Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.

He takes the win.

First place.

Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.

And maybe he did.

But it’s not the world he wants to save.

⸻

That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.

And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.

And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.

Because I was a coward.

Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.

But if I’m being honest? I

stopped writing because I was scared.

I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.

I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.

But you didn’t leave me.

I left you.

And I’m sorry.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve asked.

I should’ve told you the truth.

—

I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.

—

You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.

—

I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.

I miss you.

Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 

You.

Whatever name you wear.

Whatever face you have.

You are already mine in every way that matters.

—

I got something.

A tattoo.

I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.

You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.

A becoming.

And I want you to see it.

—

If you never write back, I’ll understand.

But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—

I’m ready.

I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.

I want all of it.

Not in fragments.

Not in metaphors.

You.

Please let me come home.

—L

(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)

⸻

You wake up with paint on your hands.

Dried glitter on your temple.

Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.

It’s been 51 days since your last letter.

52 since you heard from him.

You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.

You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.

But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.

You still miss him.

And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.

⸻

8:02 AM — Your Classroom

“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”

You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.

“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.

“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”

You smile, and feel your throat close.

You used to write like that.

⸻

10:14 AM — Playground Duty

You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.

Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”

Ana stays quiet.

Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”

⸻

12:45 PM — Staff Room

You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.

“Delivery for you.”

You frown. “Here?”

She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”

Your heart stops.

You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.

It’s heavy. Dense.

Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.

Just your initial.

Your hands shake.

You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.

Ten pages.

Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.

The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.

Tears fall silently.

You clutch the pages to your chest.

You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

And for the first time in 52 days—

You let yourself hope.

⸻

6:04 PM — Your Flat

You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.

Your hands are still shaking.

You grab your best pen.

A blank page. And write.

⸻

Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.

I think I do.

It’s real.

It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.

It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.

It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.

It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.

Because you heard it.

And then you answered.

You said you want to hear my voice.

You said you want to see my face.

So let’s.

Let’s stop hiding behind paper.

Let’s meet.

Let’s begin.

You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.

And I think we’re meant to do it together.

— Y/I

P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.

(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)

⸻

Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply

You don’t expect a response this fast.

But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.

You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.

⸻

Letter #33

Dear Y/I,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.

But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”

So here’s the truth:

I want to see you.

I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.

I want to meet you too.

And I think we’re ready.

So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.

Saturday. 11AM.

There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.

I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.

If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.

That way... I’ll know it’s you.

And if you don’t come—

I’ll sit there for an hour.

I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.

But if you do come—

Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L

P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.

⸻

You press the letter to your chest.

Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The Night Before

You can’t sleep.

You try. God, you try.

You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.

Your mind won’t stop.

What if he’s not what you imagined?

What if you’re not?

What if it’s perfect?

You finally fall asleep around 3AM.

You wake at 6.

Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.

The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.

⸻

Meanwhile — Monaco

Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.

His hands are shaking.

He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”

He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.

The tattoo is healing.

He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.

It’s not for her.

It’s for him.

Just four words:

"Be who she knows.”

⸻

Back to Present – The Bookstore

You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.

You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.

You check your reflection in the bookshop window.

You look the same.

But you’re not.

Not since him.

Not since the letters.

The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.

You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.

You sit.

And wait.

⸻

11:08 AM

He’s standing outside the shop.

His heart is a percussion instrument.

He walks past once.

Then again.

He almost turns back.

But then he sees it—

Through the window.

You.

Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.

And he knows.

⸻

The bell rings.

You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like

something tectonic shifts.

Your mouth parts just slightly.

He’s real.

More real than you ever imagined.

He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.

His lips lift, soft and unsure.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper, standing.

Neither of you moves.

Then—he laughs once.

Nervously.

“This is weird, right?” he says.

“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.

He glances at your necklace.

“You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”

You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.

You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.

“Disappointed?” he teases gently.

You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”

He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”

You nod.

And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.

⸻

You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

You’re trying to breathe normally.

“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Your heart drops slightly.

“You’re... more.” he finishes.

You smile. “That was a save.”

“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”

“And now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“You’re better than magic.”

Your throat catches.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”

He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”

You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.

“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”

You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”

You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.

Then you grow serious again.

“This... is real,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

You look down. “So what now?”

He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”

You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”

He grins.

“I’ll write the first line.”

⸻

EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED

The flat is quiet.

Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.

But the house always feels different when he’s gone.

He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”

You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...

...and there it is.

A folded note.

His handwriting.

You already know what it is.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.

Mostly because I get to tell you now.

But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—

God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.

And who we still are.

You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.

And I’ll write you forever.

— Me

⸻

You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.

He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”

You don’t say anything.

You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”

⸻

Later That Week

It’s raining.

You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.

And you find it.

Tucked in a notebook.

No envelope.

No note.

A Polaroid.

Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.

A letter on a table.

Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.

You flip it over.

Two words.

“I waited.”

And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?

He’s here.

THE END.

⸻

THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK

1. His First Polaroid

Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."

2. Hers

A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."

3. His – From Somewhere Quiet

A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.

→ No words. Just breath.

4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention

A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."

5. His – The Near Reveal

A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."

6. Hers – Come Back

Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."

7. His – The Tattoo

Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

→ No caption. Just the truth.

8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”

[dduane]

“In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to—” No. It sounds like I’m bragging. And should it have that quite that many commas? …Linethrough, linethrough, linethrough. “…It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of ’97 that I was awakened by—” No no, never start with the weather, no one cares about the bloody weather—! …Linethrough, linethrough, linethrough, damn it all. “We were fairly accustomed to receiving weird telegrams at Baker Street, but—” Wait. I could swear I’ve used that. When did I use that? This is terrible, I can’t even remember when I— “I believe you called it ‘The Missing Three-Quarter,’” said a deep soft voice right behind his right ear. In his desk chair John Watson jerked bolt upright in shock. The pen flew out of his hand, bouncing with a splatter of ink on the crossthrough-covered sheet of foolscap before him, and skittering halfway across the desk and nearly off the blotter. He heaved out a breath of resignation and tipped his head back to look up into the dark eyes that gazed down at his paperwork and were now glinting with amusement. “Thank you for illustrating why I can get nothing done today,” Watson said, “when you creep about here and there quiet as a cat on a damn silk rug, and will not stay by your blasted fire and let the mustard plaster do its work! What is it this time?” “I’ve finished the toddy, and the Proceedings of the British Journal of Medicine, and all the morning papers,” said the world’s first and only consulting detective in the tone of a ten-year-old being stretched to breaking point on the rack of ennui. “And there’ll be nothing else to do all day at this rate until you get this infernal thing off me so that I can go about my business in some normal kind of way.” Watson twisted enough around the normal way to glance at the belt of Holmes’s dressing-gown, which bulged quite abnormally. “You’ve done half that work yourself already, I can see. My dear Holmes, what possible good will it do you down there! It’s not your gut that needs attention, it’s your chest. And it was you going about your business in your normal way that put you in need of that in the first place! As you know very well.” Holmes glanced down at the bulge, then up again, and smiled far more demurely than was warranted.

Aaaaaand they're poking at each other just like a couple of old married guys, and we're off. :)

Now drafting on Murder Most Fluffy, a (relatively) cozy Sherlock Holmes novel. Warning: contains copycat crime, fat cats, cat burglary, cat and mouse games, catnapping, and, well, cats.

Don't even ask about completion dates. We'll let that cat out of the bag later in the year. :)

[cloudcountry]

just realized i NEVER posted this to tumblr??? HELLO??? if it wasn't for ao3 this shit would have been lost media because i literally cannot find it in my google docs??? HELP???

ANYWAYS!! WELCOME TO WHAT THE TWST BOYS LEFT YOU WITH AFTER YOU BROKE UP

its bittersweet. you guys broke up on good terms. post-formatting auburn here and omfg what was i THINKING this shit HURTED. OW. CRITICAL HIT I NEED A HEALER. FUCK.

Riddle Rosehearts leaves you with an appreciation for learning, a strong sense of awe at the bookshelves lining the walls of NRC’s library. He leaves you with a pen, tucked at the bottom of your backpack that you forget about until a late night study session. You find it and giggle, remembering the time he gave it to you when yours ran out of ink, and you begin to take notes with the red-rose ink.

Trey Clover leaves you with a sense of nurture. You pick up cues from people that you never would have seen before and know exactly how to act, and it isn’t until you find yourself “babying” Ace that you step back and laugh. Of course Trey rubbed off on you, he always was taking care of you with nobody to help out him.

Cater Diamond leaves you with extensive knowledge of camera angles. When you’re taking pictures with your friends or just you, it's like you know exactly which filter would look best with every shot. Sometimes you’ll stumble upon a filter you only ever used on his pics, and you’re filled with a bittersweet happiness. Simple photo editing holds so many memories, and you can only hope he’s making new ones, too.

Deuce Spade leaves you with a motivation to protect yourself. When you started dating him all that time ago, he insisted on giving you some form of self defense lessons just so you could protect yourself. He made you more confident, even if he never knew it. You’ll always be thankful for the way he unknowingly made you stand up straighter, like you were proud to be yourself.

Ace Trappola leaves you with a lighter soul. He’s always been a goofy person, and you know full well that he’s never changed. He made you way more optimistic just by dealing with things the way he did, always being true to his heart no matter who he was speaking to. You always admired that about him, and it made you feel like you could be more like yourself even when he wasn’t there anymore.

Leona Kingscholar leaves you with a piece of his pride. He always told you to keep your head up especially when you’re scared half to death. You find yourself using his advice every time you face a situation you’d rather not be in, and slowly conquer everything that used to freak you out. You finally glow with the pride that you know he would have been so proud of if he was still with you, but you’re starting to think that maybe he’s proud of you anyway.

Ruggie Bucchi leaves you with a determination to constantly fight for better. You need to make the best of your circumstances, being transported to a world where you’re powerless with nothing but the shirt on your back. He’s taught you to be crafty and resourceful, and to never let yourself be taken advantage of. You can’t thank him enough...and really, you can’t anymore, but that’s okay.

Jack Howl leaves a carefully planned school year in his wake. You find yourself planning out your day, little events scribbled into your calendar and schedules created in the margins of your notebook. Jack had always reminded you of things and you wanted to let him know how much you valued his efforts to keep you on track, so you started writing down his schedules too. It isn’t until you flip back through your notebook to find older notes that you see “Track and Field Meet - 5pm” and feel a pang in your heart.

Azul Ashengrotto leaves you with a ton of home-economics knowledge. Long after you two have broken up, you still find yourself checking on your monthly expenses and tweaking your meal plans, and it isn’t until you’re laying in bed one night that you realize you wouldn’t be nearly as efficient as you are now if it wasn’t for your previous sweetheart.

Jade Leech leaves you with a fascination for the world around you. He took things that you didn’t think twice about and twisted them into beautiful sights, and you never quite looked at them the same way. It’s not a bad thing, it’s quite the opposite, actually. Your world has never been more beautiful, even if the boy that opened your eyes isn’t there to see it with you.

Floyd Leech leaves you with a restless need to do something. Sometimes, during your down time, you’ll set down your phone and start pacing around your room, wondering why your legs just can’t seem to sit still. Then something clicks—Floyd used to barge into your dorm and dance with you at random intervals, but he doesn’t do that as much anymore. Laughing to yourself, you slip on a coat and decide to take a walk—anything to get the fidgeting out of your system.

Kalim Al-Asim leaves you with a brighter smile and higher patience. You’d always had to chase after him on whatever misadventure he decided to go on that day, apologizing to Jamil with a wobbly smile on your face once the day was done. Kalim never failed to make things brighter, even your breakup. You two still hang out sometimes, but you aren’t as close as you used to be, even if the memories of your adventures remain.

Jamil Viper leaves you with some of his best recipes. It may seem silly or insignificant to anyone else, but you know exactly how much time he spent cooking and baking for Kalim and his entire dorm on a daily basis. He even found time to bring you and his club snacks occasionally. You still know how to make his favorite curry, and if a recipe calls for dates you scratch them out from the ingredients out of habit.

Vil Schoenheit leaves you feeling beautiful. He never once looked at you wrong, whether you had just woken up or had gotten into another mud fight with Grim or if you were wearing a swimsuit. There was nothing but love in his gaze and a reminder to keep your head up on his tongue, because in his eyes you were precious. Because to Vil, you were unapologetically beautiful (and you still are. You always will be.)

Rook Hunt leaves you with an eye for detail. After picking up on everything you did and telling you about every habit he examined, you became keenly aware of your habits and how to manage them. You’re far more observant when it comes to your own self care, and you know you wouldn’t be as diligent if it wasn’t for the insistence of your ex.

Epel Felmier leaves you with a love for nature. You’re hyper aware of how long it takes apple trees to grow and what you can do to help them along. You whisper to your plants now and sing little songs to them and you water them. Your friends have even started coming to you for pointers, and despite the fact that Epel isn’t your partner anymore, you refer them to him automatically.

Idia Shroud leaves you with an absurd amount of techy knowledge. With all the gadgets Ramshackle has because of him, you’re thankful he took the time to explain how they worked. The gifts he made for you almost make the fact that he had to end things with you because of his...family business and that you’ll likely never see him again easier to swallow.

Malleus Draconia leaves you with a greater love for the night sky. You had a person to share the sight of the stars with for once, someone who loved looking up at them just as much as you did. You can still feel the chill of his hand over yours as he reached for it, holding it like you were the most precious treasure of all. Now, when you look up at the stars, you feel a pain of longing in your chest. You miss him.

Lilia Vanrouge leaves you with knowledge of the worlds you’ll never see. You find yourself drawing parallels between this world, your world, and the mystical places Lilia used to talk about. Even Trein has been impressed by the knowledge you’ve displayed in his essays despite not being from this world, and you can only force a laugh.

Silver leaves you with a safety net, something you can use to calm down whenever. His childhood lullaby. He sang it for you time and time again when you were having trouble sleeping in an unfamiliar place when your anxiety got a bit too much. Whenever you have a nightmare now, you find yourself humming the old Briar Valley tune, in hopes that it will give you some comfort.

Sebek Zigvolt leaves you with a greater appreciation for reading (and a pile of bookmarks tucked in an old leather box he presented when he started “courting” you.) You still find yourself exiting Ramshackle on the weekends, and heading to that very same tree you two used to read under. There’s a part of you that wants to look for him, to check and see if he’s also heading to your tree, but you don’t.

[kathaelipwse]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | Bangchan

500+ followers special 🎀🐥

Trope: Slow Burn, Idol x Fan, Comfort & Healing, Love Through Letters Warnings: Mentions of insecurities, body image struggles, self-doubt, chubby!reader, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Word Count: 9068 words {Reading Time: 33 mins-ish} Songs to listen to while reading: My pace, youtiful, connected, mirror, you can STAY, hold my hand, grow up, hellevator, side effects, social path, cheese, time out, aliens, 19, 24 to 25, haPpy, stars and raindrops, sorry, I love you, I hate to admit, RUN, lonely st. , winter falls, railways Synopsis: What starts as a simple fan letter to Stray Kids thanking them for their music turns into an unexpected connection with Bang Chan. Through heartfelt letters, you share your deepest thoughts, fears, and dreams—never expecting him to truly see you. But when fate brings you face-to-face, you realize some words are meant to be more than just ink on paper. Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who has ever doubted their worth or felt like they didn’t belong in a love story. Chan’s warmth and kindness are a reminder that love isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling seen. I hope this brings you comfort and a little bit of hope.

The silence in your room was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the desk lamp and the gentle melody of Stray Kids' "You Can STAY" playing on repeat. The melody, a comforting balm, swirled around you, a gentle embrace in the solitude. The scent of old paper mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of lavender incense, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, traced the delicate embossed flowers along the edge of the stationery. It was a special set, reserved for moments of profound emotion, a gift from your grandmother, who always believed in the power of handwritten words. The paper, a creamy ivory, felt smooth and cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The music resonated within you, a silent symphony of the soul. Each note, each lyric, was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to lay bare one's innermost thoughts and fears. You were about to do the same, to entrust your deepest insecurities to the very people who had given you the strength to face them.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, trembling slightly. You were about to write a letter, a confession, a thank you note that carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. How could you possibly articulate the profound impact their music had had on your life? How could you explain the way their words had pierced through the layers of self-doubt and insecurity that had built up around your heart like a fortress?

Dear Stray Kids,

The words, simple and direct, felt woefully inadequate. They were a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. You paused, the pen resting on the paper, and allowed the memories to flood your mind. The cruel taunts, the disdainful glances, the relentless pressure to conform to a narrow, unattainable standard of beauty.

You remembered the way you used to avoid mirrors, the way you would flinch at your own reflection, seeing only flaws and imperfections. You remembered the way you would shrink into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear.

But then, you discovered Stray Kids. Their music, raw and honest, spoke to the unspoken pain, the hidden insecurities. Bang Chan’s lyrics, in particular, resonated with a depth that felt almost personal, as if he had peered into your soul and written a song just for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I needed to say thank you. Your music has been a constant companion, a source of strength when I felt utterly lost. Especially your songs, Bang Chan… they spoke to me in a way no one else ever has.

A lump formed in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes. You had never shared your insecurities with anyone, not even your closest friends. It was a vulnerability too raw, too painful to expose. But writing to them, to the voices that had given you strength, felt different. It felt like a release, a way to acknowledge the pain without being judged.

I’ve struggled with my body image for as long as I can remember. The world seems to have a very narrow definition of beauty, and I’ve always felt outside of it. Your words, though, they reminded me that I’m not alone. That even in the midst of doubt, there’s strength to be found.

You remembered the first time you heard "My Pace," the way the lyrics had urged you to embrace your individuality, to walk your own path. It was a revelation, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in your struggles. Others felt the same way, others grappled with the same demons.

You wrote about the small victories, the moments of self-acceptance that had begun to sprout like fragile seedlings in the barren landscape of your self-esteem. You wrote about the way their music had given you the courage to look in the mirror and see not a distorted reflection of your flaws, but a person worthy of love and acceptance. You described the way a particular song, "Grow Up," had helped you to understand that it was okay to make mistakes, to stumble, to learn and evolve.

The pen moved across the page, a silent dance of emotions. You poured your heart onto the paper, each word a testament to the profound impact their music had had on your life.

I never expect a reply. I just wanted to express my deepest gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you know.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. But it was all you had, a simple expression of thanks from a heart overflowing with gratitude.

You sealed the letter, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the paper, and placed it in an envelope. It was a small act, a message in a bottle cast into the vast ocean of the world. But it was also a declaration, a testament to the power of music to heal, to connect, to transform. As you placed the envelope on your desk, a sense of peace settled over you. You had released a burden, shared a part of yourself that had been hidden for too long. And in that act of vulnerability, you found a quiet strength, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, your words would find their way to the hearts that had inspired them. You felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, ready to accept the unknown.

Then the arrival of Bang Chan’s letters became a sacred ritual, a lifeline in the often-turbulent sea of your days. Each envelope, thick and bearing the weight of his words, felt like a tangible piece of him, a bridge constructed of ink and emotion, spanning the vast, silent chasm between your worlds. The subtle, lingering scent of his cologne, a complex blend of sandalwood, warm amber, and something uniquely, undeniably him, clung to the paper, a sensory echo that made him feel impossibly close, a whisper of his presence in your quiet room. It was a detail so minute, yet it amplified the intimacy of your correspondence, turning each letter into a cherished artifact, a testament to a connection forged in vulnerability.

As you carefully unfolded his words, the elegant script flowing across the page like a gentle, meandering river, a sense of profound connection washed over you, a warmth that spread through your limbs like sunlight after a long, cold night. He didn't offer platitudes or dismiss your insecurities with empty reassurances. Instead, he acknowledged them, validated them with a sincerity that resonated deep within the core of your being. He spoke of his own vulnerabilities, the weight of expectations that pressed down on him like an invisible, suffocating burden, the fear of falling short, of disappointing those who looked to him for strength and guidance. His honesty was disarming, a breath of fresh air in a world often choked with artifice and pretense.

Your replies became a sanctuary, a space where you could shed the armor of pretense and reveal the raw, unfiltered truth of your emotions. You shared your dreams, the fragile aspirations that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart like delicate, unseen wildflowers, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow, light and shadow. You told him about the books that transported you to other worlds, the music that resonated with your soul, the way the simple act of watching a sunset could fill you with a sense of quiet wonder, a profound appreciation for the beauty of the world.

He, in turn, opened up about the complexities of his life as an artist, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the sleepless nights spent in the studio, the constant pressure to innovate and create, to push the boundaries of his art. But he also spoke of the exhilaration of performing, the electric connection with STAYs, the profound sense of belonging that came from sharing his art with the world, the feeling of being understood and accepted.

“Sometimes,” he wrote, his words etched into the paper with a raw honesty that made your heart ache, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, “I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I want to be strong for everyone, to be the anchor that holds us all together. But sometimes, I just need someone to tell me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to admit that I’m not always strong, that I’m human too.”

His words resonated with you on a visceral level, echoing the silent battles you fought within yourself. You understood the constant pressure to project an image of strength, the fear of revealing the cracks in your armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. You shared your own vulnerabilities, the way you flinched at the cruel comments about your weight, the way you avoided mirrors, the way you sometimes felt like a ghost, invisible and unseen, a whisper in a crowded room.

The letters became a lifeline, a sacred space where you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment. They were a silent symphony, a delicate dance of words and emotions, a testament to the power of human connection, a bridge built on shared vulnerability. You shared your deepest fears, your most cherished dreams, your quietest hopes. He shared his, the pressure of leadership, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the adulation of millions, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation.

One night, as you sat bathed in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the words spilled onto the page, a torrent of unspoken pain, a confession whispered into the darkness. “People like me don’t belong in love stories,” you wrote, the words heavy with the weight of years of self-doubt, the echoes of cruel words and dismissive glances. The darkness of your room amplified the quiet despair in your heart, making you feel utterly alone, adrift in a sea of unspoken pain.

His reply arrived a few days later, and it was longer, more heartfelt than any before. The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with an unspoken emotion, a raw vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat, a testament to the depth of his empathy.

“(Your Name), love isn’t about a number on a scale, or the shape of your body, or the way the world perceives you. It’s about the soul, the heart, the connection between two people. It’s about seeing the beauty that lies within, the strength that shines through even in the midst of vulnerability. You are worthy of being loved, exactly as you are. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And please, never say you don’t belong in a love story, because you do. You deserve the world, and all the love it has to offer, a love that sees you for who you truly are, a love that celebrates your strength and embraces your vulnerability.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle caress that soothed the scars of years of self-doubt, a gentle reminder of your inherent worth. You reread his letters, the words etched into your memory, a constant reminder of your own strength and resilience. The rhythm of your correspondence became a comforting constant, a quiet symphony played out in the still of the night. You would write, pouring your heart onto the page, and he would reply, his words a gentle echo of your own emotions, a testament to the profound connection that had blossomed between you.

With each letter, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions, a testament to the power of shared vulnerability, a bridge built on honesty and understanding. You felt seen, understood, cherished. But the thought of meeting him, of bridging the gap between your worlds, still seemed impossible, a distant dream. He was Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids, a star in a universe that felt light years away from your own.

Yet, a small, fragile hope bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart, a delicate flower pushing through the cracks of uncertainty, a whisper of possibility. It was a silent promise of something more, something deeper, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation. The letters were more than just words on paper; they were pieces of your souls, shared and cherished, building a bridge between two worlds, two hearts, one word at a time, one shared vulnerability at a time.

The fan sign event loomed like a seismic shift in your reality, a terrifying yet exhilarating precipice. Winning the ticket had been a surreal dream, a distant, impossible star. Now, it was a stark, unavoidable truth. You were going to meet Bang Chan, the man whose words had been a lifeline, whose understanding had been a sanctuary. You were going to stand before him, face-to-face, after years of exchanging letters, of baring your soul in the quiet intimacy of written words.

The anxiety was a tangible entity, a cold, heavy weight that settled in the pit of your stomach, a knot of nerves that refused to unravel. You wrestled with the impulse to back out, to invent a sudden illness, to send a friend in your stead. But the thought of relinquishing this opportunity, of allowing fear to dictate your actions, felt like a profound betrayal—a betrayal of the connection you had painstakingly built with him, a betrayal of the fragile hope that had blossomed in your heart, a betrayal of the vulnerability you had shared.

The day of the fan sign arrived, a surreal blur of nervous energy and frantic preparations. You meticulously selected your outfit, striving for a delicate balance between comfort and confidence, wanting to feel seen but not overly conspicuous. You arrived at the venue hours before the scheduled start, the queue stretching around the block, a vibrant tapestry of faces buzzing with anticipation, a chorus of excited whispers.

As you waited, your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of your inner turmoil. You clutched your album, its cover worn from countless replays, a tangible representation of the emotional resonance you felt with his music. You rehearsed the words you would say, the carefully crafted phrases you had formulated in your mind, but they all felt inadequate, hollow echoes in the face of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The scent of the venue, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of stage lights, swirled around you, adding to the sensory overload.

Finally, your turn arrived. The line inched forward, each step an agonizingly slow descent into the moment of truth. You observed the interactions of the fans with the members, their faces illuminated with joy and adoration. You witnessed the warmth of Bang Chan's smile, the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine connection he forged with each person who approached him. The sound of his laughter, the gentle cadence of his voice, filled the room, a tangible echo of the man you had come to know through his letters.

Then, it was your turn. You stepped forward, your legs trembling slightly, and approached the table. The cacophony of the crowd receded into a dull hum, and the world narrowed to the figure seated before you. Bang Chan.

His eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The familiar warmth of his smile, the intensity of his gaze, it was like stepping into the pages of his letters, a tangible manifestation of the emotions you had shared across the distance. But there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, a silent question that hung in the air like a whispered secret, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

He froze, his pen hovering over the album, his smile faltering for a fleeting moment. His gaze searched yours, a deep, probing look that seemed to penetrate the layers of your being, to see into the depths of your soul. He whispered your name, the sound barely audible above the din of the crowd, yet clear as a bell in your ears, a hushed acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's really you. Finally."

The words hung in the air, a silent declaration, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection you had built, the profound understanding that had blossomed between you. His voice was soft, intimate, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. The faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and warm amber, filled your senses, a tangible echo of his presence.

The moment stretched out, an eternity suspended in time, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. You managed a shaky smile, your voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The fan sign became a blur, a series of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the warmth of his hand as he signed your album, the delicate brush of his fingers against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You remembered the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to be searching for something in your eyes, something that transcended the boundaries of fan and idol, something that spoke of a deeper connection, a shared vulnerability.

He asked you about your day, your favorite songs, the details you had shared in your letters. His voice was soft, intimate, as if you were continuing a conversation that had never been interrupted. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a sense of being seen, understood, cherished—a feeling that had been so elusive for so long. The sound of his voice, the gentle cadence of his words, was a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

As you moved away from the table, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar reality of your life shifting and rearranging itself. You had met him, the man behind the letters, the voice that had comforted you, the soul that had resonated with yours. And he had recognized you, not as a face in a crowd, but as the person he had connected with through words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You replayed the moment of recognition in your mind, trying to decipher the unspoken meaning behind his words, the intensity in his gaze. You wondered if he felt the same connection you did, if the letters had meant as much to him as they had to you. The lingering scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice—tangible echoes of your encounter—filled your thoughts.

You hesitated to write, afraid of shattering the delicate balance of your relationship. What if meeting him had changed things? What if the intimacy of your letters was lost in the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter, replaced by the stark reality of your physical presence?

Then, a final letter arrived, slipped beneath your door, the paper slightly crumpled. The scent of his cologne was stronger this time, a tangible reminder of his presence, a whisper of his nearness.

“I don’t want to be just your pen pal anymore. Let’s write our own story together.”

The words were a declaration, a silent promise, a bridge extending across the chasm between your worlds. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded your mind began to dissipate, replaced by a fragile hope, a quiet anticipation.

You wrote back immediately, your heart overflowing with emotions you had kept hidden for so long. You agreed to meet him, to explore the possibility of something more, something deeper. The moment of recognition had been a turning point, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, that had set your hearts on a new course, a journey into the uncharted territory of your shared story. You were ready to write your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one tangible echo at a time.

The decision to meet Bang Chan outside the structured confines of a fan sign event was a leap of faith, a plunge into the uncharted waters of a relationship that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of written words. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made your heart race.

The designated meeting place was a small, secluded café, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you entered, your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Then, you saw him, seated at a corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

He looked different in person, more real, more tangible. The soft lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile—they were all magnified in the intimacy of the moment. The faint scent of his cologne, the same woody fragrance that lingered on his letters, filled your senses, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

The initial awkwardness was palpable, a silent tension that hung in the air like a delicate thread. You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding in your chest. He, too, seemed slightly flustered, his usual composure momentarily shaken. But as you began to talk, the familiar comfort of your letters returned, a silent understanding that bridged the gap between your nervousness.

You spoke of your dreams, your aspirations, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow. He spoke of his fears, the weight of responsibility, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the cheers of thousands. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like continuing a dialogue that had never been interrupted.

The quiet intimacy of the café, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cups, created a sanctuary, a space where you could be yourselves, unfiltered and unedited. You shared your vulnerabilities, the insecurities that had haunted you for years, the fear of not being enough. He shared his, the pressure to be perfect, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

With each shared confidence, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to him, your heart aching with the weight of his burdens, your soul resonating with his honesty.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, a silent understanding that spoke volumes. You found yourselves laughing at shared jokes, reminiscing about the contents of your letters, discovering new layers of connection that transcended the written word.

He walked you home, the quiet streets of the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions and shared understanding. At your doorstep, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

“I had a really good time,” he said, his voice soft, a gentle caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Can we do this again?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confidences. You met in secluded cafes, quiet parks, hidden corners of the city, creating a world of your own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the public.

You shared your favorite songs, your favorite books, your favorite memories. He shared his, the stories behind his music, the struggles and triumphs of his career, the quiet moments of reflection that fueled his creativity.

He listened to your fears, your dreams, your insecurities, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to his, the weight of responsibility, the longing for normalcy, the quiet ache for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

He became your safe space, a haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving. You became his, a source of comfort and understanding, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life.

The connection between you deepened, a silent symphony played out in shared silences and whispered confidences. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

One night, as you sat in a quiet park, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was electric, a jolt of energy that sent shivers down your spine.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, his voice soft, a whisper in the quiet night.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had blossomed between you. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

A few months later, he introduced you to his members. The initial nervousness was quickly replaced by a warm welcome, a sense of belonging that made you feel like you had always been part of their family.

Seungmin’s playful jabs, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s protective warmth—they embraced you with open arms, their acceptance a testament to the bond you had formed with Chan.

“He’s been talking about you for months,” Seungmin teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We were starting to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“He’s happier,” Felix added, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “He smiles more.”

Changbin, the quiet protector, offered a warm smile and a silent nod of approval.

Through it all, Chan never defined your relationship. You were just friends, a label that felt both comforting and inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the connection between you deepened, a quiet symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long.

The beginning of your story was a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared silence at a time.

Three years. Three years since the hesitant first meeting, the quiet sanctuary of the secluded café, the moment of recognition that had shifted the axis of your lives. Three years of stolen moments, shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The initial awkwardness, the tentative steps of your budding relationship, had long since melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity, a silent understanding that transcended the need for words. You had become an integral part of each other’s lives, a constant presence, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of your respective worlds. The silence between you was no longer a void, but a language of its own, a symphony of unspoken emotions and shared understanding.

The stolen moments, once a necessity born of secrecy, had transformed into cherished rituals, sacred spaces in the chaos of your lives. Late-night calls, hushed conversations in the quiet hours, impromptu visits to secluded corners of the city—they were the threads that wove the intricate tapestry of your shared life. You had created a sanctuary, a world of your own, where you could shed the weight of expectations, the masks of public personas, and simply be yourselves, vulnerable and authentic.

He called you when the pressure of leadership became an unbearable weight, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush him beneath its enormity. You listened, offering a quiet strength, a gentle reminder that he was not alone in his burdens. You reminded him to breathe, to find moments of peace amidst the relentless chaos, to remember the human being beneath the idol.

You called him when the insecurities that had haunted you for years threatened to resurface, when the cruel whispers of self-doubt echoed in your mind, a relentless chorus of negativity. He listened, offering a gentle reassurance, a quiet reminder that you were worthy of love, exactly as you were. He held you when the fear became a suffocating presence, his arms a safe haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

The members of Stray Kids had become a second family, their acceptance a testament to the profound bond you shared with Chan. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s boundless enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were the constants in your life, a reminder that you were loved, accepted, cherished, not as an outsider, but as an integral part of their family.

You had become a silent observer of their world, a quiet confidante in their moments of vulnerability, a witness to their triumphs and struggles. You saw the dedication, the passion, the unwavering commitment to their art. You saw the sacrifices they made, the pressure they endured, the unwavering support they offered each other, a silent symphony of camaraderie.

But through it all, Chan never defined your relationship with a label. You were just friends, a term that felt both comforting and woefully inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship, a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

On his birthday, October 3rd, you sat down to write him a letter, a culmination of the three years you had shared, a testament to the profound impact he had had on your life. The words flowed effortlessly, a silent symphony of emotions, a tapestry of shared memories.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words. You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his words.

The beginning of your story had been a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. Now, you were writing a new chapter, a chapter filled with love, acceptance, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared life at a time, one silent heartbeat at a time.

Chan,

Three years. Three years since the hesitant beginnings, the quiet sanctuary of our shared words, the silent language that blossomed between us. Three years since you became my sanctuary, my home, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of my life. I remember the first letter, the hesitant words of gratitude that sparked a connection I never dared to dream of, a fragile thread woven from vulnerability and honesty, a testament to the power of shared souls. You listened, Chan. You saw me when I felt invisible, a ghost in a crowded room, a whisper lost in the noise of the world. You understood me when I felt lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, a silent echo of the pain I carried. You cherished me, exactly as I am, flaws and all, a gentle reminder of my inherent worth, a beacon in the darkness.

You’ve held my hand through storms, both literal and metaphorical, your presence a steady comfort in the chaos. You’ve whispered comfort in the quietest of nights, a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, a gentle caress that healed the scars of years of self-doubt. You’ve shown me what it means to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, not for who the world wants me to be, but for who I truly am, a soul laid bare. You’ve given me a home in your heart, a place where I finally belong, a sanctuary in the chaos of the world, a tangible echo of the comfort I found in your words.

And now, on your birthday, surrounded by the echoes of our shared memories, the silent symphony of our intertwined lives, I can no longer hold back the words that have been whispering in my soul for so long, a quiet chorus of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of my heart.

Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. Maybe I always have, from the moment your words reached into the depths of my soul and pulled me from the darkness, a tangible echo of the connection we shared.

Happy Birthday.

The final words hung in the air, a silent declaration that filled the room with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The momement he read it he looked up, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet symphony of unspoken promises. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a fragile thread woven from years of shared vulnerability, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

He rose, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room, his gaze never leaving yours, his presence a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters, a silent promise of something more. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a jolt of electricity that resonated through your body, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a silent symphony of hearts beating in unison, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and then, he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, tender, a culmination of three years of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative acknowledgment of the unspoken language that had defined your relationship, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, a silent promise of something more, a fragile bridge between your hearts.

Inside your thoughts: It’s real. It’s finally real. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment. His lips on mine, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between our hearts, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. He tasted of warmth, of home, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in his words, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a fragile hope that whispered of a shared future, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

"I've loved you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession as fragile as a whispered promise, a silent echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the honesty that had defined your relationship. "For so long."

Inside Bang Chan's thoughts: Her words, a confession as raw and honest as the letters she had written over the years, echoed in my mind, a silent symphony of shared vulnerability, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. Three years. Three years of shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of our shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of my existence. Her kiss, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. She tasted of home, of comfort, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in her presence. She was my safe space, my anchor, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, flaws and all, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a lifeline, his warmth a comforting embrace, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his presence, a silent symphony of intertwined souls. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

"You're my home," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a silent echo of the feelings that resonated within you, a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. "You're my safe space. You're everything."

"You're mine too," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a silent promise of forever, a tangible echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The members groaned in the background, a chorus of playful complaints, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface. "Finally! Now, can you please get a room?"

The moment was a turning point, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface, a love that had finally found its voice, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment, a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of joy, relief, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were no longer just friends, no longer just pen pals. You were partners, lovers, souls intertwined, a silent symphony of shared lives, a tangible echo of the love that filled your world, a silent promise of forever.

The unveiling of your relationship, the whispered "I love you too" exchanged in the quiet sanctity of his birthday, was a cataclysmic event, a pivotal moment that irrevocably altered the landscape of your shared existence. The quiet sanctuary you had painstakingly constructed, a haven where vulnerability and honesty reigned supreme, was about to be exposed to the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent battlefield where emotions clashed and perceptions warred. The weight of that exposure was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a silent tremor of anxiety that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium you had painstakingly achieved, a storm brewing on the horizon.

The news, as it inevitably does in a world saturated with digital echoes and insatiable curiosity, leaked. A grainy photo, captured from a distance, of you and Chan sharing a quiet moment in a secluded café, accompanied by a sensationalized article that painted a distorted and often malicious picture of your relationship, spread like wildfire across social media platforms, igniting a firestorm of reactions. The responses were immediate, varied, and often volatile, a cacophony of voices echoing across the digital landscape, a symphony of scrutiny that threatened to drown out the quiet intimacy of your love, a silent war waged in the digital realm.

Some STAYs, the loyal guardians of Chan’s world, were overjoyed, their comments brimming with warmth and unwavering support. They celebrated your love, seeing it as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism and negativity. They shared your photos, wrote heartfelt messages, and created fan edits, embracing you as part of their family, a testament to the transformative power of shared joy and acceptance, a silent chorus of support.

Others, however, were less accepting, their words sharp and cruel, their comments laced with jealousy, resentment, and often, a deep-seated sense of possessiveness. They questioned your worthiness, scrutinized your appearance, and accused you of seeking attention, of exploiting Chan’s fame for your own gain. They saw you as a threat, an intruder in their idealized world, a disruption to the carefully constructed image of their idol, a silent battleground of conflicting emotions where personal desires clashed with the reality of Chan's life, a storm of negativity.

The online vitriol was a constant hum, a relentless barrage of negativity that threatened to drown you in a sea of doubt and self-doubt. You found yourself retreating into the quiet sanctuary of your shared world, seeking solace in Chan’s presence, his warmth a comforting embrace against the coldness of the world, a silent refuge from the storm raging outside, a fragile haven in the chaos.

He stood by you, unwavering in his support, a silent protector against the storm of public opinion. He addressed the rumors in a live broadcast, his voice calm and steady, his words filled with sincerity and conviction, a testament to the unwavering strength of his love, a silent declaration of his commitment.

“Yes, I am in a relationship,” he said, his eyes meeting the camera, his gaze direct and unwavering, a silent declaration of his unwavering love and commitment, a beacon of truth in a sea of speculation. “She is important to me. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am, not for who the world wants me to be.”

He spoke of your kindness, your strength, your unwavering support, the qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place, the silent language of shared souls. He spoke of the connection you shared, a bond built on honesty, vulnerability, and mutual respect, a testament to the power of shared souls. He asked for respect, for understanding, for the privacy to navigate your relationship away from the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent plea for empathy and understanding, a fragile hope for peace.

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a testament to his unwavering love, a silent promise of protection and unwavering support, a beacon of strength in the darkness. But they also ignited a fresh wave of reactions, some supportive, some vitriolic. The online discourse became a battleground, a clash of opinions and emotions, a silent war waged in the digital realm, where words were weapons and perceptions were shields, a storm of conflicting emotions.

Chan's Instagram, once a carefully curated collection of artistic shots and candid moments, became a testament to your love, a silent declaration of his affection, a tangible representation of your shared world, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He shared silly selfies, cozy nights, handwritten notes envelopes, each post a silent echo of the love that filled his heart, a tangible representation of your shared world. He wanted the world to see his happiness, to understand that you were his safe space, his anchor, his home, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of his life, a testament to the power of shared love, a fragile hope for understanding.

The members of Stray Kids, your chosen family, rallied around you, their support unwavering and unwavering, a silent fortress against the storm. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were your shield, your fortress, your constant reminder that you were loved and accepted, an integral part of their family, a testament to the power of chosen bonds, a quiet chorus of support.

“He’s happier,” Felix said in a live broadcast, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy, a silent testament to the transformative power of your love, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in negativity. “He smiles more when she’s around.”

“She’s good for him,” Changbin added, his voice gruff but his eyes warm, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you brought to Chan’s life, a testament to the power of shared understanding, a quiet declaration of support.

The public scrutiny was relentless, a constant hum of judgment and speculation, but your bond with Chan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity, a testament to the enduring power of love. You learned to navigate the complexities of a public relationship, to filter the noise, to focus on the love that surrounded you, a silent sanctuary in the chaos, a fragile hope for peace.

You found solace in the quiet moments, the stolen hours when you could be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny, a silent refuge in each other’s arms, a haven of peace. You found strength in each other’s presence, a silent understanding that transcended words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet understanding of shared souls.

You learned to appreciate the supportive voices, the fans who embraced your love, who saw your relationship as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism. You learned to ignore the hateful comments, the cruel words, the attempts to tear you down, a silent battle against the negativity, a testament to your inner strength, a quiet declaration of resilience.

The years passed, and your relationship became a part of the fabric of Stray Kids’ story, a testament to the enduring power of love, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Fans watched you grow, watched your love blossom, watched Chan’s happiness radiate like a warm glow, a silent symphony of shared joy, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name, the way he found solace in your presence, a silent acknowledgment of the love that filled his heart, a testament to the power of shared souls.

They began to understand. They saw the vulnerability, the honesty, the unwavering love that defined your relationship, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way you supported Chan, the way you understood him, the way you loved him for who he was, not for who the world wanted him to be, a silent declaration of your unwavering love, a fragile hope for understanding.

And in the end, that was all that mattered. You had found love in the midst of chaos, a quiet sanctuary in a world of noise, a testament to the enduring power of shared souls. You had built a home in each other’s hearts, a love that transcended the boundaries of fame and scrutiny, a silent symphony of intertwined lives, a tangible echo of forever, a testament to the power of shared souls. You had written your own story, together, one chapter at a time, a testament to the enduring power of love, a silent echo of forever's embrace.

--

[girl-mercury]

I use a trick in my art that I don’t see people talk about often: erasable pens!

Most people seem to use pencil to make their guide lines, and then go over what they want to keep in ink or paint. I’m a watercolor painter, though, and if you go over pencil with watercolor paint, it seals it in.

If your pencil drawing is good, that works out fine, but my drawings are not. I don’t draw freehand, so I’m usually tracing a reference image. In addition to my lines, I mark out where my shading and highlights are going to be, which is all very helpful when painting, but I don't intend on keeping it in the final image.

This is where my Pilot FriXion pens come in.

They're "erasable" pens. They've got a rubbery bit on the end of them, you rub that on your pen lines, and they erase. But how it actually works is using the heat from the friction to somehow turn the ink invisible... which means you can skip rubbing the eraser on it, and just use heat directly, such as from a heat gun that a lot of crafters have (or just a hair dryer will do the trick too.)

As you can see in the video, I drew out some shapes, and then painted them with watercolor paint, using the lines to put my paint where I wanted it. Then I point the heat gun at my paper, and you can watch the lines vanish, leaving just the paint behind.

What this looks like in my process is this. As you can see, I've outlined all the lines of my subject's face, but I've also got areas that I filled in to indicate where I would need to shade more heavily, like along her jaw, on her neck, and in the inner corner of her eye; I also created directional lines for a crisscrossing pattern on her bonnet.

In the final version, once I was satisfied with all my painting, and I had gone over the lines I specifically wanted to keep in a permanent pen, I pointed the heat gun at it and watched the lines disappear. Now only the shade remains, and the pattern on the bonnet isn't as harsh; I've also used the pen to let me paint a plaid pattern on her cape.

If you look closely, you will see the shadow of lines within the shaded parts. Sometimes, the indentation of the pen tip on the paper will cause a slight relief drawing situation even after the ink disappears. You just have to remember to draw lightly.

I found the pens at Target for not too much money in the 0.5 size, and I just got some 0.38 finer line pens since I need to do more detailed work on my current piece.

Anyway these are SO easy to use, and I really enjoy being able to do art at the skill level I'm at, and doing it like this allows me to. Have fun with art!

[imjustreadinglmao]

Biscuits and Flowers 💐

Eris x Reader one shot

Summary: You want to surprise Eris but he’s stressed out and accidentally rejects you.

Warnings: angsty, hurt reader, slight miscommunication, work stress (High Lord Eris is working hard)

A/N: this ain’t shit… but Eris is still my baby

Word count: 1,4k

You were nervous as you walked into the Forrest House, your stomach fluttering as you made your way up to Eris’s office.

Since he became High Lord, a lot had changed.

You could finally hear children laughing and playing out on the streets.

Musicians were putting on shows for everyone to hear.

The land itself seemed to thrive. Trees grew taller than before, their leaves a more vibrant color.

Only the High Lord himself, you noticed, was more stressed and agitated than ever.

While out on a hunt last week, he told you how most of his nights were spent awake, plagued by his own thoughts and worries.

That’s when you decided that he needed something to put him in a better mood.

So you asked Elain to help you bake his favorite biscuits as a surprise.

On your way to the Forrest House, you also picked some lovely wildflowers, hoping they would bring a smile to his face.

And you had another important mission today…You wanted to ask him out on a date.

You two had been toeing around each other for a while now, but you were always too shy to say anything.

So today, after you gave him the gifts, you promised yourself, and Elain, you would ask him.

As you knocked on his office door, you remembered what Elain said to you: “That man is absolutely smitten with you. There is no world in which he would say no.”

You took a deep breath, pushed the door handle down, and stepped in.

Eris sat at his desk, his eyes so focused on the reports in front of him that he didn’t even notice you stepping into the room.

You walked over to him, flowers in one hand and a box filled with biscuits in the other.

A small smile played on your lips.

Everything will be fine, you thought.

Finally, as you halted in front of his desk, his head snapped up.

“Y/N, I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?”

You let out a laugh and looked down, getting even more nervous with his gaze now fixed on you.

“Well, I am successful then. I know you’ve been so overwhelmed lately, so I wanted to surprise you.”

You held up the box and flowers to show him.

“I baked the biscuits you like so much. Oh, and I also got you some flowers.”

In the process of setting them down, you accidentally knocked over a candle.

The wax was now everywhere: on his papers and pens, the books and notebooks, even on his ink pad at the far end of the oak desk.

Your hands flew out to set the candle upright again, wax still pouring from it.

“Gods, I am so sorry, Eris. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

You looked at him, tears threatening to build because of how embarrassed you were.

Eris just stared at the ruined papers, hours of work probably gone to waste now.

You picked up one of the papers, wanting to wipe the wax off it. “Here, let me see if I can—”

“No.” Eris took the paper out of your hand. “Just leave it. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Eris was lying, he couldn’t even look at you.

You came here to cheer him up, and instead, you somehow managed to add more stress to his day.

And now you were standing in the middle of his office, shoulders slumped, guilt written all over your face.

“This wasn’t how I imagined this surprise to go.” You cringed, Eris still not looking at you.

“I didn’t want to cause you more stress. I can help you rewrite everything. And then maybe after that we can have dinner? I can make the tarts you like so much and—”

“Stop.” You flinched at his harsh tone.

“Just stop.” Eris shook his head in annoyance and sighed. “You’re making everything worse with your rambling.”

Your fingers began to tremble, and you quickly shoved them in the pockets of your dress so he wouldn’t see.

He had every right to be mad. And he also had every right to reject your dinner offer.

You almost expected him to say no, even before you destroyed half a day’s work with your mishap.

Hel, you didn’t even know if he saw you as any more than a good friend.

Sure, you were around each other often, thanks to your friendship with Elain and Lucien, but that didn’t mean he had to like you.

You must have misread the signs. Gods, this was beyond embarrassing.

He probably hated you now.

Tears gathered in your eyes. You looked up at the ceiling, refusing to let them drop.

You would cry later in the safety of your room, but not like this and surely not in front of him.

That would just make matters worse.

“You can leave now.” Eris’s voice broke you from your thoughts. You looked down again, amber eyes meeting yours.

His face was unreadable, detached even. As if his body was here but his mind elsewhere.

He made no attempt to say anything else, so you turned and walked out the door, leaving the biscuits and flowers on his desk.

As you walked back to your room, you didn’t stop to greet the servants or the other librarians.

The thoughts in your head were simply too loud to acknowledge anything else.

It wasn’t until you curled up on your bed that they finally stopped racing.

—————————

A knock sounded on Eris’s office door. Without waiting for a reply, the door opened and Lucien poked his head in.

“I didn’t think you would be here.”

Lucien closed the heavy oak door behind him and sauntered up to where Eris was sitting.

“Elain said you would already be gone by now.”

Eris looked up from where he was writing, his eyebrows furrowed. “And where exactly would I be if not here?”

Arms crossed and hip propped against the desk, Lucien replied, “Oh, I don’t know… maybe at dinner with a certain librarian?”

Eris just looked at him, mouth slightly agape, a clueless expression on his face.

“I know she was here and brought you these.”

Lucien held up the gifts you left for Eris.

“And you’re still working, so I’m assuming you said no?”

Eris was standing now, the reports before him completely forgotten. “What do you mean I said no?”

“Wait… she didn’t ask you?!” It was Lucien’s turn to act confused.

“I swear to the Mother, Lucien. If you don’t tell me right now what exactly is happening, I’m going to find methods to make you talk.”

Lucien held up his hands in surrender.

“I’ll tell you, no need to get all violent.”

He chuckled and continued,

“Y/N mentioned she was going to surprise you to cheer you up. I also overheard Y/N telling my mate that she wanted to invite you to dinner. I figured she’d asked you today, but maybe I misheard.”

Eris’s eyes were wide.

“She was going to ask me what?” he asked, hands digging into the wooden desk.

“She wanted to invite you to dinner. Just you and her.”

After a few seconds of silence, Lucien added, “like a date… I presume.”

At that, Eris went unrecognizably still.

Then he rounded the table and strode to the door, swinging it open with so much force that it crashed into the wall.

Lucien could only mutter a confused, “Where are you-” before Eris was out the door and down the hall.

Finding your room was easy. Eris had been there often enough to know the way.

He was running now, servants and nobles alike turning their heads and giving him confused looks.

But Eris couldn’t care less.

His priority was getting to you and explaining himself, plus a lot of begging for a second chance.

He slowed down and came to a stop in front of your room.

Right as he lifted his fist to knock, he heard Elain’s voice through the door.

“It’s going to be okay. This will pass.”

“You should have seen his face, Elain. I made such a fool of myself by even asking him. I shouldn’t be surprised that he rejected my offer. I basically ruined his entire day with my stupidity.”

Eris’s heart sank at that. He had been so stressed about the reports that he didn’t even hear you say anything.

The only thing he remembered was you stepping in to the office.

And then wax was pouring all over the documents and his mind just… left.

If he hadn’t dissociated, he would’ve- he would’ve said yes.

How could he not? You were the smartest, funniest and most beautiful fae he had ever laid eyes upon.

You were a ray of sunshine in his life, always brightening up his day.

And now you were in your room, crying because of him, and he could do nothing except stand there and listen to your muffled sobs.

A/N: don’t worry, they have their happy ever after. Eris finds her the next day. He apologises over and over again, takes her out to dinner and they have five beautiful children. 

[cheralith]

vogue (chapter two) — boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader ; REASONS

series synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse to propel your career as a journalist. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink? masterlist

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned muse!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, angst, slowburn, co-workers-to-lovers, some crack if you squint

chapter synopsis ; it's chaos at kaizen magazine and the entirety of its staff, including its editor-in-chief is stressed. you meet a particular individual at the coffeehouse who seems all too the familiar for some reason whose strange words encourage you to dabble in the world of modelling in a desperate moment.

chapter tags/warnings; she/her pronouns, afab!reader, blood mention (reader gets mild cut on finger), reader models but no mention of body descriptions, some parts not edited

chapter word count: 8.9k

now playing ; reasons - minnie riperton

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

Somehow, you think that your boss has it out for you more than usual this week. Granted, he’s been giving you a stink eye at all times since you first started, but you’re getting the gut feeling it’s more prominent this time around. Be it the upcoming charity gala tomorrow or the stress of pushing out this month’s issue due to some last minute… adjustments—you wouldn’t be surprised if Geto is using you as his punching bag for his own relief. 

He has never yelled at you, per se, but his soft-spoken insults and scoldings hurt you far more than anything. Whether it be you stumbling ever so slightly over your own two feet in front of him or something as miniscule as simply accidentally taking out a pen that’s lacking ink when jotting notes, Geto always seems to have some sort of reprimand at the ready. 

“Why is this packet stapled so awkwardly? You could be covering vital information.”

“Coffee spoons exist for a reason. There’s no reason why I should be using a dessert spoon for my latte.”

“I do wish you spoke with less ‘um’s and ‘uh’s every now and then. It’s quite bothersome.”

You just wish that the job application had listed “Must take on editor-in-chief’s emotional baggage 24/7.” if you knew that this job would just be mentally draining as it is physically. And to think it’s only been only around four and a half months since you’ve started! Obviously, being editor-in-chief of one of the largest and powerful magazines in the nation is going to be mentally depleting, but is there such a need to take it out on the poor associates? 

Your mind reflects back to witnessing an intern accidentally running into Geto amidst last night’s crisis when the office was busy about attempting to piece together the issue into one piece before the publisher’s deadline today, the intern’s impact causing a confetti of cut-out paper to fly about everywhere and making Geto’s afternoon matcha pick-me-up splatter green all over his cream white top. He had gently told the shaking intern, amidst his many apologies, that it was no worries before quietly telling you to head down to HR to terminate him by the end of this week. 

Chills run down your spine when you remember how quickly Geto’s smile faded and gentle eyes disappeared as they morphed into amethyst daggers the moment his back was turned to the intern. Though… you do give credit to the intern for making his shirt still somehow look fabulous with the earthy green splatter—a feat only a former fashion model was able to do. 

You don’t remember when the last time you came home before 11:00pm was or when was the last time you ate three complete meals in a day and not just crumbs of convenience store snacks. It’s been such a hectic week wrapping up the month’s issue that you’re suddenly back to your college days slurping ramen and drinking any drink that contains any amount of caffeine to give back your energy. 

You hear the beep of the microwave sing through the kitchen right next to yours and Manami’s desks, signaling your instant ramen was done, but before you can even get up, you hear the muffled sound of a something being broken inside Geto’s office, causing you and Manami to jump. Gazes suddenly flicking toward each other, with neither of you daring to make another move, a moment of complete silence drifts by before you dare to breathe out ever so quietly and almost instantaneously, Manami shouts, “Not it!” 

“Not—oh, fine…” A groan drags out of you and your eyes roll as you brush off the prideful look Manami has on her face. 

With great hesitation, you avert your direction to the frosted glass window of Geto’s office that sits a little too politely between you and Manami’s desks. Somehow, with each step you take, the impending doom that sits at the bottom of your churning stomach grows bigger and bigger and you can just barely brace yourself for the scolding that you’re about to receive—even if the cause of Geto’s frustration may have not even been at your own fault.

Your shaking knuckles go to rap at his door. A grumbled “come in” barely seeps its way through the door. You allow yourself with great reluctance to open the door to reveal a heavily breathing Geto Suguru, veins visible on his neck and forehead from the pent-up irritation that has been boiling for the past few days with the double whammy of the charity gala and the month’s issue attempting to be push out on time, which may not even be the case given that many columns had to be changed due to a specific supermodel’s recent scandal.

Upon entering your boss’s office, it was near impossible to miss the shattered glass of cucumber water that was clearly thrown at the wall behind himself, a splotch of the carpet now darkened slightly from the original color. Geto caved inwards towards his desk, his blazer from his three-piece set now draped messily over his chair and his usually neatly-made hair a little more frazzled out of its hair band than usual. On his desk were an array of magazine splits with a pile of cut-outs dedicated to said model. It startles you how many pages she had appeared in given how hefty the pile was.

“Why couldn’t she behave after the issue was printed…” Geto seethes under his breath as a poor page of the magazine draft crumples under his grip. 

You can see in his trash can the tabloid that featured the supermodel, who allegedly slandered her fellow upcoming star of a colleague backstage of a recent fashion show with the cameras still rolling in order to document the behind the scenes of all the glitz and glamour. While it was normal for models to shade one another to fight for the spotlight, her remarks in particular were rather nasty and brutish, so much so that it caused outrage amongst the public and with the latter supermodel’s fans who ended up revealing her rather… dishonorable social media presence. 

Needless to say, having her as the starlight of this month’s issue before it entered the public eye would prove disastrous for Kaizen. She decorated a large portion of the magazine from front cover to back, but the magazine couldn’t afford to have such a trashy person as their graphic ambassador—especially since there has been little to no dirt on the magazine up until now. Geto works hard to make sure any possible slander against the magazine was dealt with as soon as possible before the public could hear about it. You didn’t know how—preferably, you don’t want to know—but he does it somehow.

But the news and the outrage regarding the supermodel had been leaked only a mere eight days before the issue was to be printed, giving the entire department only eight days to fix up the issue before the deadline. To make matters worse—the issue had to be sent to the publisher before the charity gala, which were both on the same day, Friday, meaning that everything had to be finalized before 3pm that day to give ample time for the start of the gala’s last-minute organization at 5:00pm before it started at 7:30pm and for the publishing company to print the thousands of copies to be released to the city come Saturday morning.

It’s Thursday, the day before D-Day, and the office just reached noon. You have yet to eat properly, given that all you ate this morning amidst the morning rush (Geto demanded asked you to arrive at the office an hour earlier to compose the most time to work on the issue) were two pieces of toasted bread and a badly-made cup of instant coffee. 

You stare at the broken crystal on the dampened floor before going back to get the dustpan from the kitchen. Without a word, you clean up the remnants of Geto’s frustration quietly so as to not poke the beast even further with one wrong move, but of course, you somehow end up slicing your finger on a stray piece of glass. 

A loud yelp from your lips slips through the tight atmosphere of Geto’s office and blood draws fast, so fast that a few drops of crimson fall and miserably stain the pristine white carpet.

You swiftly poke your finger in your mouth and suck on it before more can ooze out, but unfortunately, your little titter was enough to break Geto out of his trance and snap his head back towards you. He spots the splotches of red on his carpet first, but then averts his gaze to you with your fingertip between your lips.

“What happened?” he urges as he approaches you. “Did you cut yourself?” 

You nod shyly, a little startled at how quickly his concern for you came to him given that your presence usually arises some sort of mild vex from him. “I apologize for staining the carpet. I’ll get a cleaner right away for it.”

“No need,” Geto mutters before beginning the dust the glass remnants himself. “I’ll call them myself. Just fix yourself up. First-aid kit is in the kitchen. Go get a bandaid—quickly.” 

For a split second, you swear you could’ve seen a grain of sympathy in his normally-cold gaze, but the illusion quickly dissipates the moment you see his eyes harden again before he snaps at you for staring. 

“Go now. Before your finger gets infected. You can’t use your hand properly with an infected finger.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod lightly and dash out of his office, fighting horribly the urge to mutter curses at him under your breath. 

The cut proves rather long and deep, you notice, as Manami gently rolls a strip of tape down a page of gauze on it as she chides you akin to a mother to take care of yourself properly and that this isn’t the week to be injuring yourself like a child. It takes up at least two-thirds of your right index finger and you’re just hoping you’ll be able to use your right hand as efficiently as possible given you still have an extensive list of emails to still send out. 

Two hours somehow pass by quicker than expected but you know that your actual day isn’t even halfway done, knowing well that you won’t be clocking out until later in the evening after everyone is gone from the office. For the most part, it looks as though some spare stock images of well-known models were able to suffice the pieces that the scandalous one left them in the columns, but there was one that needed a more specific set of poses given that it was a perfume ad and unlike the other columns, the bottle had to be held in a certain manner that would prove hard for the photo editors to attempt.

Given that the work day was ending, there weren’t many models on-call that could do a last-minute shoot on time and the magazine was running out of time. Geto… was running out of time. 

And if Geto, who was known for being rather cool-headed and rational most days, was stressed, that only meant the rest of the office had to follow—whether they liked it or not. Ultimately, his stress became infectious and it was hard to keep a mellow mind in the days filled with chaos. You were already stressed on a day-to-day basis being his junior assistant, but you were basically required to amp it up to the max with the last-minute editing of the magazine and the charity gala.

You’re in line to get Geto’s afternoon pick-me-up, with the minor adjustment of two extra espresso shots for the kick of caffeine to get him through the rest of the working hours. You can hear your name being called up, but with how drained you’ve been from the past few days, the granola bar and Redbull you had for lunch today proves not to be the most efficient source of energy and you end up tumbling over your own two wobbling legs when you rise from the waiting bench.

You crash into the chest of someone taller than you who was passing by and just barely manage to avoid the escaping coffee from the cup of the person you bumped into. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove well for the latter, as the remainder of the coffee settles itself on the front of their shirt Panic sets in swiftly and you start bumbling apologies left and right before you can even look up to see who exactly you’re apologizing to.

When you do, you’re met with a pair of eyes hidden behind darkened sunglasses ogling at you. It struck you as rather odd—considering it was the middle of winter and that the sun was hiding behind the grayed clouds today. Maybe it was just some sort of fashion statement? 

But it’s not the glasses that captivate you. It’s the snowy locks of white hair that belong to a rather tall and leggy figure that belong to it. And despite the pure ivory, he still looks incredibly young. A man of at least six feet and three inches stands before you—a height that easily can rival your boss’s. He’s adorned in a simplistic outfit; black dress shoes with matching slacks held by a glimmering silver buckle, topped with a cool white collared shirt that’s now evidently ruined by the horribly large light brown stain you caused from his coffee.

And judging by the stitching and material of the shirt, you know damn well that the shirt isn’t cheap.

“I-I-I…” you blubber out, teary eyes widened in horror at how fast the stain spreads and how much attention you’re getting from the cafe’s customers. “I’m so sorry…”

The silence that penetrates through from onlookers is terrible and you think you’re getting a fever from how hot your face is burning up. 

Thankfully, the man breaks through it with a soft, (dare you say—handsome?) laugh. “I was looking for an excuse to get rid of this shirt anyways,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

What he says baffles you and your apologies suddenly transform into sounds of confusion to his amusement. “Huh?”

“It’s been two years since it was in season, it’s finally time to throw the old girl out,” the man shrugs nonchalantly.

Suddenly, in front of all the leering eyes of the customers in the coffeehouse, he begins to unbutton his stained shirt and you can only watch in horror with the rest of everyone else. While he still did have one last modest garment beneath the shirt, it was still a sleeveless white undershirt that showed off his visibly sculpted and lean biceps that made a couple of the women in the coffeeshop form heart eyes and bite their lips.

The man flickered his eyes, now shown to be a brilliant shade of crystal blue, to you from atop his glasses and a glint of playfulness shone through, along with a whimsical grin. “Maybe I should’ve been a little more decent. Hope you don’t mind.”

You think that the heat that flushes your cheeks is no longer from embarrassment but… bashfulness?

You attempt to gather what to say in this rather awkward moment, but the bell of the entrance door rings and in comes a young man with spiked noir locks adorned in a midnight blue suit with a visible frown on his face. His eyes skitter through the coffeehouse before landing on not exactly you… but the man before you.

“What the hell Gojo?” the young man scolds as he stomps his way over. “You said you weren’t gonna take long, so why are you stripping in a cafe?”

Gojo… why does that name sound so familiar for some reason? Now that you think about it, the entirety of the man himself seems so vaguely familiar, but you swore you’ve never seen such a unique human being before in real life.

The man turns his head over as he crumples the stain garment in his hands. He perks up in delight at the sight of him, contrary to his furrowed-brow companion. “Megumi! Sorry bud, got wrapped up in a little accident here. Take this and chuck it in the trash, will ya?”

Before “Megumi” can protest, “Gojo” tosses the shirt to him and exclaims for the onlooking baristas to make him another drink if they can. A teenage girl nods excitedly and dashes back to gather the order for the handsome, sleeveless stranger. 

Megumi hisses an annoyed insult under his breath before glaring one last time at the taller man and searching for a nearby trash can. The man turns to you again with the same smile that has a lick of mischief to it. “Sorry ‘bout my intern. He’s usually a little sour, so don’t mind him. You okay though?” 

“Uh…” your eyes glance around and notice that the commotion in the coffeehouse has started up again. “Yes, thank you. I apologize again for not watching my step.”

He chuckles. “I think you’ve apologized enough. Again, don’t worry about it—it was an old shirt anyways. Has anyone told you you’re quite cute?” 

You choke on your saliva. What an odd thing to say in such a moment.

“Wh-what?” you stifle out.

“You’re rather pretty,” the man continues, the same grin still plastered on his face; as if he means every word he says. “Have you modelled before?” 

Your jaw is somehow melded into an image that replicates a gaping fish. Somehow, you can’t find the correct words to say at this moment. And it’s not quite like you’ve never been flirted with before, but for some reason, the way that this “Gojo” says it, it doesn’t quite have that tone of flattery, but more like… offering something?

“Thank you?” you say with half-confidence. “And no… sorry.” 

“Ah, what a shame,” he sighs wholeheartedly. “Have you considered it though?”

You shake your head, and you’re appalled that the gesture only makes his eyes light up again and his smile grow wider. 

“You should try it someday! You know what—hold on. Where’s my wallet?”

The man shoves his hands in his pants pockets to attempt to look for it, but the intern from earlier suddenly appears and shows off his phone to his senior. It visibly reads 2:34 pm.

“The meeting started,” the intern seethes. “We’re late… again.”

“Oh shoot,” the tall man snaps his fingers with pursed lips. “Alright, we can get going soon. But can you do me a favor and get my wal—”

The intern glowers at him. “No. Let’s go.”

You’re surprised at how much guts the intern has, who seems to be rather younger than you by a few years and certainly significantly younger than the man before you, considering he’s the one to command his superior so strictly. Usually, it’s the other way around, is it not? Unless you’re doing something wrong?

“Aw, but—”

“Gojo. If we’re late again, the board of trustees might kick you off, remember?” Megumi says as he pinches the back of his superior’s undershirt and begins to drag him away from you. 

The mysterious man pouts childishly and whines. “Ohhh c’mon! They’re not serious! You know those old geezers are practically terrified of me!” 

You’ve never seen such a grown man act rather foolishly before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything. As you watch him be dragged away by the intern, he salutes a goodbye to you with an all-knowing wink to finish things off before he’s shoved into a black Cadillac in nothing but his undershirt for a top amidst the chilly winter air. 

As you attempt to process what on earth just happened, the young teenage barista calls at you suddenly. 

“Hey! Did that Michizane Sugawara guy leave? The one with the white hair?” she asks you, pointing to her own brown hair. She holds what looks to be milk with a hint of coffee in it, judging by how there’s just barely a tint of brown in the plastic cup.

“Oh… him.” 

Wasn’t his name Gojo? There’s no way you could’ve misheard “Michizane Sugawara” as “Gojo” you think, with the six other syllables just simply flying in from the window out of nowhere. Unless the fatigue has finally caught up to you and you’re hearing things wonky. 

“Yeah. It seemed like he was in a rush of sorts.” 

The barista leans over the counter to see and eventually shrugs. She pushes two cups towards you—your original coffee for Geto you nearly forgot about and the newly-made coffee for the mystery man. “You can just have it then. Not too sure you’ll like it though, it’s pretty sugary, but I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Your eyebrows perk up. With how much suffering you’ve been enduring lately from your work, you might as well indulge yourself in a sweet treat as you think you’ve earned it. Plus, with how much there is more to complete for today, you’re most definitely going to need the caffeine and the communal coffee pot isn’t exactly acquired for your tastebuds. 

When you finally settle yourself down back in the comfort of your desk after the coffeehouse fiasco, you take a soft sip of the free coffee…

… only to pull a face at how ridiculously sweet it is. The barista was right. You think that there’s probably only a drop of coffee in the entire cup melded with milk and a variety of syrups and sugar. And to think this was for a grown man? 

Sighing miserably, you pour the free drink down the kitchen drain, ignoring the glob of sugar that slugs out of it before you return back to misery.

“And there’s absolutely no models left that are in proximity to us? In any of our partnering agencies?” Geto asks as he rubs his temple.

The head of the PR team shakes his head, ashamed. “All of our current models are either abroad or they’re simply unavailable as of this moment.”

He mutters to himself before gritting his teeth. “And did you try bribing them with additional pay?” 

“We tried, sir,” the head says. “And with other compensation like a guaranteed column for next month’s column or brand partnerships, but they wouldn’t budge.”

Geto sighs loudly and slides a hand down his face in exasperation, fatigue visible. It’s currently 5:51pm and the magazine has yet to find a model to try and replace the perfume advertisement. The partnering modelling firms had absolutely no models to offer at the last minute and it was too late to try and get in contact with freelance models considering communication with them proved much more difficult than those in agencies. 

“What about recycling an older ad with a similar posed model and just photoshopping the fragrances out?” Geto suggests. 

It gets shot down immediately to his dismay. “Unfortunately, that’d be violating some copyright issues.”

You watch with fidgety hands as you stand next to Manami as your boss and the PR team examines the idea board carefully, trying ways to fill in the missing column. Of course, you could chime in with your own ideas, but with how stressed Geto is currently, you didn’t want to risk adding fuel to an already violent fire. 

Geto’s eyes scan the board left to right, taking in every single piece pinned onto it for some sort of genius idea, but nothing comes to him on the third try. A rigid silence fills the meeting room that keeps everyone on edge, anticipating his next move. When Geto finishes his fourth scan, in comes another blank page, until the corner of his eye catches you standing idly in the corner. 

His gaze moves to fixate on your squirming self as you attempt to look anywhere but his stare. It proves unsuccessful, however, considering that Geto calls your name and motions you to come forward.

Geto presents you like a doll of sorts to the PR team. “(Y/N) here seems to have similar proportions to her,” Geto says, keeping two firm, large hands on your shoulders. You shiver at the strange contact “What if we…?” 

One of the team members catches his drift uneasily.

“I don’t know Geto,” he starts as he stares at you incredulously, as if you’ve grown three heads all of a sudden. “Does your junior assistant even have any modelling experience?”

“Well no,” Geto confirms. “However, we’ve attempted to use all that we have available. I think this is our last resort.”

Somehow, you’re a little offended that your being is just simply a “last resort” to him, even if it is true. 

The PR team’s director's shifty eyes land on each of his team members with visible hesitation. With a cracked voice, he softly announces, “Well, technically speaking, there is… one more option.” 

Geto cocks his brow, his hands still firmly locked onto your shoulders with a whisper of a tighter grasp, as if you’re some sort of scurrying mouse ready to escape his hold at any given moment. “Well?”

The director’s mouth opens and closes for a given moment, attempting to choose the right words to say.

“Technically, we don’t have to use just our partnering agencies,” he begins quietly. There’s now a visible sweat misted on his receding hairline. 

The way Geto’s eyes narrow so suddenly makes everyone hold their breath for what comes next. Because, from the looks of it, everyone seems to know what the director is going to suggest and Geto’s reaction.

 “We’ve got contracts with every single management in the city. What? Are you saying we reach out to other cities’ talent managements? That’s rather tedious.”

“No, sir, that’s… not what I meant,” the director swallows thickly. “There’s technically one agency that we don’t have a con—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Geto’s stern words ring loud and clear. While his voice volume is still the same as always—soft with an obvious austere to it—his words are tight and evident. The emphasis of the curse word gives more than just a sharp edge to it, leaving no room for negotiation. 

Yet, one of the female team members pries anyway. She was hired around the same time you were, but because she didn’t interact with Geto as much as you did, so she didn’t know about how no meant an absolute no when it came from Geto Suguru just yet. Poor thing.

“But this agency has an abundance of models to choose from at their hand!” she exclaims with wide, desperate eyes. “I do think it’s a better decision to contact Infi—”

“I said no.” Geto turns to her and gives her a hard scowl before she can even finish her words. “Do not even say the name around my presence. I have forbidden any contact with that agency for a good reason. They only bring trouble and mayhem and disorder. Remember the Mei Mei scandal? The Kinji Hakari incident?” 

Everyone except for you tightens their shoulders and lips at the mention of the particular models. This isn’t the first time you’ve been kept in the dark, since you’re still just as a new hire as the female team member, but something is telling you that this news is much more hush-hush than the other gossip you’ve heard. Geto sighs again, their tensing bodies giving him a clear answer.

“We have done well without them for how long this magazine has existed for the past few years under my leadership,” Geto says. “I see no need to get in contact with them when we have a perfectly good substitute right here.”

His hands pat your shoulders again to properly show you off once more. The PR team goes to scan you up and down with their beady eyes, mutters of half-confident approvals and some other comments that you’re a little offset by rumouring around the meeting room. 

The director eventually sighs and gives in, considering that there weren’t many hours left in the day and that he and his team just wanted to go home. “Okay, we’ll use your junior assistant for the replacement shoot. We’ll tell Miguel, the photographer, and the fashion stylists to get ready for her.” 

Geto turns to Manami. “Go with them. Just ensure that the creative team will not cause a fuss with the choosing of the model. We don’t have time to dabble in feuds now.”

Manami nods and begins to lead the PR team to the studio, leaving you and Geto in the awkward quietness of the meeting room. Eventually, he releases you from his grasp and lets you breathe normally once they all leave. 

Geto leans on the table and returns to rubbing his forehead, muttering to himself at what he just did. You plant your stiff self back to your original position firmly.

“Sir,” you cough out with a voice crack with the lack of use from your voice. A heat rushes to your face and you clear your throat to properly speak. “Sir… I… don’t think I’m the right choice for this job.”

Geto lifts his head up from his hand and stares at you dully. “Excuse me?”

A shiver goes down your spine. Of course you forgot your consciousness and dared to question the Geto Suguru, editor-in-chief of the powerhouse fashion magazine in the country. But… even so. There were some limitations that you dared to even ponder about and though you were a lowly assistant, you still deserved to try and voice your own opinion on this matter. 

Especially since you’re going to be affected in more ways than one.

“I…” you start slowly. Your gaze meets the carpet of the room to try and ease yourself out of the intimidating stare of your boss. “I truly don’t think I’m the right fit for this particular feat. Like what they mentioned, I don’t have any modelling experience and I’m sure it’d cause the shoot to be more prolonged than it should be.”

“You don’t need modelling experience for this,” Geto begins. “I’m not asking you to be a model. I’m asking you to be a replacement.”

The familiar odd hurt singes at you again when Geto labels you as nothing more than a prop. Something about him shoving you in a magazine filled with well-experienced and trained models feels like cramming a piece of plain cardboard in a nearly-done puzzle, its individual pieces adorned carefully with each other to create something beautiful and ornate, only to be interrupted by a spare piece of something that just barely imitates it. You may have all the right curves and edges crafted by Geto’s hands, but you know that you don’t belong properly amidst the magazine at the end of the day.

The perfume ad takes up three pages of the entire magazine—two pages for the actual photoshoot and one for the description of it along with its reviews—not much in comparison to the articles written in it. But it’s still enough to composite a significant chunk for the magazine. And enough to make you feel overexposed to a public that in your rational mind, is not going to give you a second glance much more so than the actual product when reading the magazine. 

But right now, that unwanted attention is all you can think about. 

“But still—” you start with a tight throat. “Manami might be a better suit than I am. Or quite literally anyone in the office.” 

“Manami has been feeling under the weather as of recently,” Geto interrupts and shakes his head. “If we had more time, believe me, I’d be searching for a better fit for the ad as well, but right now, given the current predicament and since most of the employees have gone home, we don’t have many options left.”

Geto turns to you and though his face remains stony, his iris eyes gleam with a hint of desperation. 

“You’re my best choice right now, (Y/N).”

Time goes still for a moment and you can hear a voice echo in the back of your mind as Geto gazes at you. 

“Have you modelled before?” 

When you blink, a crystalline blue pair of eyes flashes through your vision all of a sudden. You step back a little, slightly startled at the hazy vision you have of the “Gojo” man from earlier and his proclamation to you.

The tone of the man’s voice echoes through your mind. In a typical male fashion, that sort of sentence would most likely be played off as a flirtatious intent. But the way that he said it made it seem like some sort of actual encouragement, like an urge of sorts for you. It felt genuine. Sincere, even, as if he wanted you to do it for no one but yourself. 

And though as of now, you’d technically be doing it for Geto… you can’t help but feel an urge just to try it to see how you yourself would like it. To see whether or not you’d actually fit into the mold of a “model”—even an amateur one. 

You suppose… that there’s a first time for everything.

Shuffling your feet, you swallow the last bit of qualms down and let most of your nerves go, choosing to settle in what could be as of this moment. Even if you’re not ready for it, you think you should at least try. 

And in the end, if not for Geto, perhaps for yourself.

You lift your head up and lock eyes with Geto’s with a more determined look on your face. The hesitation is still faintly there, but the ghost of it is overpowered by your resolve.

“Okay.”

“Alright, now peek your eyes over the newspaper a little bit, sweetheart! Make it playful!” the photographer chimes as he readjusts his position with his camera. 

The photoshoot set is a makeshift cafe, to properly highlight the coffee and sugar notes of the new fragrance you hold in your hand. The backdrop is a fake interior window of the cafe looking out into a winter wonderland. Makeup and clothing took awhile to prosper considering you had to take off your previous makeup and let the MUAs do their magic on you and that you had to test multiple layered clothing sets before the photographer approved of the final one appropriate for the shoot. It didn’t help that you put up a fight to keep your glasses on and that the MUAs had to attempt a look that would highlight your features with your glasses.

You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves of you modelling for the first time or the heat of the lights that’s making you flushed. Something about the flashes of lights felt almost exhilarating to you. It’s foreign, but somehow, they embrace your being like a long lost friend of sorts. You have yet to get used to the blinding white lights from the flashes, but you only have to endure it for a good hour or so. The repetitive mantra of “You’re just trying this out.” echoes in your mind over and over again, even though you already know you seem to not be cut out for this sort of position.

It’s much too hot in the studio, you feel your body being rather awkward, and you don’t appreciate the onlookers that watch your every move as you reposition yourself to the photographer’s demands. You’ve already knocked over a couple of fake cappuccino mugs since your limbs still aren’t working correctly and you can’t seem to make the right facial expression to your degree.

It’s clear your nervousness is evident, considering you can see Geto discussing quietly with the creative director as they examine you closely from the corners of your eyes. 

“She’s rather… stiff,” the creative director mutters. “You sure there wasn’t anyone on call?”

Geto hums monotonously as he watches as you attempt to find the right position to try and capture your side profile while showing off the perfume itself. “If there were, they would’ve been here by now.”

“Yes I understand, but,” the director fights the urge to wince as your bracelet gets caught in the chair handle. “I don’t know if this shoot will be proper enough to display in the zine this issue. Can’t we just talk with them and discuss moving the ad to next month’s?”

“No, they’re releasing it the same day the issue comes out. They want people to know about it as soon as possible,” Geto murmurs. “To ask that from us is to ask them to push back their release date.  We don’t have that sort of power.”

The creative director sighs and silences himself, wallowing himself in a state of doubt as he and Geto continue to watch the scene before them. Perhaps it’s the state of weariness that Geto has accumulated from the past few days, but he genuinely doesn’t think you’re doing too bad of a job for your first (and probably last time, given the anxiety still within you) time modelling. He thinks the angles of your face hit the light just right when it counts properly, and that the clothes that drape you fit you more than accordingly; it’s surprising given that there was no time to tailor them to properly suit you but somehow, you made it work.

There are certain moments that your nerves fade from view when the director asks you to make a certain facial expression. The little surprised face you make when you hold the perfume up to your face was most likely the money shot, but there were much more shots that could be used for the ad that he didn’t anticipate. 

There was one where your eyes stared directly into the camera from a three-fourths angle, a certain warmth to them compelling him to look further into you. Another one was a mild bokeh effect of you sipping coffee from a mug from a lower point of view, where the perfume was fully into view. But Geto was still somehow locked onto your figure from the background despite how crystal clear the bottle was. Either way, there was still a plethora of good shots to use despite you not being a professional model.

“But I do have to admit,” the creative director starts slowly, capturing Geto’s attention and breaking him from his gaze as he fixates on you repositioning yourself on the cafe bench, legs crossed to show off the mocha boots that adorned your calves. “She’s not really all that bad. I can see some potential in her.”

Geto’s body remains still, but his eyes shift to stare at the director from the corner of his eye, watching carefully as he examines you from the set. He narrows his purple eyes as he picks up on a mild lip bite from the creative director as you shed the trenchcoat to reveal a black fitted mini dress with a turtleneck, a vintage cowboy belt cinching your waist. While you’re still modestly covered, it’s the way you show off your long legs emphasized by the short skirt of the dress and the fitted heeled boots.

“I wonder if she’s single…” the director murmurs so softly that Geto just barely picks up on it.

“I completely forgot,” Geto interrupts rather loudly, making the director’s fixed stare falter as the shoot continues. “I believe I left a file in regards to the perfume’s licensing in the meeting room. Would you mind getting it for me? I’ll keep an eye on the shoot.”

The creative director’s brows raise. “O-oh! Yes, of course. I’ll be right back then.”

Geto watches as the director shuffles out of the room and out of view from you. Truth be told, the file was finalized a while ago. But something about how the director was looking at you made Geto wary of his intentions with you, if he had any at all.

Something about it made him a little aware that your temporary spotlight shone a bit brighter than he originally thought it’d be.

The shoot finishes up within the next hour, giving the team a good handful of images to choose from for the column before the issue is printed. Manami is with you in the dressing room as the MUAs carefully take off your makeup and reveal your raw face to everyone, peeling away the heavy amounts of concealer that hide the darkness embedding the rim of your undereyes.

“Christ, how many hours did you sleep last night?” she questions when you give a large yawn.

“I should be asking you that question,” you quietly remark back, studying her equally tired features. “If anything, you need the rest more than I do.”

Manami had been feeling quite ill as of recently, possibly due to the colder weather. She claimed that it was just the new diet she had been trying out to properly fit into the dress that she was planning to wear for the charity gala, but it was clear that no diet was capable of causing stuffy noses, consistent sneezing, and a mild fever. You had encouraged her to try and take some medicine and go home yesterday, but she specifically said that, “Geto will have a guillotine ready come tomorrow morning if I dare to even think about taking a day off right now.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs with half-assurance as she snatches a tissue from nearby. “Besides, people say you burn more calories when you’re sick so hopefully I can lose another half inch off my waist by tomorrow.”

“Oh, so you admit you’re sick,” you point out with a mild smirk.

 “I-I’m not sick—!” she falters before her nose begins to twitch. “Ahchoo!”

You hum, ignoring her protests. It’s currently nearing seven in the evening, and you’re sure that work is just beginning to wrap up as of this moment. Thankfully, everyone agreed to do the work for the perfume ad tomorrow before the finalized issue is shipped to print, but you still had to edit some articles, as well as help Geto still gather materials for his newest fashion line that he only tended to work on in the evenings of the weekdays.

He leaves earlier than you and Manami do, since he often piles the nonsensical work to you and her. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left the office without another word considering he was attempting to push out his new line by the end of next month.

In the past few months, you can’t say your work as a journalist has improved since your time at Kaizen, but you can at least say that your friendship with Manami has blossomed and sailed a little more smoothly than your first few weeks of working with each other. She was still a little snippy towards those below her like the college interns and the other entry-level employees, but you were specifically her junior, so you suppose it gave you special access to a much more kind, yet still sassy, side of her.

You spot the paleness of Manami’s usually glossed lips and how fatigued she looked. It didn’t help that the dressing room was quite warm so she looked rather blushed in the face. She leans back on the couch and puts a hand over her eyes to block out the glaring white light of the vanity.

“God, shut that thing off,” she quips as she lazily wags a finger to the vanity lights. “Feels like I’m staring right into the Sun itself.”

The lights are turned off and the room dims. You chew on your lip before deciding to sacrifice your time a little longer in order to help her out since you knew how badly she wanted to attend tomorrow’s charity gala and show off her new Emilio Pucci dress.

“You should go home,” you say quietly. “Get some rest before tomorrow. I can take care of the Book and the rest of his bullshit.”

She chuckles at your mild cursing regarding you-know-who. “Yes, because that went great last time…”

“I swear I won’t mess up again! That day was just out for me, I swear,” you pout, “But really, you should go home and get some sleep. I know you’re gonna come in tomorrow regardless of what I say, so at the very least take some medicine and sleep.” 

Manami pokes an eye out of her hand to study your pleading ones. She gives in rather easily, sighing heavily. “Fine. But if you mess up anything, it’s all on you,” she states pointedly and unlocking her phone to notify Geto you’ll be taking care of her duties tonight. 

She shortly leaves the office when you clean yourself back up to your day’s attire. The company car comes promptly on time and you begin to wave goodbye to her, but she opens the window halfway and motions you with a shaky finger to come forward.

“No funny business,” she mutters sternly through her mask. “I mean it. He’ll have your head first, then mine if you pull anything.”

“I swear, nothing will happen,” you promise to her. “Now go home. Or else that that cold will be taking more than just a half inch off your waist.” 

She rolls her eyes but you can see the faintest grateful grin from the inside of her mask as she rolls the window back up. You watch until the black car disappears from view and into the city traffic before you go back into the office to wait for the Book to be finalized with its editors.

It reaches your hands eventually just a quarter to 10:00pm, a little earlier than expected. Another company car comes by and picks you up to get his dry-cleaning as well, and you arrive at Geto’s apartment just shy of 10:30pm. 

The heavy doors seem much more intimidating the second time around. Perhaps it’s because they knew what happened last time and are just waiting to see what incident occurs today this time around. But you shake your head out of your apprehensiveness and decide the only thing that will be happening behind those doors is just you placing the Book down on his coffee table and leaving to go home and sleep before D-Day.

The entrance was the same as always—decorated with a great assortment of artistry of different mediums. In the corner was the marble dragon and beside it was the archived Basquiat piece that must’ve cost an arm and leg to purchase for the typical person. Up ahead was the entrance to the living room and in the center of it stood the coffee table. 

The coffee table. 

All you have to do is just simply put the Book on the coffee table.

Then leave.

Then just leave. Do not do anything more than that. 

“No funny business.” Manami’s warning chimes in your mind again with each step you take to the living room. 

“No funny business,” you repeat to yourself under your breath, clutching the Book tightly to your chest as if it was the most fragile thing on earth.

You eventually reach the beginning of the living room and spot the very ottoman that had caused you to have a much more humiliating night than anticipated during that one day you were given the simple task of dropping off the Book from Geto himself. You hadn’t been asked to do so since then, shamefully. It’s tucked away safely on the side of the sofa, meaning you had to intentionally yourself into it to try and re-enact your foolishness again. 

The coffee table stands before your knees and you stare at yourself in the reflection of its glass.

“No funny business.”

You gingerly put the Book down on the center of the coffee table, your fingertips brushing against the many pages of its draft and a relief begins to fill your nerves the moment you’re about to break contact with it…

… until a familiar voice calls to you just as your fingers let go.

“(Y/N)?” Geto calls from above. “Is that you?”

You freeze on the spot. You swore to yourself and Manami that there would be no funny business today, and you were doing such a good job! Did you accidentally leave mud tracks behind? There wasn’t any rain today. Did you leave something else at the office that you needed to bring? No, Manami said he only needed the book… so did you do anything at all that would cause your boss to randomly call out to you during such a menial task?

With a rigid neck, you turn to him slowly with a pained smile and the Book officially set on the coffee table. “Yes, hello. Sorry to interrupt… I was just dropping off the Book.”

Geto peers down at you from the second floor’s staircase. He’s shed his waist coat and has left himself in his grey button up that’s relieved of three buttons at the top, just shyly showing the beginning of his chest and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A rare sight—considering that Geto was often covered from head to toe in fabrics then even seeing him in a short sleeved shirt was a rarity.

“I see,” he says, scanning you from above with his cat-like eyes. 

You don’t know what to do. You just needed to drop the Book off and you were so unbelievably close to completing it without trouble. “Did you… did you happen to need something else by any chance?” you ask nervously.

“Ah, well,” Geto starts to your dismay. He pauses palpably before motioning you to come up. “I actually may need your aid on a piece I’m working on. Come upstairs.”

And miraculously, your throat closes up as you struggle not to burst into tears.

All you wanted to do is just drop the Book off! 

Despite all the curses that marathon through your head that you aim at your boss, you gather up the courage to shove down any questions of doubt and take your tired legs up the winding staircase. Something is telling you that this is a trick—that when you reach the top, Geto is actually just standing there with your termination letter, telling you that you forgot a vital rule to never go anywhere more than the living room in his house. But because you can rarely ever refute your boss in an effort to spare your sanity, you do as he says willingly like an obedient dog.

By the time you reach the top, there is no pink slip for him to display to you, but instead is an open door that faces the staircase directly. Inside, Geto stands in front of something, and you can see a tape measure around his neck more clearly, as well as a pin cushion on his wrist that usually holds an expensive watch. The room itself is rather large, with a variety of supplies garnered across a pegged wall with rolls of fabric decorating two of the walls. It’s Geto’s atelier room for his fashion line, you detail, the one that he stormed out of with Shigemo that time you had to drop off the Book. 

Without turning around, Geto calls to you, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Another thick swallow just barely passes through your dry throat. You prompt out an apology and slowly shuffle into his studio, where you see where the magic happens much more clearly and what exactly he was crafting on so late at night.

Geto moves aside for you to take a proper look at the mannequin adorned in a beautiful A-line black dress with a square neckline and ghostly, sheer sleeves. Around the waist was a loose string of pearls with a matching pearl necklace. It was a simple-looking dress from afar, but up close, you can tell that only a creative genius like Geto himself was capable of making something so minimalistic look so regal.

“Oh my…” you murmur softly as Geto pins a piece into place in its sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

Geto hums flatly.

“I’m glad you like it,” he begins as he lifts his head to properly face you. One of his arms goes to lean against it (are those tattoos?) and you can feel his eyes scan you up and down like what he usually does in the morning as he examines your outfit. But something about this particular feat feels a little more intimate than usual, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “You don’t happen to have an outfit for tomorrow’s gala, do you?”

“Well, um,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers. Initially, you were just going to use a plain white, sleeveless dress you had used for a work party you spoiled yourself with before you left your former workplace since it was a rather expensive and nice dress, but as you second-guess, you’re sure Geto wouldn’t approve of a dress that you had bought on clearance at the nearby outlet mall. So you meekly reply with, “... no, not really.”

You’re expecting some sort of scolding from him, possible Geto telling you that you need to be more prepared for such an event and that the last few days’ events were no excuse for sloppy planning, but instead, you’re even more startled when he says something completely unexpected that makes your eyes widen beyond your glasses’s frames.

“Good,” he says and gestures to his creation. “Because I want you to wear this for tomorrow night.”

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a/n ; i have rewatched the devil wears prada for the 123894th time before the year ends and have decided to bring this series back to life because i think it's much to good to give up on 🙂↕️ i don't know if i'll start a taglist just yet, but maybe, we shall see.

i'll also will be using she/her pronouns with an afab-hinted!body from this point on. i'm also still in debate of writing smut since 1) i'm not very good at writing it, 2) i don't usually like to write it lol, and 3) but i still do consider it as some sort of breaking point eventually between geto and reader. so if there will be in the future, it will be tagged and most likely will be extremely mild.

thank you for reading as always! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and this series so far. likes, comments, and reblogs are always noticed and heavily appreciated! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!! until next time!