#mwms

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ nanami x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ set in minimum wage, maximum suffering

"Your job is soul-crushing, your baking is terrible, and now Nanami is rolling up his sleeves and standing way too close, all in the name of ‘teaching’ you. This is fine. Probably."

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: so this little side story isn’t canon to minimum wage, maximum suffering—think of it as a fun 'what if' scenario set in the same universe! the main story remains unchanged. this can be read without mwms though! this was a request from this ask, and honestly? the idea was too fun not to write. so, consider this an alternate timeline. hope you enjoy!! 🫶

Your shift started like any other: you contemplated whether faking your own death was a viable escape plan, stared blankly at the espresso machine as it let out an unholy screech (you were growing more and more convinced that the damn thing was haunted or something), and questioned if your manager was legally allowed to schedule you for this many hours without a single break. All things considered, just a typical Tuesday.

But today was different.

Because today, Kento Nanami had walked in—your favorite customer.

Not because he was particularly nice (he wasn’t). And not because he was fun to talk to (he wasn’t that either).

It was because he was the only person in this godforsaken café who had a sense of basic human decency and a fully functioning brain.

He didn’t take a century to order. He didn’t ask for fifty modifications to a drink and then complain when it tasted weird. He tipped. And, most importantly, he shared your deep, soul-crushing disdain for minimum-wage labor.

The only thing you knew about him was that he apparently worked as a salaryman (which, in your opinion, meant he probably hated his life), and that he had an alarmingly deep appreciation for bread. Like, a religious appreciation. You were fairly certain he’d commit a crime if it meant getting his hands on the perfect sourdough.

Unfortunately, the café’s menu had exactly one (1) baked item: muffins.

And not just any muffins. No, these were the kind of muffins that had no discernible origin. You had no idea where they came from. No one ever made them. No one ever delivered them. They simply appeared in the display case each morning, like an eldritch horror spawning from the void.

Nanami had Opinions™ about this.

"You call these ‘baked goods?’" Nanami asked, holding up a particularly sad-looking muffin with the same amount of disgust one might reserve for a crime scene.

"I call them that because ‘technically edible’ didn’t fit on the sign," you said, staring at him, deadpan.

He sighed, which you were starting to suspect was just his default reaction to being in this café. "Your menu is lacking. A proper café should have more than just… these."

"Bold of you to assume this is a proper café."

Nanami gave you a long, evaluating look. A look that suggested he was mentally composing a very detailed PowerPoint presentation on why you, personally, were responsible for the downfall of modern cuisine.

“Do you even know how to bake?” he finally asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded confidently. “I put frozen cookie dough on a tray and then put it in the oven.”

Nanami stared at you as if you had just confessed to a federal crime.

“That doesn’t count.” he flatly stated.

Okay. Rude.

Then, with the seriousness of a man about to deliver a life-altering statement, he declared: "I will teach you."

You blinked. "Teach me what?"

"How to properly bake," he said, adjusting his tie like he was about to walk into a board meeting and not, you know, attempt to fix your godawful baking. The fact that Nanami—a man who always ordered his coffee with the kind of disappointment most people reserved for their divorce settlements—offered to personally teach you how to bake took you completely off guard.

And just like that, after-hours, you’re being dragged into the café’s kitchen, where Nanami suddenly transforms into the Gordon Ramsay of carbs.

Within minutes, Nanami already reorganized the entire kitchen like a man possessed. The chaos of the café’s usual kitchen setup had been wiped from existence. The flour, sugar, and eggs were no longer sad, forgotten relics in the back of the pantry but neatly arranged components of an impending masterpiece. Measuring cups? Neatly arranged. Whisks? Polished.

You, on the other hand, stood there like an NPC in the background of a cooking tutorial.

You had never seen someone look so intensely focused on baking before. Nanami was scarily efficient in the kitchen. His movements were precise, his instructions clear, his patience... well, moderate. He had removed his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing his forearms in a way that should probably be illegal. His forearms flexed.

You absolutely do not stare.

Unsurprisingly, things went downhill immediately.

You had the motor skills of a T-Rex wearing oven mitts, which became apparent when Nanami asked you to crack an egg.

"Start by cracking an egg," he instructed, his voice steady and authoritative.

Easy enough. Or so you thought.

You picked up the egg, gave it a confident tap against the bowl… and promptly shattered half the shell into the mix.

“Do you need help?” he asked, in the tone of a man trying very hard not to be judgmental.

“No,” you assured, aggressively fishing the eggshell pieces out with your fingers. “I like a little crunch in my pastries.”

“That is a health code violation.” he stated, unimpressed.

After retrieving all the eggshells (probably), you moved on to mixing. Nanami insisted that you actually follow the recipe, which you thought was stupid. Baking was just fancy chemistry, and you had totally passed chemistry, so clearly, you knew best.

“Why do I have to measure everything? Can’t I just… feel it?”

“No,” Nanami said, looking truly offended.

“What if I just eyeball the baking powder?”

“I will walk out of this café and never come back.”

“Okay, jeez, Mr. Precision,” you grumbled, shoving a tablespoon of baking powder into the mix with great hostility.

Nanami watched you like he was supervising a child with scissors. “You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerously talented?”

“No."

Somehow, in the process of baking, you ended up with flour on your face. Probably because you had smacked the bag against the counter too aggressively, but whatever.

Nanami, to your absolute mortification, reached out and wiped it off your cheek with his thumb.

You froze.

He froze.

The moment was over.

The café’s espresso machine made a noise like an unholy shriek.

“…I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen,” you said, trying to ignore the way your face felt like it was on fire.

“Good,” Nanami said, his ears suspiciously pink.

You both went back to baking, not talking about it.

"Fold the dough gently," he instructed.

You smacked it down onto the counter like it owed you money.

Nanami’s eye twitched. "Gently."

You half-heartedly patted it. "There. That’s basically the same thing."

"It is not."

"I’m trying my best," you informed him back.

"Your best is unacceptable."

"Yeah, well, so is late-stage capitalism, but here we are."

Nanami exhaled through his nose. "Like this."

Before your brain could even begin processing the fact that Nanami was now standing alarmingly close behind you, he reached out, his large, very warm hands covering yours. His touch was firm. Definitely stronger than they need to be for a guy who claims to be a salaryman. His cologne smelled expensive, the kind of scent found in department stores you were too afraid to walk into. It was warm and clean, a little sharp, but pleasant.

Your brain short-circuited.

You were so hyper-aware of him that you barely even registered the fact that he was guiding your hands in slow, precise movements, kneading the dough.

It was... nice.

You try to ignore the fact that this is weirdly intimate. It’s just dough. It’s just baking.

“Keep kneading,” he says, his voice low and measured, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear. “You need to develop the gluten. If you don’t knead properly, the bread won’t rise.”

Oh, great. So this is how you die.

Your thoughts were not on the dough rising.

Your thoughts were currently running around like headless chickens, screaming into the void.

You tried—really tried—to focus, but your brain decided to betray you in the worst way possible by noticing everything at once: the way his sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that had no business looking that good; the way his hands felt strong over yours, steady, like he was used to handling things with precision; the way his breath was warm against your ear when he spoke—

Get it together.

He guided your hands in slow, precise motions, and you focused very hard on the dough, not on the fact that he was basically pressed up against your back like some kind of bread-making Phantom of the Opera.

"This is… a lot of effort," you commented, trying to sound casual instead of violently flustered.

Nanami hummed in agreement, still guiding your movements. "Good things take time," he replied.

You blinked. "Was that a metaphor for life, or just bread?"

"Both."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to concentrate on the task instead of the increasingly dangerous thoughts creeping into your brain.

“…Why are you so good at this?” you asked, if only to distract yourself from the current reality of your situation.

Nanami didn’t even glance up. "I bake for myself often."

"Yeah, but this is, like, domestic of you. Should I start calling you ‘chef’?"

"If you must."

You blinked. "Wait, was that sarcasm? Did you just make a joke?"

"Did I?"

"I can’t tell. You’re an enigma."

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Nanami pulled back, allowing you to knead on your own. You immediately felt colder, which was an entirely unhelpful realization. He continued working on his own dough with the focus of a man who took this way too seriously. He had the facial expressions of a Greek tragedy, but there was something oddly soft about the way he worked—focused, precise, content.

He looked… peaceful.

…You were dangerously close to thinking he was attractive.

This was a crisis.

You realized that the atmosphere in the kitchen had become… almost pleasant.

Weird.

You weren’t used to enjoying things while being at this café.

Somehow, with Nanami standing next to you, looking like a very disgruntled baking instructor from a reality show where everyone cried at least once, you didn’t mind being here as much. The croissants you both made were still cooling on the counter, and Nanami was watching them with the kind of protective concern most people reserved for their children. You, on the other hand, were mostly staring at him.

Baking with Nanami wasn’t terrible. He was competent and took things way too seriously, but he was patient. Kind, even. He corrected your terrible technique without making you feel completely stupid, and somehow, against all odds, the croissants turned out perfect. Flaky, golden, and so buttery that you felt like you were committing a crime just looking at them.

You tore off a piece of croissant and popped it into your mouth. Immediate, buttery bliss. “Damn. This is so good, it’s kind of unfair.”

Nanami picked up a croissant, examined it, then took a careful bite. His expression didn’t change, but you swore you saw the light of God enter his eyes.

"Be honest—did you used to be a baker in a past life?" you asked.

"No," he mused. "But I should have been."

He said it so seriously that you actually felt a little bad for him. You stared at him. He stared at the croissants, a little too wistfully for a man who just baked them.

“…Okay, that was unreasonably sad.”

Nanami hummed noncommittally, but his expression remained contemplative.

You squinted at him. “You ever consider, I don’t know, quitting your job and just doing this full-time? Opening a little bakery somewhere?”

His hands twitched—just barely—but enough for you to notice. “Perhaps.”

“Because,” you continued, breaking off another piece of croissant, “I have never seen someone look so happy to knead dough in my life. You thrived back there, Nanami. I think baking is your true calling.”

Nanami didn’t respond immediately. He just stared down at the croissant in his hands, brow slightly furrowed, as if considering the idea.

“…It would be a less idiotic career choice,” he admitted after a moment. “Compared to my current one.”

You had no idea what he actually did for a living—because he only ever vaguely referred to himself as a ‘salaryman’ like some kind of corporate cryptid—but the way he said that made you pause.

“…You don’t like your job?” you asked, tilting your head.

Nanami exhaled slowly, rolling his sleeves back down. “No one likes their job.”

Okay, fair. You weren’t exactly thriving in the café industry yourself.

“I mean, yeah,” you conceded, “but like, if you hate it so much, why not quit?”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression.

“…It’s complicated.”

You didn’t push.

But something about the way he said it sat heavy in your chest.

After a moment, you shoved the croissant toward him. “Here.”

Nanami blinked. “I already have one.”

“Yes, but this is a pity croissant,” you explained with a small shrug. “It’s for the existential crisis I just accidentally triggered.”

He stared at you, then at the croissant.

Then, to your absolute shock, he huffed a laugh.

It was small. Barely even audible. But you heard it.

And you almost had a heart attack right then and there.

“Kento Nanami,” you gasped dramatically. “Did you just laugh?”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I assure you, I did not.”

“You’re lying.”

“I never lie.”

“That’s a lie.”

Nanami shook his head, but there was something undeniably fond in his gaze as he reached out, taking the second croissant from your hands. His fingers brushed against yours—just barely, just for a second—but it was enough to make your brain short-circuit once again.

Later, after the kitchen was cleaned and the croissants were safely stored, Nanami grabbed his blazer, ready to leave, but he hesitated at the counter. For a moment, it almost felt like the end of a date—which was a deeply dangerous thought that you immediately deleted from your brain. You frowned as he turned back toward you, looking—of all things—almost hesitant, as if debating something.

“I… enjoyed this,” he admitted, like the words were unfamiliar in his mouth. “Baking with you.”

“…You enjoyed doing free labor for a minimum-wage café?”

A long sigh. “That is not what I meant.”

You smirked. “Oh, so you just like my company, then?”

Nanami was silent for a moment too long.

You blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

“...I should go,” he said abruptly, slipping his blazer back on and adjusting his tie with slightly more force than necessary. Then, in a rare, rare moment of kindness, he reached out…

And lightly patted your head. Then, before you could even process the head pat—before you could formulate even a single coherent thought—he turned and left.

You stood there, absolutely frozen, brain fried, body experiencing a critical error, feeling something suspiciously fluttery in your chest.

You barely registered it.

Because all you could think about was that Nanami Kento had just patted your head like you were some kind of well-behaved pet and walked away like it was nothing.

And the worst part?

You… kind of liked it.

Oh, no.

The espresso machine let out another unholy sound like it's summoning demons and the lights flickered.

You groaned. “Yeah, same.”

[sleepypatho]

Binged Monsters We Make & i already have two main faves 🌟

[parageist]

Netherrack Nightmares have awoken!

[just-a-toast]

Hello Monsters We Make fandom

[itzgmann]

The plain old mischief makers, Big Left Hand Guy and Invisi-Bill are here!

And why not mix my old hyperfixation with my new one? They're now a MWM render!

[serickswrites]

Loved the Rain

Warnings: captivity, torture, blood, wounds, mcd, hurt/no comfort, caretaker and whumpee

"I always loved the rain," Caretaker murmured as they stroked Whumpee's hair. Through the thick stone walls of the dungeon, they could hear the pitter patter of the falling rain. "It always relaxed me so much. Just to sit and listen to the rain," they said as they continued to stroke Whumpee's filthy, matted hair.

"You loved the rain, too," they whispered as the tears they had been trying to hold back finally came. The tears tracked down their cheeks and dripped onto Whumpee's upturned face.

"You would really like this rain, love," Caretaker sobbed as wiped their tears, trying not to think about the blood that coated their hands.

They hadn't bothered to close Whumpee's eyes yet. They couldn't bear it. But they also couldn't bear to stare down into the lifeless eyes either. And so they stared out into the dingy, damp dungeon as they stroked Whumpee's hair.

Whumpee had bled out in their arms hours ago. Whumper had spent days torturing Whumpee only to end it suddenly by stabbing Whumpee in the chest and throwing them to Caretaker.

The sound of Whumpee's choking breaths fading as they struggled to breathe around the blood filling their mouth would forever echo in Caretaker's ears. The light fading in Whumpee's eyes would forever haunt Caretaker's dreams.

It was all more than Caretaker could bear. And so they sat, Whumpee sprawled across their lap, as they listened to the rain and stroked Whumpee's hair. "I used to love the rain."

[illbearound]

MOST WANTED MAN

Hiiii! First of all, I want to thank you for all the love I’ve been receiving. I wasn’t expecting that at all. Everyone is so sweet!! So thank you, thank you, thank you! 🥺💜

Second, I’m still trying to figure out tumblr posting (I’m new at this , so I’m still learning how to navigating here). I've noticed that there's a character limit, so I might have to split some chapters and make the story a bit longer than I expected. So please, bear with me.

I have the story almost written (working on the last chapters, atm). And I still got a few things I want to revise first – grammar and punctuation stuff. Still, I have not figure it out yet when I will update it. I was thinking about do it every other three days but maybe that’s a bit much. Maybe I’ll do an upload on a specific day of the week. Or just post whenever. Idk I haven’t set that up.

At last, here it is the first chapter! I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your feedback!!! (only if you want to, a heart is also very good!! ) 💕🫶🏻 Happy weekend!

Chapter One — Oranges and Familiar Faces

Madrid , February 2025

The city looks like a painting when she arrives. Terracotta rooftops glowing beneath low clouds, windows shuttered against a late winter drizzle. Rain taps softly on the car roof. The driver doesn’t speak, only nods when she thanks him. The hotel is made of pale stone and glass. Modern, but trying not to look it.

In the elevator, she watches the numbers change and feels the quiet stretch of panic that’s been building all week. She presses her hand against her stomach without thinking. She doesn’t want to admit she feels sick.

The room is fine. Clean, anonymous. The bed is made with perfect corners. A tiny desk under a high window. She doesn’t unpack, just lifts the most decent clothes from her suitcase and lays them over the chair. The rest stays in the case like a secret. Her phone buzzes but she doesn’t check it.

She opens the window instead. The air is damp, tinged with exhaust and oranges and something floral she can’t name. Somewhere down the street, music plays — fast, percussive, joyfully unaware of her.

She takes a deep breath. Her throat tightens.

It’s only a work trip.

She reminds herself of that like a mantra, like it’s supposed to mean something.

*

She had received the email last Saturday morning. She was on the couch in her sweatshirt, curled around a cup of tea that had gone cold. Outside her apartment, Paris went on living. Footsteps on pavement, a motorbike, the clink of glass from the bakery downstairs. Inside, everything had gone still.

Subject: Madrid Expansion — Selected Staff for Team Integration & Travel Itinerary

At first she thought it was a mistake. Or a bulk email. She read it twice. Her name was there, in the list. One week in Madrid. A full week.

She didn’t move. Not at first. The room felt like it had narrowed in around her.

The kettle began to scream in the kitchen. She stood too quickly, banged her hip against the table. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned off the stove. The tea didn’t matter anymore.

Julie appeared in the doorway, yawning, her hair in a sideways ponytail like a comic strip character.

“You’re up early.” she said, scratching her elbow.

Anna blinked at her, still holding the dry teabag.

“I have to go to Madrid,” she said “for work.”

Julie tilted her head. “Like… Madrid Madrid?”

Anna nodded.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Julie crossed the kitchen, leaned against the fridge. “And how do you feel about that?”

Anna shrugged. “It’s just work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Anna sighed, looked down at the counter like it might give her the answer. “I don’t know.” she said finally. “There’s the chance I see him. Or the chance I don’t. And I honestly don’t know which is worse.”

Julie didn’t try to fix it. She just stood there, steady.

“You’ll handle it,” she said. “You always do.”

Anna didn’t believe that, but she didn’t argue either.

They’d met in university, at a party Anna had tried to sneak out of before she was even halfway through her drink. Julie had caught her on the stairs and pulled her back in with a laugh and a brash, charming “no way are you bailing on me, I just got here.”

Julie was the kind of person who filled rooms without trying. People leaned into her, wanted to be close to her. She was funny and bright and fast. And not in a showy way, but with a sort of effortless gravity. She was studying art history and was always covered in paint or glitter or bits of tape, like her life was made in collage. She told stories with her hands. She loved hard and forgave quickly. Anna had never met anyone like her.

They moved in together that spring and never really stopped. Even now, years later, they shared a flat in the 11th, though Julie would be leaving soon. She was engaged now, to Guillaume, her long time boyfriend. Steady, gentle, impossibly French but a really nice guy. Anna didn’t say it out loud, but the idea of Julie leaving scared her more than she expected.

So she listened to her.

At the airport, Julie texted her:

Julie: You should text him. Just let him know you’ll be in town.

Anna: Isn’t that weird?

Julie: He’d want to see you. But it’s your call. Just don’t overthink it. You’ve got this.

Anna didn’t text him. She opened the window in the hotel and watched the city instead.

*

Madrid is warmer than Paris, but not by much. The days start gray and end with a wash of gold on balconies. On the first afternoon, Camille, her coworkers, takes her to lunch in a narrow restaurant where the waiters speak happily. They sit at a corner table with red napkins folded like fans.

Camille orders wine. Anna asks for something lighter, an orange juice.

Camille raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

They talk about work. Or Camille does, mostly. She’s effortlessly polished, with that subtle Parisian way of seeming completely disinterested while knowing exactly what’s happening. She’s in her forties, with a calm kind of authority. Red lipstick. Clean suits. Long earrings. No apologies. She isn’t quite a friend, but she is the kind of woman Anna quietly admired. Camille had the composed confidence of someone who'd long stopped worrying about being liked. They'd fallen into a quiet sort of companionship since Anna had started working in the office; a lunch here and there, an occasional walk to the metro when they finished late. Camille talked more than Anna, but it never felt like noise. She was curious, clever, a little cynical. The kind of person who asked how your weekend was, then actually listened.

“I almost married a chef once,” she says between bites of roasted fish. “He wrote poems on receipts and smoked in the shower.”

Anna laughs. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because Camille says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Anna smiles faintly "I thought Spain would be sunnier." she admits

"Spain is sunnier. February just doesn't care."

The week moves in blinks. Meetings. Introductions. Office tours.

The Madrid office space was slick and modern, all clean lines and filtered light. But the people were the opposite — tactile, warm, constantly offering coffee, food, compliments, stories. Anna spends most of her time trying to match their energy, knowing she never quite does. Camille thrives, even with her broken Spanish and ironic tone. She knows when to push and when to vanish. She doesn’t push Anna, but always found ways to include her gently, effortlessly. Anna smiled when she needed to, contributed when she could, and disappeared into herself whenever possible.

She walks through the city at dusk, letting herself get a little lost. The buildings look sun-worn and sturdy. There are oranges on the trees. The light feels closer than it does in Paris.

She doesn’t text him. But she thinks about it every night.

It’s Friday night. The restaurant is loud, full of weekend buzz and cheap wine and too much cologne. Her small group from work had planned dinner. A chance to relax, to laugh and to celebrate the successful week they had. They've got the weekend off before returning to Paris, and this feels like the perfect start, a night out in the last stretch of their time in Madrid.

Outside, the rain has quieted to a mist, fine and invisible until it catches the light. The street is narrow and damp, cobblestones slick with reflection. A row of motorbikes leans against a wall across the way, their seats glistening. A neon sign from a corner bar buzzes quietly in the distance, humming its way into the silence between them.

Anna tucks her arms across her chest, bottle of water cold in her hand, she’s too tired to drink tonight . Camille lights a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind, the tip flaring orange before settling into a steady glow. Smoke curls up around her, mingling with the city air — exhaust, wet pavement, something faintly floral.

They don’t speak for a few moments. There's a comfort in the quiet, in the shared act of being slightly apart from the noise, of pausing without obligation. Camille offers her a cigarette.

Anna shakes her head. “I’d just embarrass myself.”

Camille smiles faintly. “We’ve all done worse.”

Then Camille exhales and glances sideways. She smokes with a casual grace of someone who's been doing it since the '90s. “You’ve been a little strange this week,” she says. “Quieter than usual.”

Anna shrugs, watching a raindrop slide off the edge of a streetlamp. “I’m always quiet.”

Camille gives her a dry look. “You’re not always like this.”

There’s no malice in it. Just observation, casually dropped into the night like a coin into a fountain.

Anna’s eyes flick toward the building across the street. There's nothing remarkable about it, shuttered windows, a closed florist, some dark shapes that might be tables inside a café. But one door glows faintly, a soft amber rectangle in the dim. Seems like one of those expensive restaurants with ridiculous menus.

“I’m fine.” she says eventually, because it’s easier than untangling anything real.

Camille takes another drag. “You've been here before?"

It is an innocent question; light, casual, nothing loaded. But it catches her off guard. Because even though Camille doesn't know the history, the question lands heavy. Like it grazes something buried.

Anna doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks up again at the sky, pale and blank. Then down the street, where taillights smear across the wet stone. The city feels suspended, like it’s holding its breath with her.

“No.” she says finally. “But it's... familiar. In a way.".

Camille studies her. "Love thing?"

Anna's smile holds no humor. "Isn't it always?"

Camille doesn't press. Just nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “We should get drunk.” she says lightly, as if to break the tension.

Anna huffs a small laugh. “Probably.”

And then, just as she begins to turn back toward the door, her foot lifting slightly from the ground, the door across the street opens.

It’s subtle at first, just a creak of movement. Her eyes catch it out of habit, not expectation. She’s not looking for anything. Not anymore.

But then, like a slow, deliberate reveal, he steps into the light.

Her body stills before her mind does. Her breath cuts short, like she’s suddenly underwater.

Kylian.

He’s there. Real. Present. Not memory or fantasy. Not the version she’s rewritten in her head a hundred times. He walks into the faint orange glow of the doorway with that same easy posture, the way he adjusts his sleeve with one hand like he's done it a thousand times. The rhythm of his movements unchanged. Unthinking.

For a split second, she doesn’t feel anything. No rush of emotion. Just a hollow quietness, like the air has been sucked out of her.

Then it floods in — the weight of the months, the questions left hanging, the sudden, cruel sharpness of the present.

Beside him, Étienne appears. The bodyguard, the driver, the trusted shadow; tall, composed, still somehow blending into the background. Just as he used to. He speaks to Kylian in a low voice, then scans the street, that same soft vigilance in his eyes, as though checking for exits no one else sees. She remembers the way he used to play French rap music from the stereo, tapping his finger lightly on the wheel. She hadn't thought of Étienne in months, and yet, there he was too. Like a ghost from the past.

And then, as if pulled by something unseen, Kylian lifts his head.

His eyes land on her.

Not around her. Not through her. On her.

The recognition is immediate. No delay. No question. Like he was expecting her all along, or maybe hoping not to.

For a second, neither of them moves. The city carries on around them. A horn in the distance, the rush of tires over wet stone, but here, in this stretch of air between them, time narrows to a point.

Kylian’s face doesn’t change much, but something in it softens. He says something to Étienne, too quiet to hear, and then takes a step forward.

Then another.

He begins to cross the street.

Anna doesn’t move. Her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle in her hand, but she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t breathe. She watches him approach, each step sounding louder in her ears than it should.

He isn’t rushing. There’s a carefulness to the way he moves, like he’s not sure if this is allowed. Like one wrong word could send the whole thing toppling.

Beside her, Camille straightens a little, glancing between them. “Is that–?” she begins, her voice low “Do you know him?”

Anna doesn’t look at her. “Kind of.” she murmurs.

Camille nods, sensing something in the stillness, in Anna’s posture. “I’ll give you a minute.” she says, already stepping toward the door, flicking her cigarette to the gutter without looking back.

And then he’s there.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to speak. His presence feels too large all of a sudden. Too familiar. He smells like the same cologne. Wears the same kind of coat. And his expression, that small, half-smile, eyes flicking quickly to hers, it all crashes into her like a memory she's still grieving.

“Hi.” he says, quiet.

“Hey.” she answers, almost as softly.

The word feels simple, but her throat tightens around it. He looks at her like he’s still trying to understand the fact of her.

He blinks, then glances around, like trying to place this version of her in this particular streetlight. “What are you...?” he starts, then trails off. “I didn’t know–”

“I’m here for work,” she says quickly, the words sharper than she intends, too rehearsed. “They’re expanding. I came for the launch. Just a few days.”

She hears herself. The precision of it, how careful she sounds. Not casual, not surprised. Just... neutral. She doesn’t know why she phrases it like that. Maybe part of her doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression; doesn’t want him to think she came here because of him, for him. That would feel too exposed. Too much like something she used to do.

But underneath it, there's a flicker of something raw, a quieter truth pressing up against her ribs. That maybe she’d hoped for this. That maybe part of her had scanned every room for this moment, just like this, without letting herself admit it.

She watches his face, waiting for some reaction, a shift in his expression, some small sign of what he’s thinking. But he just nods, slow, like he’s absorbing it. And she can feel it all beginning to catch up to her now, the sudden nearness of him, the old ache unfolding in her chest like a bruise returning.

Kylian nods, then shifts slightly, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. That same half-smile plays at his mouth — crooked, a little unsure, like he's trying to land somewhere between familiarity and caution.

“Still drinking water at social things, huh?”

It’s such a simple thing. Barely even a real comment. The kind of line people toss out when they don’t know what else to say.

But it hits her like an echo from another life.

He remembered. The first time they met.

She glances down at the bottle like it’s just appeared there, like it’s someone else’s. And then the smallest smile pulls at her mouth, not quite amused. More like caught.

“I guess some things don’t change.” she says.

But they both know a lot of things did.

———

tags: @nowrosesaredead

[softcookiesworld]

HIIIII!! I just finished reading and I had to make an oc….. I’m thinking of naming her Kiera or something with a K!

[themerrywhumpofmay]

Merry Whump of May 2024 Prompts

Event tags: #mwm2024 #themerrywhumpofmay #mwmday[X]

Thank you everyone for your patience in waiting for this post. We can't wait to see what you create this year! Have fun!

Image text under the cut-

Transcription:

ABOUT THE EVENT

The Merry Whump of May is an event run by @wormwriting and @painsandconfusion. There are 31 days of prompts to be completed each day of May. Feel free to do as much or as little as you’d like. 

Prompts can be filled in prose, poetry, art, or any other medium you resonate with. 

There will be participation and completionist medals in downloadable pdf format.

Prompts

01 - Breathless “Get back in there” | Ring box | Cliff

02 - Scorching “Don’t you dare.” | Glasses | Storage Shed

03 - Lost “See what happens.” | Screwdriver | Club

04  - Forgettable “Who are you?” | Lamp | Alleyway

05 - Strained “Put that down.” | Electrical wires | Plane

06 - Suspicious “You thought you could get away with this?” | Barbed wire | Riverside

07 - Fallen “Forget about them.” | Piano | Edge of town

08 - Pitch black “I’m fine.” | White-hot blade | Passenger seat

09 - Frostbitten “You’re nothing” | Blanket | Parking lot

10 - Jaded  “Revenge is a dish best served.” | Mask | Rooftop

11 - Numb “Pretty little thing.” | Bracelet | Stairwell

12- Known “Let me hear you.” | Garrotte | Desert

13 - Restless “Tell me how it feels.” | Needle | Trail

14 - Punchable “I just want you.” | Rock | Closet

15 - Stone-cold “Let me hold you.” | Candle | Cellar

16 - Naive  “Say aaaaa-” | Whip | Library

17 - Hungry “Wait, are you afraid of me?” | Fork | Lake

18 - Conditioned “Why do you love them?” | Record player | Ballroom

19 - Distracted “Rot in hell.” | Soup | crate

20 - Alone “Don’t tell me you forgot about me.” | Lipstick | Training grounds

21 - Charismatic “Sit.” | Vial | Balcony

22 - Charred “It’s been too long.” | Straps | Rafters

23 - Overthrown “Close your eyes.” | Rock | Truck

24 - Shadowed “Break a leg!” | Plants | Cave

25 - Practical “I’ve always loved the rain.” | Bottle | Shop

26 - Resilient “Get in.” | Pocket | Marsh

27 - Mistrusted “You’re trembling.” | Dagger | Couch

28 - Loyal “Smile.” | Water | Workshop

29 - Reflective “Chin up.” | Trap | Office

30 - Tenacious “Did you have a bad dream?” | Paper clip | Doorway

31 - Broken “Last one.” | Key | Under the bed

Alternate Prompts

Hidden

Waking

Betrayed

Garish

Garden

Theater

Docks

Street corner

“Lean on me.”

“I don’t have regrets.”

“Take me.”

Shoe

Ribbon

Corset

Crown

[papaseidon]

For my CoryxKenshin fans

Do you see my vision

[micer2012]

THIS WAS TRULY THE SUMMER OF SCOTT FOR ME. mwm and stw took up my entire summer so much that i didnt have time to draw8X

[devilish-cherry]

Consider, gojo makes a new punch card for barista head pats. Choso steals half the pile

ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED BEHAVIOR, AND YET. COMPLETELY IN CHARACTER.

gojo 100% would do this. he’d be like “hmm, you know what this loyalty program is missing? involuntary barista participation!” then he would walk into the café one day, slam a new stack of punch cards on the counter, and be like “great news! i’ve made some improvements to the loyalty program :)))” while the barista stares in silent horror at the words "5 coffees = Headpat from the Barista!" on the punch cards. like they work for him. like they agreed to this.

but the real chaos begins when choso gets wind of this. because yeah, he’s taking HALF the pile. no hesitation. he is stockpiling. yuji tries to stop him like "bro you can’t just take all of them?? 😭” and choso, completely serious, just goes "i require them.” meanwhile, gojo is in the background encouraging it.

“oh wow, choso, you must really want those head pats, huh?”

“yes.” completely serious. no hesitation.

meanwhile, the barista is just standing there, realizing that they'll never escape gojo’s marketing hellscape. 🧍‍♀️

[thehuzzofnewedyn]

The G.O.A.T. 💯🔥

Y'all make sure you check out Cory's new manga 🤑

[sleepypatho]

Manga finally came in!! Guess who is my fav 💙

[pansexualkiba]

okay here's the real custom remix for today

[parageist]

A DAY OF ANGER