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mingapace · 11 days ago

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𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝕸𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨. 𝙇𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 9,1ᴋ

It’s not even noon when you hear the doorbell ring for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Mondays were always bustling with customers because of the early weekend closure. The business complex was small compared to the big chains downtown, but older folks and local regulars much preferred stopping by a small center rather than driving miles to reach a larger one and stand in endless checkout lines.

You barely lift your gaze from near the stockroom, where you’re logging invoices to send to your trusted accountant at the end of the month. An elderly woman leaves with a polite smile and a bag that jingles.

You hurry to thank her, and she responds with a slow, gentle nod before disappearing into the gray street.

Outside, the sun is scorching the pavement even though it’s only early spring. When the door opens, the smell of freshly baked pizza from the bakery next door makes you sigh with pleasure. But no—you had to hold out until the evening. Remmick was surely cooking something while shut in at home, far from the sunlight.

You smile at the thought of how essential he had become in your life. When you came home from a hard day, he was always there—waiting, comforting you—and like magic, all the fatigue would melt from your shoulders.

His cooking skills were slowly improving, and even though he had no real need to eat, he still did it for fun. He was dead, and normal food didn’t satisfy him, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste buds.

You close the folder and slide it onto the shelf. Then you stretch your arms above your head, yawning slightly. The morning had been calm—aside from the usual parade of indecisive customers and two men asking where to find the most ‘aesthetically pleasing’ toilet paper.

Your coworker, Iwan, is lost somewhere between the shelves. He’s stocking boxes full of new kitchenware—bamboo spoons, decorative cutting boards, all those cute and useful things people buy when they need a little comfort.

Your boss had decided to hire another employee due to the increasing customer flow, and you were grateful—it was getting hard to keep up with everything alone. It hadn’t been a difficult selection. The guy showed up with politeness and precision, a university student, perfect for a part-time role. And you were always happy to help young people who, even while studying, rolled up their sleeves to become independent.

You’re about to dive back into bookkeeping when you hear him arrive.

Fast steps. A thud. Then a low, almost choked voice calling your name.

You’re distracted by a paper your boss left under the register and only look up when he knocks twice on the counter with his knuckles and adds:

“Something happened.”

You frown. Iwan was always a nosy gossip. He knew everything about everyone, and the old ladies loved hanging around the shop to chat with him and whisper the latest news. Of course, he always rushed back to tell you everything—even though you were never much for gossip—and he always had that excited look.

But not today.

Iwan has a face you’ve never seen on him before. Not scared.

More… hollowed out. As if reality had gently taken the words out of his mouth.

“Go on,” you say, concerned. “What is it?”

He removes his baseball cap, holding it in his hands, twisting and turning it like there’s something alive inside.

“Have you heard the news?”

You shake your head, as usual. Ever since you started living with Remmick, your world had shrunk into a bubble.

“No. Why should I?”

“Because… they found a body. In the river. Early this morning. Right behind the spillway, under the small bridge—the one near here.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn’t unusual news, especially in recent decades with the whole hunt for night creatures and everything else, but the fact that it happened in the little suburb where you lived—where nothing much had happened in a long time—sets off alarm bells.

“A body?”

Iwan lowers his voice and leans over the counter, getting closer. He looks left, then right, like some browsing customer might overhear and eavesdrop.

“It was one of the guys who came here often. A man around thirty, thirty-five. The one who always had his shirt unbuttoned and wore sunglasses even when it rained.”

You freeze. Your hands stiffen on the counter. A small knot forms at the base of your throat.

“Oh…”

Iwan nods.

No names needed. You remember him perfectly.

He’d come in at least five times over the last few weeks. He’d stand between the shelves, staring at you. Asked dumb questions. Always tried to get closer than necessary. One time he even asked if you lived alone.

You told him: “Just with my pets.”

He had laughed.

You hadn’t.

“A guy from the police said it at the café next door. They found him at dawn. Floating face-down. But the weird part is… the neck. It’s not just broken. It was torn.”

He continues, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it won’t be long before the Custodians show up around here.”

A cold, slimy shiver runs down your spine.

“What do you mean… torn?”

You try to sound skeptical. But your voice already drops lower.

“I don’t know. They didn’t explain it clearly. Just that it wasn’t an injury from a fall. It’s something… unnatural. Like he was bitten—”

Iwan stops, noticing the expression frozen on your face.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You snap out of it, erasing the look from your face and shaking your head.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… a big thing to hear.”

You step away from the counter. Your hands tingle.

Part of you wants to ignore it all. Close your ears. Say you don’t care, that the guy was deeply creepy and whatever happened to him, he probably deserved it.

But that’s not true.

A man died.

And in circumstances that seep into your skin and your mind, feeding your unease.

At 1:43 pm, you step out of the shop with a weight pressing on you that you can’t shake off.

You asked Iwan if he could extend his shift today, said you weren’t feeling well and didn’t feel up to continuing, and he only nodded, his face locked in that silent kind of concern that kind people wear when they’re unsure whether they should ask more.

You didn’t let him.

You politely greet the people you know and the customers heading into the shop as you walk toward your home. The sun is still high in the sky. There’s no wind, but the air has that sticky, heavy quality that comes before slow thunderstorms—the kind that simply weep melancholy onto the sidewalks.

You cross the bridge that separates your shop from the river, and for a moment, you stop.

Down there.

Exactly down there.

Dark green water. Murky. Slow.

And in the center of that unremarkable canal… early this morning… there was a body.

The body. You knew that man. You’d rung up his groceries, talked to him, looked him in the eyes.

Now his neck is broken. And not because he tripped.

No. Iwan said that part clearly.

Like it had been torn.

You inhale.

The smell of the river hits your nose—iron and moss, with a tired trace of mold. The kind of smell no one really notices anymore around here.

But today, it stings your throat. Clings to you.

You turn away quickly and head down the plane tree-lined boulevard, walking straight home.

Every step feels heavy.

Not because you’re tired—physically, you’re not at all—but because of that feeling in your gut. That feeling that things are starting to line up.

And you’re just pretending not to notice.

A subtle tension walks beside you like a shadow—unseen, but constant.

You grip your shoulder strap tightly. Your headphones dangle from your bag. You don’t feel like listening to music. Not today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—just once. A notification, maybe your boss, maybe Iwan, maybe the police.

You don’t check.

Beneath your feet, the cobblestones are damp with moisture.

Now and then your heel slips a little, but you don’t stop.

And then you remember that conversation.

Not yesterday. No. More than a week ago. One of those evenings when Remmick had come to see you for no apparent reason. He was sitting by the radiator in the shop—even though he didn’t need it. Legs drawn up, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you like he was studying your existence in quiet sips.

You had mentioned the guy to him, just in passing. To fill the silence. To include him in your day—usually uneventful, but not entirely that one.

You had said it lightly, almost joking.

“The idiot with the snake face tried again today. He never gives up.”

Remmick had lifted his gaze slowly.

“Did he lay a hand on ya?”

“Nah. Just talked. Doesn’t seem like the type. And I’ve got you to protect me, if anything ever did happen.”

And he had smiled. A smile that, now, days later, comes back to you with a different shade.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

It felt like a promise.

But it was just a joke, right?

Remmick had caught your sarcasm. He must have. He knew you by now.

You cross a small square where pigeons have taken over the benches.

The river’s no longer visible, but you still feel it at your back, as if the water is following you.

Each step toward home brings you closer to a possibility you’ve been trying not to name:

That Remmick knew.

That he didn’t let it go.

That he acted.

And no, not because you asked him to.

But because you’re his.

In that ancient, animal, visceral way, in which certain creatures look at you and don’t see a person—they see a reason to live.

And if someone threatens that reason…

Well.

You’re not entirely sure how it ends.

You reach your front door with your heart beating a little too fast.

You drop the key the first time. You pick it up and slide it into the lock as if nothing happened.

Open.

Close the door behind you.

The cat watches you from the living room window, looking satisfied, lying on a blanket that Remmick has probably folded with geometric precision just for him.

You hear a sound coming from the kitchen: the clink of a ladle, a cabinet closing gently, the soft rush of water.

It’s not an unusual scene.

Remmick often does things for you.

Small things. Careful. Almost invisible—unless you know how he tries to earn his place under your roof.

When you step around the hallway corner and into the kitchen, you see him.

From behind.

A loose t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks so normal, so human.

He’s standing in front of the stove, which is turned off. In his hand, a wooden spoon. In the pot—sauce. Simple, fragrant. Like the kind made on good Sundays.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps.

And for a moment… he looks surprised. Then instantly happy.

A flash. Like a dog that wags its tail without thinking—pure instinct.

“Oh—!”

His voice is a breath, suddenly full of enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch, sweetheart.”

You usually never came back before evening. Your shift was continuous, but you couldn’t stay in the shop with that knot in your throat making it hard to swallow.

He sets the spoon in the sink, wipes his hands on his apron—yes, he’s wearing the light linen apron you folded for summer—and comes closer.

“Did you forget something? Or… are you feeling unwell?”

Then he stops.

His eyes fix on your face.

You’re looking down.

Not smiling.

Keys still clenched in your hand.

Your shoulders stiff.

You didn’t come home because you were hungry. You didn’t come home out of affection. You came home with a thought that’s been eating you from the inside out.

Remmick understands it before you even open your mouth.

His face changes.

He doesn’t fall apart. But he slows. Becomes more careful. He studies you as if searching for new cracks that weren’t there before.

“What is it?”

His voice is low now. Concerned, but still gentle.

It’s not an interrogation.

It’s an offering.

You stand a few feet away from him.

The kitchen sounds—the drip of the tap, the sauce gently simmering, the cat stretching on the couch—form a normal frame.

But you two are not normal right now.

“They found a body this morning,” you say, finally.

Remmick doesn’t answer right away.

“Who?”

He looks at you.

You look at him.

Then you add: “It was someone who used to come to the shop. An annoying customer, but nothing serious. They found him in the canal.”

A pause.

And then: “I… I told you about him.”

Remmick nods. Slowly.

“I do, yeah. I remember. You said he was botherin' you. And you said you felt safe when I was there, didn't ya?”

His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just… linear.

As if he’s stating a fact. With the same honesty he’d use to tell you how many dishes he washed.

You stare at him—and for the first time since you’ve lived with him, you don’t see him as a tender, gentle creature, hungry only for your love.

And he notices. Something flickers in his gaze. A trace of red drowns in the gray sea of his irises.

A pain that arrives before any word.

Remmick stiffens.

“No…” he says, speaking with that thin voice he uses when he’s afraid he might break. “No, hang on. You don’t think… you’re not seriously thinkin' that…”

He takes a step toward you.

Not threatening—definitely unsure. As if approaching a flame that might collapse or suddenly burn brighter.

His eyes widen, like he’s just seen the fear in you.

“I didn’t do it.”

His tone is broken now. Full of anguish.

“I swear on it, I didn’t. I promised you, the very day you let me stay here. I swore—”

His voice cracks.

His claws (still kept beneath the skin) seem to press against the flesh.

“I swore I’d never do it. Not even if someone was hurtin' you… not even if I was tempted. Not even if I was starvin'. I… I’ve learned to keep my hunger quiet. For ya.”

His chest rises and falls. He doesn’t need to breathe—but he does it anyway. To mimic life. Or maybe to soothe his soul.

You don’t answer right away. You’re not accusing him, but your gaze doesn’t soften.

And he can’t take it.

His eyes flicker. Not because he’s guilty—but because he no longer knows how to look innocent in your eyes.

He suddenly turns, and the transformation flashes through him like lightning:

His eyes turn red.

His hands stretch and twist.

Claws emerge.

His canines sharpen like knives.

A vase on the cabinet shatters with a single swipe—a violent blow.

The shards scatter across the floor, and you instinctively take a step back to avoid being hit, a startled gasp slipping from your lips a second too late.

Remmick freezes.

He turns to you.

And he sees it. Your frightened expression.

You bring a hand to your chest, your heart pounding—but you’re not sure if it’s truly fear of him or just the raw instinct from his sudden outburst.

But for him… for him, it’s worse than any sentence.

He stands there.

Mouth slightly open.

Looking like someone who’s lost everything in a single moment.

“Darlin'…”

His voice is barely a whisper. The tone unfamiliar—like it doesn’t even belong to him.

You don’t move. You don’t know if your heart is racing or has stopped altogether.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

As if every inch between you could somehow redeem him.

“I didn’t mean to. Please. Don’t—”

His hands tremble as he tries to retract the claws, his fingers flexing convulsively as if trying to push them back under his skin.

The nails retreat slowly. One by one. His hands return to their normal size.

Then his jaw tightens.

His teeth… retract. But there’s blood on his lip. He bit himself in the process.

The red in his eyes lingers a few seconds longer.

They stare at you, lost. As if they can’t look away from the face they love—a face that now fears him.

Then that too fades.

Back to gray. Liquid. Desperate.

You haven’t said a word.

Remmick drops to his knees. There, beside the shards. Not to pick them up. But to lower himself. To take away the weight of you looking down at him.

“Don’t be lookin' at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Not like… like I’m somethin' that'd touch you when you don't want it. Not like I could ever hurt you, really.”

You swallow.

But still, you say nothing.

Remmick leans forward, hands on the floor. You see him trying to slow his breathing, shoulders trembling.

“I lost control, love. Just for a second. Didn’t mean to frighten you, but…”

He stops. The words stick in his throat.

“It felt like… you weren't believin' in me anymore.”

His tone is low, full of something breaking without making a sound.

“And I… I don’t know how… I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

There’s a nakedness in that sentence that leaves you breathless.

Not physical. Not theatrical. Real.

As if every gesture he made — every touch, every laugh, every kiss — hovered around the way you look at him. And if that vanishes, he disappears.

You can’t breathe properly. Not yet. But you look at him. This time, truly.

And you see everything.

The pale skin still glistening slightly with sweat, as if it retained the traces of transformation. Hands resting on the floor, fingers curled but human again, lined with thin red trails — maybe from the shards, maybe from himself. Lips drawn tight, bruised. Eyes locked on you, glassy, swollen. As if holding back tears.

“I'd never hurt you,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even lay a finger on you. Not at you. Never at you.”

He takes a breath, broken and ruined, and lowers his head.

The silence weighs like concrete between you.

You standing, him on his knees.

And between you… the fracture.

Remmick doesn’t move for long seconds. He stays there, frozen, as if afraid that even the act of standing might make you disappear. But then he looks at you again. More slowly. And slides a little closer. Cautious, silent. He moves like water searching for a crack, like a wounded animal with nowhere to go.

He drags himself forward on his knees. One hand brushes the floor. The other stays raised halfway, as if offering itself. He doesn’t dare touch you. But he gets closer. A little more.

And you— You lift your hand. Stopping him.

“No.”

The word is small. Not harsh. But final.

Remmick freezes instantly. As if your voice were a thin blade that just carved into his breath.

You look at him. Finally, with firmness.

“I need to… think.”

Your hand stays raised, between you. A gesture more powerful than any word.

“Alone.” you add.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t justify.

His face lowers, his eyes drift back to the floor. It’s as if every unsaid word slipped into the cracks of silence and dimmed him a little more.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn your face. And you leave.

You walk slowly toward the hallway. Every step is dense. Every breath heavy. You don’t turn back. You don’t want to see if he’s watching you leave. You don’t want to know if he’s crying, or praying, or simply waiting.

You cross the bedroom threshold and close the door.

Then lean against it, back to the wood, as if holding out a storm.

The cat must have jumped down from its spot at the window after Remmick broke down, and is now curled up on the bed. It lifts one ear. Then recognizes you, stretches, and meows in a tired voice.

You don’t go to it immediately.

Your heart is still pounding too hard.

You move slowly through the room. Run a hand through your hair. Slip off the hoodie that clung to your skin from anxious sweat. You sit on the bed and the cat slides closer, sensing your agitation, rubbing against your thigh.

You take a deep breath. Trying to push everything away. But the image is still there.

Him.

Standing beside the broken vase. The red eyes. The sharp fingers. The mouth full of teeth not meant for speaking.

You try to recall everything he said. His voice, the plea, the ruined tone with which he tried to ask for forgiveness.

“I swore to you.”

“I'd never hurt you. Never you.”

“I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

You know. You know he loves you. Or whatever distorted, deep, trembling form of love a creature like him can feel. You know he’s devoted to you. That he would never harm you.

But— But.

You saw something. Something that can’t be unseen. That can’t be ignored.

And you wonder if love, by itself, is enough to hold certain things back.

You lie down. The cat jumps up beside you, curls against your shoulder. Its body warm, heavy, familiar. You bury your face in the pillow.

You try to tell yourself: “It was just a moment. He’s sorry. You know him. You’ve seen him vulnerable, humble, small.”

But the mind…the mind doesn’t agree.

Your home. Your safe space. Shaken. Altered.

You close your eyes. The cat shifts, purring softly into your ear. It knows nothing, but senses something.

Your heartbeat slows only after long, weary, suspended minutes. And as your body finally gives in to exhaustion, as your hands relax, as the cat stretches out along your stomach…the image returns.

Not the outburst.

But his other version. The gentle one, the tame one, the domestic one. The one of a creature who loves you enough to die.

With that thought, with great difficulty, you fall asleep.

You wake up at dusk.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light. The glow filtering through the window is dark blue, thick, sunless. It’s not the middle of the night. But it’s late. Maybe seven, maybe eight. You don’t know. Your body feels heavy, like a stone sunk underwater.

You turn slowly in bed, searching for something to hold onto. The cat is gone — probably found a new cozy spot or a place on the cold radiator.

You move to sit up, and something slips from your shoulders and gathers in your lap.

A blanket.

You don’t remember wrapping yourself in a blanket. Sleep must have taken you before you could do anything.

It was placed over you, gently.

Your fingers touch it, lightly grip it, and a soft smile comes to your lips.

There’s no need to wonder who put it there.

Remmick.

A thought crosses your mind. He must have come in quietly, while you were sleeping. He must have looked at you. Maybe knelt beside the bed. Maybe he just wanted… to do something for you, even without forgiveness.

You get up, finally. Your muscles are stiff. You wrap the blanket around yourself like a cloak and open the bedroom door.

The house is dark, silent. The kitchen light is still on, faint and yellow. Just one bulb — the one above the stove. There’s no sign of him.

No bowl out of place, no cup, no note.

You search for him out of habit: the chair where he always sits, the window where he reads, the hallway where he follows you in the morning to ask if you need anything.

But he’s not there.

He must have gone out to feed, you think. He never goes out this early, but after a day like that…

Then another question comes to mind.

One you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

What was he feeding on tonight?

You don’t want to think about it.

And yet, you can’t stop yourself.

He often stayed in for days to spend time with you after work, but the next morning he always had that distant look. You always knew he was holding himself back. Even now… your mind keeps circling back to that sentence Iwan said, back at the shop.

“The neck… not broken. Torn.”

You move into the kitchen, slowly. On the stove, the sauce he had probably finished that afternoon still sits. Next to it, a plate and a portion of uncooked pasta had already been laid out. Your stomach tightens with sorrow.

You’re not hungry, but you cook anyway. To distract yourself. To pretend it’s an ordinary evening. You reheat everything in a pan. The steam fogs your eyes. You wait until the pasta is ready, drain the water into the pot, and pour a ladle of sauce over the serving.

You eat standing up, like you only do when you’re nervous. The spoon taps softly against the rim of the bowl.

The silence in the house is a crouching beast.

He should be here. Not to talk. Not even to ask for forgiveness. Just…be here.

Because Remmick, despite everything, has always been there. Even when it wasn’t needed. Even when you didn’t want him.

You finish eating. Put the dishes in the sink. Then you return to the bedroom.

You don’t think of him with anger. Not anymore. But you wonder what he’s doing, where he is.

You get back into bed. The blanket he left draped over you is still warm. You pull it over yourself again. You turn toward the pillow.

This time, sleep comes without asking permission. But it’s not peaceful sleep. It’s a sleep of waiting.

When morning comes and you wake up, you head to the bathroom to wash. You get ready for the workday, and as you leave the bedroom, you expect to see him behind the kitchen counter. However, as you pass through the hallway, sunlight floods the house through the open shutters.

And then you know. Remmick didn’t come home.

The morning light is clear, merciless. There’s no fog today, only cold, transparent air that makes everything sharper than necessary.

You hear your footsteps on the cobblestones. The echo bounces inside your chest.

You arrive at the shop a few minutes early. Iwan isn’t there yet. You open up. You pull up the shutters. Turn on the lights. Open the cash register, put on background music. A gentle playlist, full of guitars and female voices singing about love as if it weren’t something that tears people apart.

Everything seems normal. But it’s not.

The morning drags on slowly. Customers come in, ask stupid questions, impatiently flip through decorative catalogs. You answer everything. Smile. Sell. Assist. But the thought… remains.

Where is he hiding? Where did he sleep? How did he not burn?

Remmick, without your roof over his head, is just a shadow in the world. An ancient, fragile fragment that could be lost — or worse, found.

Because there are the Custodians. After the recent event, they must have split across the outskirts. You know they patrol the cities after sundown, hunting those who don’t conform. Those who show too much hunger, too much threat. And Remmick, even if he’s always obeyed you, is still a walking threat.

You lean on the counter, checking your phone for the umpteenth time. No messages. Not even a shadow of his name.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he just found a good hiding place. Maybe he’s under an abandoned church. Maybe he found shelter in the library’s underground levels, where no light reaches.

You hope.

And meanwhile, your heart pulses in your ears every time the shop bell rings.

Until…

At a quarter to noon, Iwan walks in.

He throws open the door with the excitement of someone who’s just seen an explosion.

“Did you see the news?” he asks, without even greeting you.

You shoot upright. Your heart stops. It truly stops.

He drops the newspaper on the table and the words pour out: “They caught the monster! They got him last night!”

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. The universe pulls back.

Iwan smiles, thrilled. He talks, but you don’t hear at first. There’s a ringing in your ears.

“They caught the monster.”

The phrase cuts you in two.

For a moment, you see only him. Remmick. Cold hands. Shaking voice. Eyes full of guilt. His pleading whispers.

And now... Caught.

Maybe tied up. Maybe burned. Maybe — God, no — maybe dismembered in a basement by hands that don’t know the difference between what’s dangerous and what’s merely… different.

You can’t breathe.

“Iwan…” you manage to say. “Who? Who did they catch?”

“Oh, right!” he laughs, not noticing anything. “No, wait — it wasn’t a real monster. I mean, not one of those night creatures. It was some guy. A drunkard. You know, the one we’d sometimes see passed out outside the pub down the street?”

You don’t understand. You’re still holding your breath.

“Turns out it wasn’t a mauling, no. They discovered the victim started a fight with him on the bridge. Apparently, he was out of his mind. The drunk guy smashed a bottle over his head and stabbed it into his neck.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“He fell off the bridge, they say. Hit the bottom. Broken neck. Then the current…you know. They found him later. But the bottle shattered his throat. They only figured that out afterward.”

Iwan sighs like he’s relieved, like he couldn’t wait to talk to someone about it.

“A cyclist saw the scuffle and called it in late. It’s all written down. The papers are saying it. They blew the story up at the bar last night, as usual.”

Iwan shrugs, flipping through the newspaper in front of you.

You stay completely still. Not a single muscle moves.

Your heart starts again suddenly, like it had been held underwater for hours. You grip the counter. Inhale. Hold.

And then the truth slaps you in the face.

Remmick didn’t lie. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t snap a neck. He didn’t kill. He kept his word.

And now…now you have no idea how to find him.

It’s late afternoon when you return home, walking like someone who’s been moving all day without really knowing where they were going. You’re no longer hungry. Not sleepy. Just tired—A kind of tiredness no pillow can fix.

You open the door. The apartment is just as you left it. Silent. Tidy. Empty.

You take off your jacket and let it fall over a chair. Then you hold a mug in your hands out of habit, but don’t fill it. You step out onto the porch.

Outside, the sky is a dirty orange fading slowly into blue. The approaching evening air is cool. Damp. The fig tree’s branches barely move, but they seem to be watching you.

You sit on the wooden step, facing the small garden you’d tried to keep in order—and that Remmick had offered to tend to, even though he couldn’t tell a weed from an herb.

Still, it’s thanks to him the garden is still green. Last summer, he was always outside watering with the hose. You remember how you used to watch him silently from the porch chair, and how he once sprayed you completely with water just because you’d pointed out a spot he’d missed.

You rest your elbows on your knees and let yourself slump forward, like your head is too heavy and pulling you toward the ground.

Where could I look for him?

Under bridges, maybe. In abandoned depots. In the crypts of that ruined church—the one where he once told you the silence was so complete it hurt his ears. Maybe in a library. Or maybe…

The thought ends there. You have no idea where to begin. You bury your face in your arms and sigh—loudly.

Then something moves.

A soft thump.

You lift your head suddenly and turn toward the sound.

Your cat.

It’s jumped down from the window ledge and now walks casually down the stone path, heading toward the old garden shed. You haven’t opened it in months. It had basically become Remmick’s space. He made you buy all kinds of tools for the garden and had stored them in there.

The cat stops right in front of it. Rubs against the bottom of the door. Purring.

You freeze.

Then you notice something. The lock. It’s closed.

Not slightly ajar. Not gently pushed shut. Locked.

Just like that rainy night.

Your blood freezes. Your legs tremble beneath you, but you stand up anyway.

You cross the garden in a few steps, ignoring anything in your way, and approach the door. The cat watches you, meows, then steps aside—as if making space.

You raise your hand. Heart in your throat.

Turn the handle. Pull hard.

The door creaks open with difficulty. The warm light of sunset pours into the dark shed—and you see him.

Curled up near the door, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s pale. Paler than usual. He looks like a ghost. The light hits him full on and he hisses—a low, sharp sound, like a wounded cat.

He recoils instantly, dragging himself back into the darkness. The skin on his arms smokes where the light touched him. It doesn’t burn. But it marks. Small cracks, like dried leaves.

You freeze. Just for a moment.

Then, without hesitation, you step inside and shut the door behind you. The light disappears.

You watch Remmick’s red eyes flicker in the dark as he blinks. But you’re no longer afraid. You hear him breathing heavily, and then he speaks.

“Please. Please, just let me stay, will ya? I only want to be close. Even if it's just....even just to watch you from afar.”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s exhausted. Worn down. Like someone who’s cried all night and all day and has nothing left.

You stay standing by the door.

He keeps talking, as if your silence might become another sentence.

“I didn’t want to go, but you were all shook up. I didn’t know what you’d do. I just—”

A broken breath.

“Just wanted to see if you were alright. If you could get a bit of sleep.”

You bring a hand to your mouth. You can’t speak. The relief hits so hard it bursts inside you like pain.

He was here. In your garden. Two meters away. Slowly dying in silence, like an abandoned dog waiting for autumn.

And you didn’t see him.

You sit down on the ground, back against the shed wall, knees pulled to your chest. The first tears fall without a sound. Just warmth. Silent streaks sliding down your cheeks. Then—a sob escapes your lips, dragging everything with it. Every ounce of pain. Every thread of guilt.

Remmick, probably misreading your tears, speaks again. Whispers.

“Let me stay. I won’t come out. I won’t say a word. I won’t go near the house again. Just let me be close to ya. That's all.”

You close your eyes and finally, strength returns to your voice, powered by pure relief.

“I’m sorry…”

Remmick’s red eyes go wide. He listens, not even breathing.

“I’m really sorry, Remmick. I’m an idiot. No, worse… I’m a selfish bitch.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. Breathe deep, trying to make room in your chest.

“I should have believed you. I should have. I was standing there with all the proof in front of me, and I looked at you like—” You stops, your throat tight. “Like you were something to fear. When you’ve only ever been… good. Kind.”

You hear him shift—barely. A soft, scraping movement.

“I treated you like you were guilty. You were right here and I didn’t know. So close. So alone.”

A sob cuts your breath. You can’t speak anymore. Your throat tightens more.

The voice that answers isn’t the same cracked one from before. It’s fuller. More alive.

“You’re not an idiot.”

Still faint, yes, but there’s something pulsing in it now. As if your tears had started to heal him.

“Don’t be sayin' that,” he repeats. “You’re not. You’re not.”

You see him now. His body barely emerges from the darkest corner. His eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with something not quite tears, but close. Hair a mess. Hands shaking. He looks at you, but doesn’t take that final step. He waits.

Like he always does.

So it’s you who makes the move. Small, but clear.

You reach out a hand toward him and Remmick moves instantly.

In a moment—just one—he’s there.

His arms wrap around you, anchoring to your back and pulling you against him. Your body slides into his, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces. He leans into your neck and stays there, breathing in your scent. Yesterday, you would’ve been afraid. You would’ve pushed him away. Today, you just feel stupid.

You let him hold you. Give in to the contact. Close your eyes.

The sigh he lets out is the sound of someone who’s been held underwater for days and is finally breathing again.

He touches you with almost childlike devotion. Fingers gently combing through your hair, across your nape, down your spine.

“I thought I’d never get to hold ya like this again.”

His warm breath brushes your neck, and you feel him nuzzle there. You hold him tighter. Afraid he might change his mind and pull away for having been hurt. Your chin rests on his shoulder and you smile. The scent of his skin—that faint, cool note of night and wax—fills your lungs.

He rocks you slightly. As if to soothe you. But also, himself. As if just touching you brings him back to the world. His world.

“I won’t scare ya again, sweetheart. I promise.”

Your eyes soften. You sit up a little straighter, pressing your hands to his shoulders. At first, he resists. He doesn’t want to let you go. But then, sensing you’re not pulling away, just grounding him—he relaxes. You take his face in your hands, fingertips tracing small, delicate caresses and you guide his gaze to meet yours.

“I know, Remmick.” And you say nothing more.

You stay in the shed for hours still, giving the sun time to vanish from the horizon, letting night fall around you once again.

This time peaceful. Together.

When the sky turns a deep blue and the sun is finally low enough not to hurt his skin anymore, you decide it’s time to bring him back inside.

Gently, you disentangle yourself from his embrace and stand up. He looks at you, still a little lost in the tangle of emotions.

You hold out your hand without speaking. He looks at it as if it were a sacred offer, then slowly takes it with both his hands and lets himself be helped up. He walks beside you in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look for words. He simply trusts.

The house is warm. When you enter, the cat watches you from the armchair with the air of someone who has been on guard, and accepts Remmick’s return without any hostile gesture, as if it understood. You close the door behind you and guide him down the hallway to the bathroom.

You turn on the light and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Remmick stays still at the threshold, as if unsure whether he can really cross it.

“Come here,” you say, motioning with your hand, and he obeys.

He moves slowly, like something fragile, as if afraid to break something just by walking. He passes by you and stops in front of the tub, silently. You bend down, turn on the warm water, and let it run until you find the right temperature. He raises his hands over his shirt but then stops. His eyes search for yours. There is no shame, not really. There is only… hesitation. As if he’s afraid of making a mistake again.

You say nothing. You move closer, take the edges of his shirt, and lift it over his head, pulling it off. Then the pants, slowly, without hurry. As if you were undoing, piece by piece, the tension that had stuck to him.

He stays naked there, full and clear like wax. His skin is dusty, knees scratched, hair stuck to the nape of his forehead. Yet he seems beautiful to you. Because he has come back. Because he is here.

You help him into the tub. The water wraps around his legs, wets his pubic area, belly, chest. He takes a deep breath—not necessary, but freeing. He sits and stretches out his legs. His back relaxes for the first time. His chin lowers to his chest and he stays like that, silently.

You kneel beside him. Take a bowl from the cabinet and pour warm water over his hair. He closes his eyes without protest, and you repeat the gesture two, three, four times until his hair clings to his forehead like black silk threads.

Then you open the shampoo, pour some liquid into your hands, and begin massaging it gently onto his head. Your fingers move carefully: roots, nape, temples. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his breath deepen. He lets go. You understand this from how he slightly tilts his head, from how he trusts your hands like an animal cared for after days of rain.

“Have you ever let someone wash you?” you ask softly, wanting to fill the silence.

He makes a guttural sound, a mix between a moan and a stifled smile.

“Never. Never like this…”

“You could get used to it, huh?” you say with a little smile, to break the emotion.

“If you’re offerin', I’m not sayin' no, that's for sure.”

You laugh softly, and he smiles without opening his eyes.

You pour more water until all the foam disappears. Then you take a soft towel and wipe his face, ears, and the back of his neck. His eyes now look for yours, no longer uncertain. Only full. Of unspoken things. Of silent gratitude. Of a calm you’d seen slip away.

You take the liquid soap and pour it onto the soft glove. Then you start washing his shoulders. The touch is slow, respectful. There is no desire, but something more silent and deep. You wash him like you would wash a beloved body that has suffered too much. Without hurry. Without speaking.

The shoulder blades, the arms, the hands.

Then you slide down the ribs, following the shape of his lean back, the hollow side, the flat belly.

His breath changes, becomes longer, more held. At first, you don’t pay much attention.

“You’re treatin' me like a precious ornament, love,” he says at some point, his voice suddenly tense.

“You are. A bit dusty, though.”

“Still sittin' on a shelf in your mental livin'' room, I am.”

“Sometimes above the fridge, along with glasses I don’t use.”

He laughs. It’s a low, soft sound, echoing lightly against the tiles. It seems like the first real laugh in days.

The sponge reaches his lower belly but you turn and move to his thighs, pressing there. His pelvis shifts a few centimeters but you feel it. You feel the erection pressing firmly against the inside of your wrist.

It makes you smile. Always so sensitive to your touch, even after you almost kicked him out of the house.

Your fingers nestle among the wet hairs at the base of his penis like a tease, and this pulls a new sigh of pleasure from him.

It’s what you want to hear for the rest of your life. Him enjoying your attention.

His hand closes on your wrist and you stop, uncertain.

When you lift your gaze, his gray eyes are fixed on your face. For a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. That you misunderstood and he didn’t want all this.

“I can stop if you—”

He shakes his head and takes your hand out of the water to give a tender kiss on the inside of your wrist.

“Ah, fuck, darlin', no. It’s…,” his voice vibrates in a sound like your cat’s purring, “It’s grand but… let me get out of here first…”

You sigh in relief and continue washing him.

Piece by piece, while the water turns lukewarm, then cool. Only then do you help him stand up.

You take the towel from the small hook and wrap it around his torso. He stays still, arms open to be wrapped. He lets you dry his hands, fingers, even the backs of his knees. When you finish, kneeling, you lift your chin and look him in the face, smiling slightly.

His cock is still erect, pressing against the base of his abs with a slight spasm as if to catch your attention.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He just nods, not trusting his own voice.

You stand up and take his hand. You walk down the corridor and when you catch sight of your cat from the corner of your eye, you decide to close the door behind you once you reach the bedroom. You didn’t want any conflicts tonight, of any kind.

Tonight was for him.

“Sit down.”

He does it, without thinking twice. He sits on the mattress but as he does, his hands rise and rest on your hips, making you collapse into his lap.

You blink confusedly but he looks at you intensely.

His fingers move away from your hips and go up to your face, tenderly brushing your cheeks.

The way he looks at you, the way he touches you…

You had been so blind.

His lips press on yours. The kiss is neither demanding nor hurried. There is gratitude in it, a feeling of infinite ease and safety. His thumb traces circles on your cheek, making you part your lips for him and pulling you closer.

His beard scratches your face but it’s fine; it was a pleasant pain to bear. Surely less debilitating than what he had been through.

He moves his hips just enough to press his erect cock against your inner thigh, covered by leggings, and moans into your mouth.

You push him back by the shoulders, making his back hit the mattress and the soft fabric of the sheets. You leave his lips and slide down his body, showering him with kisses and touches, enjoying the small needy sounds he didn’t intend to hold back.

When you reach his cock and your fingers carefully circle it, feeling the warmth and weight against your palm, Remmick groans hoarsely.

“Fuck, darlin'. You don’t have to do this…” he says cautiously.

“I know.” Your eyes gleam mischievously and you squeeze just a little tighter. “But I want to.”

Remmick swallows and looks down at you, one arm placed behind his head so as not to miss a second.

“My boy is always so good. So attentive. He would never disobey me.”

You whisper, deliberately sliding your hand along his shaft, pressing your fingertip against the prominent vein running along the underside.

The vampire’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing your hand and pressing into your clenched fist, clearly affected by your words.

“I think you deserve a reward for being so good. Don’t you think?”

Remmick nods and a thin trail of saliva drips from his mouth, sliding down his chin.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

A shiver runs down your spine realizing the power you have over this creature, and slowly you lower your mouth where he needs it most.

You start by kissing the tip of his cock, spreading the viscosity of his pre-cum over your red lips.

That alone is enough to break him. His hands clutch the sheets because he doesn’t trust putting them on you, and he whispers your name like a prayer but doesn’t move his hips. He controls himself, like the good boy he is.

You open your mouth and take him slowly, getting used to his size without hurry. The warmth floods you and he moans a sound not very manly but that makes you rub your legs to ease that throbbing pain of restrained desire.

“Yer mouth...is so hot…”

His voice fades into a new moan that can only be filled with despair as you hollow your cheeks and start sucking him, tongue pressed at the base as you go down and circling the tip as you go up.

“Ma’am… hold on… hold on a sec…”

You hum satisfied and feel him writhe beneath you, as if wanting to move away but not wanting to at the same time.

You take more and more, trying to adapt and take him fully, and when you hit the back of your throat you feel his legs tremble strongly under your hands.

“Sugar, please…” he whines pathetically, eyes glowing red again against his will. “I’m close… I'm fuckin' close—”

Remmick brings a hand to his mouth to stifle the deep sound and bites, breaking skin and flesh.

The taste of him starts to fill your mouth in torrents and you have to close your throat to keep the liquid from flowing down. You climb back onto him and, unbothered by the blood and drool that was running down his cheeks, you took his chin in your fingers and opened his mouth. The seed slips from your mouth to his in a wet, messy sound. The white liquid slid over his sharp teeth and tongue and he swallowed it all before he rose and took your lips with his again.

He sucks your tongue and plunders your mouth, searching for more of his sperm and holds your head still so he has plenty of time to do so. You taste his blood but for some reason it doesn’t disgust you. Nothing about him does.

“You’ll be the death of me, so ya will.” He whispers against your cheeks when he pulls away a little.

“You’re already dead.” You laugh as he slides your shirt and bra off with masterly skill.

“Then you’d finish me a second time.”

His hands rest on your waist, helping you stand between his spread legs and you slide the rest of your clothes down yours. You toss everything in the corner of the room. You’d have to think about it the next morning.

His cock is still hard, as if it hadn’t just exploded in your mouth and you shake your head. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. You think he’s going to grab you, throw you under him, line up and enter you in one move given how agitated he is. But no.

He looks up at you, hands pressed to the mattress for support and gasps a couple of times. It looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

You frown.

“Remmick-”

“Iloveya.”

He says it quickly, like it’s a curse. As if he wasn’t allowed to say it but he wanted to anyway.

Your lips part slightly. The heart in your chest jumps and you think that if your mouth had been slightly wider, it would have fallen into his lap.

Sarcasm, as always, is your best defense.

“Are you saying that because I just made you come or…?”

“I fucking love ya.” He almost growls at him and rests his forehead against your knees. “It’s alright if ya…if ya don’t feel the same. I've love enough in me for the both of us. I can-”

Your hand presses to his head and before he can say anything else, you muffle his words with your mouth, leaning into him and wrapping your legs around his hips. You taste the saltiness of tears in your kiss and you’re not sure if they’re yours or his. But you don’t care.

“My poor pretty boy. Of course I love you.”

Remmick shivers as the tip of his cock breaks the confines of your entrance, collecting all your wetness and sliding into your cavern.

“You’re soaking wet, love…” he moans as your arms wrap around his neck to keep both of you in a comfortable position. “I’ve missed ya so much…”

His hands settle on your butt and he lifts you up, letting his length leave you before bringing you back down and impaling you again. His drool runs down your collarbone, pooling where you’re joined and you shiver at the sensation.

When your walls have softened enough for him, you feel him push a faster pace and his hips stutter into yours in pursuit of pleasure. He’s panting against you and you want to watch him. You want to watch what you do to him.

Your fingers close in his hair and you pull him back enough to look into his eyes. The image of the bloodthirsty creature is before your eyes, its fangs wet with his blood and his eyes fiery red, but as much as you want to, he doesn’t scare you. Not anymore.

“There he is, my good boy. You fuck me so good.” you tried to keep your voice steady but it still shook.

Your thumb nestles in his mouth, presses against his tongue, grazing his fangs but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t dare.

“Who’s my good boy, Remmick?”

“I…fuck, it’s me, baby. I’m yer good boy.”

His eyes roll back in his head as you clench your walls around him and his lips close around your thumb, muffled by his whimpers. You see the muscles in his arms tense as he continues to lift you up and down on his cock, and it makes your mouth water.

You feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster, and you reach down to stroke your clit in tandem with his thrusts. It overwhelms you almost immediately, and your hand tightens convulsively on his shoulder as you come around his thick cock, screaming his name.

This seems to push him over the edge, and he pulls you down hard as he buries himself in you all the way to your balls. His seed fills you up and you’re pressed against his chest as he makes shallow, thrust thrusts to pump him deep into you, every last drop.

When his breathing calms but he doesn’t let go of you, you caress the back of his head with little scratches.

“Is everything okay?”

“Forgive me…”

You smile again and kiss the top of his head.

“No more apologizing. But I’m warning you…”

He pulls back at the stiff tone of your voice. His puppy eyes all wide and waiting at you, dreading your next words.

You grin. “Next time you break something I’ll spray you with garlic water.”

#remmick #sinners #ryan coogler #jack o'connell #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick fanfic #remmick x you #sinners 2025 #vampire #pathetic remmick #pet remmick

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beastyeastfreak · 26 days ago

Note

Read your Beast Cookies x Human Sized Reader! Can we get a part 2 of that with the Beasts navigating life with their beloved? Such as going to work with them? Learning about new foods and such?

Absolutely!!! I think at some point the beasts figure out how to turn human/humanoid so the first half will be cookie sized and second half will be human sized

Cw and tags: lighthearted, romantic, fluff

Written pre silent salt update

Mystic flour

🌾 - At first, shes reluctant to ask for help. She navigates and learns silently, usually out of sight. After some adjustments she’ll ask you for help. Not directly, she’ll look at a place she wants to be and stare expectantly at you to hold your palm out for her. She can re-enter the game at any point, and she definitely will if you don’t treat her like a fellow human and like a small cookie. Its testing to say the least, you have to be completely dead faced when shes backhandedly threatening another cookies life or hold back “awww”. She is this powerful figure in the cookie world, able to end kingdoms if she sees fit. But here she was, sitting in the palm of your hand at chest height.

🌾 - After she gets used to being around giants, she decides to attend family gatherings and occasionally work with you. Of course in hiding, she’d rather not be treated like a toy. You end up sewing in a comfortable spot in your bag where she can sit and not be crushed. Why she wants to come with you is beyond you until you have a bad experience at work. On your lunch break she comes out and speaks to you. Reminding you it doesn’t matter and helps you calm down. This is done out of care but hopefully it will also be further convincing for you to join her in the cookie world when the time comes.

🌾 - She loves getting gifts from you, if you give her something she always takes it with her back into the game unless its to help her in the real world. Letting her touch you or following what she asks is another way to earn her affection. She’ll often sit with you while you’re at your desk, if she sees you stressed she’ll have you lay your head down and meditate with her for some time. She tries to get you to come with her, suggestions to join her in the cookie world. You deny, she doesn’t mind, you will come around, she’ll drag you in if you have to.

🌾 - Of course soon she figures out how to make herself human. She doesn’t come to work with you one day, you come home and set your things down, as you do she comes behind you and places a hand on your shoulder. You freeze, she speaks. “I understand why you wont become a cookie with me, this form is an improvement.” She says and you turn around and hug her much to her surprise.

🌾 - Now in this form, she has to get used to a body rather than surroundings. You’ll catch her not using her thumbs and grasping things like she would in cookie form, all fingers stiffky wrap around something. She’s hesitant at the thought of water and the food you eat but slowly gets used to it. she insists on going in person where you go (obviously not to work anymore). She speaks for you at restaurants, she follow you in to the store like a ghost and stare threateningly at anyone who looks at you weird. She comes with you into family parties if they’re tame enough, they all wonder why she already knows their names.

🌾 - Not wearing her usual icing felt odd, you explain its far too formal for this day and age. After a while she sort of develops a more modern style still matching her aesthetic. Thats one of the many lifestyle changes she goes through, she of course cant eat jellys for sustenance so she’ll try food off your plate often times or put something she’s interested in in the shopping cart.

🌾 - She is extremely scary, you could be laying in bed cuddling with her at night one minute and the next she’s no where to be found. You get up and see two bright slit eyes and a dark figure in the hall nearly scaring your dinner out of you. She’s calm every time, by the end of the first month of her being human you’re immune to scary things in the dark. Mostly because she scares you unintentionally but also she scares everything else off intentionally.

Burning spice

🏜️ - Burning Spice doesn’t ask this being thats a hundred times larger than him for permission. He just does what he wants. Unfortunately, the cookie world is more fragile than your world due to it being all baked goods. No matter! He’ll find a way to break everything anyway. Where Mystic Flour will have you hold her, he just climbs onto you. It leaves tiny little holes in your clothing you have to sew up.

🏜️ - His destruction is humorous in your eyes, he talks a lot of crap for someone you almost step on once a week. The both of you poke a lot of fun at eachother, he calls you weak you call him small and cute, its all out of love though. He threatens to kill anyone who gives you an issue, you just lean your head on the table and nod along. He can tell you find his threats amusing but just you wait.

🏜️ - He likes to blare loud music, anything with hard bass, guitar and drums he loves. He likes animal planet or nature documentaries, i know that sounds crazy bear with me(pun intended). As herald of change he watched countless civilizations rise and fall, animals are constantly fighting to stay alive and relevant. He’s amused seeing beings with such short life spans documented being born and dying, just like those kingdoms on a much smaller scale.

🏜️ - his favorite form of affection is touch. He’s the equivalent of your cat laying on you and burning you up, its amazing how much heat a little cookie can have. Going to sleep with a snoring beast laying in your hair or on your chest is surprisingly comfortable. He likes to accompany you places when you’re not expecting it. “How are you not soggy?” You hear outside the shower curtain one time. “He should not have spoken to you like that…” you hear from your bag as you exit a conversation with a coworker. It ends up becoming rather helpful, pep talks are the best from him. He seems to think customers are enemies to be slain the way you describe them.

🏜️ - Finally at some point he figures out how to become human. You had just gotten home and complained to him, still in cookie form, how much you hated your job and he told you he’d make sure you were respected and protected as his partner should be. You thanked him but it was clear you were just playing along. You went to take a shower and change and when you exited he was standing there, a very imposing human bearing an axe longer than your table, longer than you are tall. He laughed heartily, “Is a change of form convincing enough? Will you believe me now when i say i will bring destruction upon those who harm you?”

🏜️ - It took some time but you convince him to not murder people and destroy public property in your world. He’s fond of rage rooms which is your way of appeasing him. He’d really like boxing and wrestling if you could figure out how to get him an id or explain his gem and antennae, if not he’s fine just watching it with you. If you do get him into some matches, he is a MENACE. He’s easily winning matches, taking punches like a brick wall and dishing them out like a professional. Of course you may have to pull him out before they start questioning his identity. You take him to a lot of concerts too, he enters a mosh pit no one comes out alive unfortunately. He’ll also put you up on his shoulders so you can see and no one bumps into you.

🏜️ - You don’t need to be assertive, he’s doing that for you. Someone got your order wrong? He’s opening up the car door and walking inside to get it fixed, no questions asked. His warmth thankfully carried over to his new form, he definitely lays flat on his back taking up the whole bed so you have to crawl on top of him to cuddle. You dont even need blankets, he’s a massive heat pad. He’s more of a cuddle bug than you’d think.

Eternal Sugar

🌷 - She doesn’t really need help getting around, you often find her hovering around the ceiling on a soft blue cloud, or lazing on the leaf of a blooming houseplant, or on your bed. If you have a pet, she has them obedient to her within days. If they only knew sit before, suddenly they could fetch items or move things for her. She’s the worst influence if you’re a procrastinator, she wants you to be happy and so why should you worry about that little issue? Just relax, turn on the movie you both love! She loves to just lounge around with you, seeing you happy and relaxed is her biggest goal and she’ll do anything to achieve it. Anything.

🌷 - From the second you walk into the house she’s softly fluttering to you with a yawn. She’ll sit on your shoulder and have you talk about your day. “Oh i have to do this-“ no you dont, you’re tired! You need to lay down, she’ll help you relax. With her, you lose track of time as if it didn’t exist to begin with. She’s easy to talk to, she just wants you happy and you want her happy, win win when you’re both lazing around rewatching a show deep into the night.

🌷 - She wont ask anything of you, but if you give her things its appreciated. You may try to accommodate by adding house plants when you notice a flower growing marvelously all of the sudden when shes around, soon you have a garden. You obviously can’t keep actual cakes and desserts out like decorations, but candles and anything to make the house smell sweet she’d like. If you take her anywhere, she’s the easiest to have unhidden. From a glance she looks like a bird, you can probably just keep her in your pocket or on your shoulder.

🌷 - She’s napping in the crook of your neck one spring day, you’re both laid on the couch. You’re fast asleep when you feel like theres a weight on you. You stirr but then hear the sound of her yawning, but it sounded loud. You open your eyes to see you’re being laid on by Eternal Sugar still, but shes now a human still with large wings and pink skin. She opens her eyes as if sensing your eyes on hers. “Is something wrong?~” she says before kissing your flushed cheeks with a small wing twitch.

🌷 - Unfortunately she’s impossible to bring anywhere unless you figure out how to hide her wings. She doesn’t mind not leaving the house, just gives her a reason to keep you lazy and in her arms. When its dark, she can definitely go out if you want to walk but rarely will she choose to. She’d much prefer to lay in bed with you eating sweet snacks, in fact when you have to go to work thats exactly where you’ll find her when you’re home if she’s not in the game.

🌷 - You smell so sweet from your proximity to her. Sweet in a way that a carnivorous plant is. You are her little tempting treat, witches forbid anyone else become tempted to take a bite or harm you. She doesn’t want to learn transformation from Shadow Milk but she will if she finds her future garden goer is being bothered. Your coworkers and friends are probably sick of hearing how much you talk about her when they haven’t even seen her. It’s mutual though, the beasts have to endure her gushing about you as well.

🌷 - She’ll always wrap you in your wings when you get anxious or sad, letting you hold onto her while she guides you somewhere better. She makes sure you know theres always the option to live the rest of your life in the garden, but if you decline thats ok. Because slowly she had wrapped you around her finger. From the first time you listened to her to take a break to the millionth time you had watched something with her instead of going to visit a friend. You didn’t need her garden, she had turned your home into one.

Shadow Milk

🃏 - Can you imagine the reaction on his minions faces when he returns with one big lipstick mark on his face? No, but gradually their jaws drop less and less when he comes back with that same mark nearly every day. He swears he’ll bring you back one day but Black sapphire doubts it and doesnt show it, Candy Apple hopes he doesnt.

🃏 - He doesn’t need much help getting around, he floats and summons small things. He will request things from you like him sized furniture or maybe a stage. Like Burning spice he kind of just accompanies you wherever. He likes to put you in situations that make you have to lie. One month you have a pet cockatiel then the next a cockatoo. Little changes to play with your friends minds, yet the evidence was right there. He would change his form to play along with these lies.

🃏 - He hates tvs at first, he’s appalled at the idea that you can just watch something that isn’t live performance. But after a couple episodes he slowly eases in, if you mention his affinity for it while he’s nestled under the covers on your chest, he’ll get mad, deny it and float off to watch it in secret. His favorite thing to watch are recordings of theater shows and while you’re not home he watches cartoons. (argue with the wall i know he does) He asks you to go watch some new show at least twice a month. He also preforms for you occasionally, arts and crafts is his favorite way to spend time with you.

🃏 - Well, the time comes and he hones the ability to One day he promises that soon he’ll be able to preform for you without you needing to be so close to his little stage. On a big stage, with other actors. And he’d dip you down and kiss you romantic movie style You clearly didn’t take it seriously but still went along with it because you liked the idea, he just grinned and asked you to go get something for him. When you return he’s gone, great… hide and seek. You look around for a moment but out of no where your hand is brought over your head and you’re spun without warning. After a moment you find yourself exactly as Shadow Milk said he’d do, and there he was in human form doing just that.

🃏 - From then on he’s sort of just this sudden boyfriend you have to introduce to everyone. He had poor social skills in the cookie world, he has abysmal social skills in the real world. He’s interesting though. He brings his minions out (in human form of course) if you ask or if he needs help with something. His first intention was to bring you into the cookie world but now that he’s entered a world where misinformation is spread left and right he’s decided he’d add your world to the roster of places to conquer.

🃏 - Black Sapphire absolutely starts a podcast or a radio show from your house, Candy apple cookie becomes a horrible influence on local children. Shadow Milk is rather mysterious about his free time. You know he gets into a lot of acting roles(after changing into something less blue) but for some reason it seems like hes always up to no good. Had you just released a potential monster onto society? Yes, but for now he seemed relatively harmless so maybe he wasn’t too much of a concern. unless he decides to run as a politician

#shadow milk cookie x reader #crk #crk x reader #x reader #crk x you #mystic flour cookie x reader #eternal sugar cookie x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #beast cookies

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luvbinnies · 4 months ago

Text

i made a promise, to distance myself

A boy who kept his feelings locked away and someone who wore their heart on their sleeve. When he walked away, it was without warning, without reason. And they refused to wait for an explanation. Now few months later, forced to work together on a project neither can escape, old wounds resurface. Silence turns into stolen glances, resentments bleeds into something dangerously familiar, and the past refuses to stay buried.

Genre: fluff, angst, exs to lovers, el oh el.

warnings: swearing, isaac newton mentioned, could be sad ig (?), i can't think of anything else

a/n: im back from the dead, recently fell under a moving car and got dumped el oh el, some parts in here are inspo by like my actual life, i have a list of all the similarities if anyone is curiosu at the end of the story. basically wake up from a dream where me and my ex got back together and wrote this.

wc: 9.6k (longest fic ever el oh el)

Jumping off a flight of stairs was probably not the best idea, but it was the only thing you could think of at the moment.

Reluctantly moving down the stairs and following the loud clunk sounds of your stupid bright neon green water bottle. Books and papers of drawings and blueprints that won't fit into your messenger bag without getting damaged. Maybe you should’ve listened to when people said getting a regular backpack was much more convenient than the bag you had now, but it was much more fashionable.

Landing at the bottom of the staircase, take a moment to breathe and prepare yourself for having to go back up five flights of stairs to get to class. Because even though the school is one of the prestigious in the country, they refuse to have any sort of elevators to ruin their “dark academic” aesthetic of the building.

Eyes traveling on the old cobbled stoned flooring, trying to locate a neo-coded water bottle, your mother insisted on getting since she read somewhere green is this year's lucky colour. Probably found in some ridiculous article, really got to get her off social media.

Bright neon green slipped through your peripheral vision, turning to face the still rolling bottle and walking towards it before it makes you late for your next class. It stops in front of a pair of solid black shoes, one that looks all too familiar. The figure stops at the feeling of the ratchet bottle that wants to ruin your day even more than it already has.

A recognizable pale hand, with a silver ring on the index, hesitantly drops down to pick up the bottle that led you down a path to the literal pits of hell for you. Eyes not dare looking up from the ground, taking your somewhat free hand and extending out your pinky to the now stranger you have a bitter taste in your mouth everytime you come near. Once the feeling of your pinky is weighted down by the feeling of the water bottle’s hook, you take off up the stairs with energy that you didn’t think you had anymore left of, as it’s your third time climbing these stairs in the past ten minutes.

Not a care in the world if a stranger walks by and deem you as a rude bastard who can’t even say thank you, because you can;t even say a word to the “nice stranger” who handed you your water bottle. All you can do around him now is just run and avoid. That’s what you continue to do until you reach your class, probably looking a little weird as you were also cursing at your bottle and gravity, mainly isaac newton, he’s usually the bane of all your problems lately, besides the man you used to call yours.

—

His friends would sometimes joke to him that the world is too fast for him at times, usually when he doesn’t get a joke right away or for him zoning out, especially as it has been worse in these past few months.

But that happened so fast, he has no idea what to do, or how to react but just to stare at your figure rushing up the stairs. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens as you fade away up the many flights of stairs. Acting like he is some contagious virus, even afraid to touch him, much less look at him.

He would remember when their friend group was still intact and when they would all hang out, how sometimes the gang would get too overwhelming, even from the other side of the room you would catch his eye and always give him a comforting smile. And the simple eye contact with one another, while the world moves along around them.

But he had lost that with you and it’s all his fault.

—

Taking a little break from the assignment in front of you to angrily tap on your phone so the ads on your music app stop, knowing you aren’t really actually doing anything to get rid of them unless you become one of the apps victims and pay for music. But your stubbornness and being broke, so aggressively hitting your phone is your next best solution.

The little silence after the ad is finally done and the next song is about to start, you can hear a mechanical pencil roll off of a desk. A quiet clatter could barely be noticed in the slight hum of the library. You didn’t hear it at first, the angry high you had because of the ad made you lock out of concentrating from your work— until you noticed the hand reaching for it making you pause.

Long pale fingers. A silver ring on the index.

You know those hands, it's your second time seeing them in… you weren’t too sure the last time you saw those hands when they were wrapped around your water bottle. All you knew was that you were seeing those hands much sooner than you needed to.

Those hands, you remember the weight of those hands in yours, the way they used to hold your face and caress your cheek, the way they tug at your sleeves on your sweater absentmindedly.

And you recognize the pencil.

It’s yours.

Not exactly, but you did buy that pencil.

Something in you starts feeling nauseous, or light-headed, you couldn’t really figure out in the moment because without thinking, you reach out and yank that pencil right out of his grip.

Maybe you shouldn’t have done that, because now that gross boy opened his mouth, but you didn’t care.

Sunghoon blinks. “Hey did you just—”

Whenever you were bored in class you would always do fun pencil tricks and even taught him how to do some with this said pencil in your hands.

Spinning the pencil around, inspecting it with feigned interest, not caring about the boy next to you with his mouth open like a fish staring at you. “Huh. I forgot how nice this pencil was.”

Now his mouth is close as he clenches his jaw, his stare sharpening. “You can’t be serious.”

Finally turning your head to look at him, trying to maintain the emotions on your face. Instead of saying something you might end up regretting, in the fear of sounding cringe, you just shrug.

“Give it back.”

“Why?” Resting your chin on your hand. “It’s mine.”

He exhales sharply, the kind of exasperated breath he used to let out when you teased for taking things too seriously. Except now there’s a little bit of an edge to everything.

“You gave it to me.”

You tilt your head “Did I?”

You weren’t sure if he could clench his jaw any harder, but somehow he does. “Yeah. You did.”

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You can’t say you remember everything that was said the night of the break up, but you remember the way you felt, the way he left without explanation— like he couldn’t bear to stay with you any second longer. As if he couldn’t stand to hold on to something that was already slipping away.

He didn’t even let you have a say, you didn’t get the chance to do anything, not even fight for what was yours then.

So now you hold on to that damn pencil.

“Well,” you say, voice light, “technically, it was mine first.”

Sunghoon lets out a humorless laugh, one you don’t recognize in this fever dream daze of nostalgia. Leaning against the table, he’s close now, closer than you could've prepared for. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself at the lack of distance, at the way he still smells the same— like something clean and sharp, a little cologne you had bought him about a year ago for his birthday.

His voice drops an octave. “You’re seriously pulling this shit?”

Shrugging again, simply just pulling a stare you hope doesn’t reveal how fast your heart is beating stupidly like it used to.

He watches you for a long second, his brown eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what type of game you were playing. But then, not arguing, instead of pushing back, he just exhales softly.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Keep it.”

And then, right before he turns away— so quiet you almost think you had imagined it—

“It suits you better anyways.”

You blink.

Before you could say anything, maybe asking what the fuck he meant by what he said, he’s already walking off. Leaving you with a mechanical pencil in your hands and this time you watching him as he walks away, with a taste of words you don’t quite understand.

—

Two year ago

Rain pitter patters against the windows, a dull hum in the background in the near-empty classroom. It’s late— too late for anyone to be here— you didn’t care, you were too stubborn. Chewing on your nail, brows furrowed in concentration as you glare at your notebook, completely oblivious to the fact that Sunghoon hasn’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

He should be focusing. He should be running through formulas in his head, thinking about the test tomorrow, or at the very least be pretending to be studying. Instead, he’s watching you— watching the way you puff out your cheeks when you stop understanding what you were just doing, the way you spin the pencil in your hand absentmindedly, the way you whisper to yourself while doing each exercise when you think no one’s listening.

You’re always like this– loud without meaning to be, pulling attention without even trying.

He should’ve known sooner. That you were dangerous in the kind of way that crept up on him, slipping past his defenses before he had the chance to stop it.

“Sunghoon.”

Your voice snaps him back to reality, he straightens, forcing his face into something neutral. “What?”

Pushing your notebook towards him, sighing dramatically. “Did you do this one yet? I don’t know if I did it correctly.”

He glances at your notebook, eyes widening a little, as to the most he could see on the page was a bunch of scribbles and some incoherent formulas and calculation. Having a hard time reading it , before shifting his chair closer. You don’t think twice about it when your shoulders brush. You never do.

But he does.

He always does.

“Is this your answer, at the corner?” he asks, taking your pencil without thinking, to circle the little number at the bottom of the page. Your fingers graze for a second, and he wonders if you feel the static the way he does. Probably not. You’d pull away if you did.

He attempted to go over your work, commenting on what you have written in a voice that’s much steadier than he feels. You nod along, resting your chin on your hand, eye flickering between his face and page.

“I hate Isaac Newton and that stupid apple.” you grumble.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet laugh shaking his head. “You just overthink everything.”

You groan. “I wish that apple killed that stupid white man.”

He watches as you bury your head in your arms on the table, tapping your forehead lightly with the end of the pencil before setting it back down. “Just stop overthinking and wishing death upon an already dead man.”

Lifting your head, you blink at him, lips parting like you want to argue, but for a brief moment, something passes between the two of you— something neither of you have a name for yet.

And then you roll your eyes, reaching for your notebook. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, idiot.”

Sunghoon watches as you turn your pages to start a new question, completely unaware of the way his fingers twitch against his knee, resisting the urge to brush a stray strand of hair from your face.

Yeah.

He’s in trouble.

—

A few months ago

The night air is cold, but not as cold as the space between you.

Your arms are crossed. His hands are shoved into his pockets.

A street light flickers overhead. A car passes in the distance.

Sunghoon exhales, steadying himself.

Then. before he can stop it— before he can think too hard about what he’s about to lose—

“I think we should break up.”

Silence.

The kind that swallows everything whole.

Your lips part, but no words come out.

The look in your eyes— confusion, disbelief, then something else, something that burns—

“What-Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Or maybe he does, but it’s not the right thing.

It’s never the right thing.

The air is heavy, thick with things neither of you are saying.

Then, finally— your voice, quieter this time.

“Okay.”

A single step back. Then another.

And then—

Nothing.

—

The classroom hums with chatter, students moving around and the teacher speaking about some project, but you were barely listening. Your attention is elsewhere— on your notebook, on the scratches of pen against paper, literally anything but him.

He was two rows ahead, resting his chin on his hand, half-focused on his laptop. Almost similar to you right now. Too similar.

You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself.

But then—

“For the project, you’ll be working in pairs.”

There is a ripple of movement through the room, students glancing around already choosing their partners.

“I’ve assigned them to you.”

Your stomach twists.

You sit a little straighter. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

The professor starts listing off names. One by one, students find their partner. You’re holding your breath, waiting for—

And then—

Your name.

And then, immediately after—

His.

You freeze.

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

Someone nudges your arm, murmuring something about how lucky you are since you get to work with the “hottest guy on campus”, but their voice is distant, muffled by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lift your gaze.

Sunghoon had turned in his seat.

For the first time in months, you’re looking at each other.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look surprised.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.

Not a text, not a call— nothing.

And the, at exactly 11:51 pm., an email lands in his inbox.

Subject: Project Task

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Attached is the project outline. I’ve divided the tasks. I’ll handle the structural analysis and concept sketches. You can do the mechanical components. Tell me when you are done.

Sent from my phone

That’s it. No greeting. No unnecessary words. Not even your name.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, clicking open the file. You’ve already set up everything— titles, labels, even deadlines. You’ve practically built a wall of professionalism between you, as if you were never anything but classmates.

And it pisses him off.

Fine. two can play this game.

He types a reply, short and to the point.

Subject: Re: Project Tasks

Got it.

He doesn’t hit send.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. His jaw clenches.

Then, in a moment of stubborn impulse, he types—

You can’t avoid me forever.

And hits send before he can take it back.

—

“You know, he’s right.”

You shoot a glare over at Sunoo. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, kicking his feet up on the bench. “You can’t ignore him forever.”

“I can, actually.” you sip your matcha pointedly. “It’s called email.”

He snorts. “You sound like a middle-aged professor.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll leave me alone then.”

Sunoo raises an eyebrow. “He literally told you, ‘You can’t avoid me forever.’”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and? I don’t care.”

The words are barely out of your mouth when Sunoo suddenly stiffens, eyes darting over your shoulder.

“Uh—”

You don’t even have to ask. You just know.

There’s a familiar shift to the air, an awareness pressing down on your skin.

And then, just to confirm it—

“Shit,” Sunoo mutters. “He’s down the hall.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hands shoot out, gripping his sleeve as you drag them down the corridor.

“Are you serious?!” he hiss between stumbling steps.

“Shut up, shut up , shut up—”

“Please can we stop running, I don’t think he would be chasing us down for sport.”

You don’t care. You don’t turn around because you know if you do, you’ll see Sunghoon standing there, staring after you, that unreadable look on his face.

And you are not giving him that satisfaction.

Not today.

—

Staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, the flashing cursor blinking back at you in defiance. You’ve been avoiding this email for days— every time you think about it your stomach churns, and you mind races with excuses.

You don’t want to deal with him. Not now. Not ever again.

The project, the meeting, the unavoidable tension. You had hoped, foolishly, that you could really just avoid Sunghoon completely— keep everything strictly professional, send email, handle the assignment without having to face him in person. But that plan was crushed the moment the email landed in your inbox, his name in bold.

“Let’s meet in person tomorrow to go over the project. I’ll bring the drafts.”

Of course, Sunghoon had to take the initiative. You had a suspicion he’d never let you hide behind your screen forever. He was stubborn, too, in a way that always seemed to get under your skin.

You arrived at the library, dragging your feet, already feeling the weight of the situation settle in your chest. The project was an assignment, but the real challenge was having to sit across from him, pretending that nothing had happened, pretending that the last year— no, the last months— hadn’t been a whirlwind of frustration and heartache.

But here you were, faced with reality. You walked into the library, hoping to avoid eye contact, but you couldn’t escape the familiar sight of him sitting at a table with all his papers neatly organized, a slight form on his face as he scanned the documents.

His eyes flicked up when he saw you enter, and for a second, your heart skipped a beat. But you force yourself to remain calm. He was just a classmate now, just another part of your academic routine. Nothing more.

You set your things down at the table across from him, pulling your laptop out with the practiced motions of someone who had done this a thousand times before. You weren;t going to make this more personal than it had to be. No small talk. No catching up. Just the project.

“Hey,” Sunghoon greeted, his voice neutral but carrying the weight of something unsaid. He glanced at the papers in front of you and then back to you. “Are you okay with everything so far? I made some revisions to the outline.”

You didn;t look at him. Instead, you glanced at the project papers and began sorting through them, avoiding his gaze entirely. “I’ll read them over later. Just… let’s focus on getting it done.”

You felt his eyes on you, the tension palpable in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. You had your own part to do, your own work to focus on. Nothing else mattered right now. The project was the only thing that mattered.

—

Sunghoon sighed, and you could hear the edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “Look, I know this isn;t easy for either of us, but we’re stuck with each other for this project. We might as well get it done right.”

“I’m not here to talk,” you snapped back, the words sharp and defensive. “Just focus on your part. I’ll handle mine.”

His expression hardened , but he didn’t push it any further. He opened up his own laptop and began typing, the sound of the keyboard tapping filling the silence between the both of you.

For a while, it was quiet— just the sound of typing, rustling of papers. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, you couldn;’t shake the nagging feeling that he was watching you. His presence was like a shadow that followed your every move you made, and you hated how it made your chest tighten. You shouldn’t feel like this. You had no reason to. This wasn’t supposed to be personal. It was just a project.

But then, suddenly, Sunghoon spoke again, his voice quieter, almost reluctant.

“You know,” he said, voice low but insistent, “we used to work well together. Back in high school. Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

You froze, your fingers still on the keyboard. You could feel the old pain creep up your throat, but you swallowed it down, shoving it away. No. Don’t go there.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice steady but with a hint of something you don’t want to put a name to. And then, with a sigh, he turned his attention back to his laptop, typing in silence for a long time.

—

Two year ago

It had been a late night at the library, the kind where the air felt thick with concentration and the promise of deadlines hanging over every student in the building. You were sitting at the same table as Sunghoon, both of you buried in textbooks, trying to get ahead before the weekend.

It was supposed to be just another study session, but something felt different. Maybe it was the way the soft overhead lights cast shadows over his features or how the silence between you two wasn’t awkward but comfortable. You couldn’t help it— his face was so focused, his lips slightly pursed in concentration, and for some reason, the sight of him studying like that made your heart skip.

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, his voice teasing but gentle.

You blinked and quickly looked away, flustered. “No … it’s just, you look… nice when you study.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower than usual. “Nice, huh? That’s a first.”

You wanted to curl up and die from embarrassment, but instead you found yourself smiling despite the heat in your cheeks. Something about being with him felt so easy, so natural.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “You look… pretty. When you study.”

There was a long pause, and then Sunghoon chuckled, his smile widening. “Pretty, huh? Well, that’s new.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed too, the awkwardness melting away in the warmth of his gaze. That moment— when you both realized that maybe there was something more there— was when it all started.

—

The silence in the library stretches again. You go back to your laptop, trying to focus on the work in front of you. But the memory of that moment, of those words you’d said so long ago, hangs in the air like a ghost.

Sunghoon’s presence is undeniable now. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours as he reaches for his drink, it feels like a jolt of electricity. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to keep working, to ignore the way his proximity makes your heart race.

“You know, if we just worked together instead of pretending we’re strangers, this would be a lot easier,” Sunghoon says again, his voice a little more insistent now, but still carrying that gentle tone.

You refuse to look up, clenching your jaw. “Just finish your part. I’ll finish mine.”

“I’ve always liked how stubborn you are,” he mutters, but there’s a soft fondness behind the words. “But you’re going to make this harder than it has to be, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to snap back. But the reality is that he’s right. You are making this harder. You’re making everything harder by refusing to acknowledge how much you still feel for him.

But you can’t admit that, not now, not when the walls between you two are so high, so insurmountable.

—

It’s late—too late for anyone to be at the library anymore. The harsh overhead lights flicker in the empty room, casting long shadows on the tables where students usually sat, buried in their books. But not you. You’re still here, alone, a stack of textbooks and papers spread out before you. The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the air, broken only by the soft tapping of your fingers on the keyboard.

You’ve been here for hours, the deadline looming closer with every passing second. Your mind is tired, but you won’t leave until you finish. It’s like a race against time. A way to distract yourself from everything else.

But then, you feel it. A presence.

You look up, and there’s Sunghoon, standing by the entrance, his gaze scanning the room. You immediately look away, pretending you hadn’t seen him. Why is he here? You weren’t supposed to see him, not tonight.

He walks toward you slowly, his footsteps soft but deliberate. You keep your eyes down, focused on the papers in front of you, but you can feel him getting closer.

“You’re still here?” Sunghoon says, his voice low, like he’s not sure what to make of the situation.

You sigh, unwilling to make this a conversation. “I’m working. Is that a problem?”

“No,” he answers quickly, but there’s a softness to his tone now. Something gentler. “Just... thought you’d left by now.”

You don’t look up, but you hear him pull out the chair opposite you. He sits down, but doesn’t speak immediately. You don’t say anything either. It’s awkward. You try to focus on the work in front of you, trying to ignore the feeling of his presence, so close but still so far away.

You keep your head down, but the longer you stay in the silence, the more you feel the walls you’ve built start to crumble, piece by piece. He doesn’t push you. Doesn’t force a conversation. He just... stays.

You try not to think too much about it. It’s just Sunghoon. Just a classmate.

But then, hours later, you’re blinking, your head feeling heavy as you try to focus on the screen in front of you. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until your eyelids started to flutter. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the exhaustion catches up with you.

You don’t even realize you’ve nodded off until you’re suddenly jerked awake, your head jerking up from the desk. The library is quiet, almost too quiet, and the light from the desk lamp casts a soft glow around the room. That’s when you notice it.

A jacket—dark, heavy, and familiar—draped over your shoulders.

You blink, still groggy from sleep, and turn to see that Sunghoon is gone, his chair empty. You try to shake the fogginess from your mind, but there’s no denying it: He left his jacket with you.

You didn’t hear him come back. Didn’t feel him approaching. But somehow, he’d slipped it onto you while you were asleep, without a sound.

You sit there for a moment, the jacket still warm against your skin. His scent clings to it, and you find yourself unable to take it off. It feels wrong to just leave it behind, but you’re not sure why it feels so important to keep it on.

You look down at your own hands, your fingers grazing the sleeve, feeling the weight of the jacket, both literally and emotionally. You’re not sure if it’s the jacket that’s weighing on you or the memories that come with it. But it’s there. And so is he.

You stay there for a few more minutes, just sitting in the quiet, knowing that it would be impossible to get anything more done tonight. You pack up your things, but you don’t take off the jacket. Instead, you walk out of the library with it on, your heart a little heavier than when you came in.

—

It was dark outside, and the bus was filled with the soft chatter of your classmates. You and Sunghoon were sitting in the same seat, your shoulders brushing as you both leaned against the window, tired from the day’s activities.

You’d always been close, never quite aware of how it felt to have someone just be there with you. But that day, there was something different about it. It was like you both had settled into this quiet rhythm—comfortable, easy.

You leaned your head against the window, gazing out at the passing lights. The bus was warm, and your eyes were starting to grow heavy from the day’s exhaustion. Without realizing it, you drifted off, your head slipping onto Sunghoon’s shoulder.

He didn’t immediately pull away, didn’t complain. He just let you sleep, his body slightly tensing at the sudden closeness, but not enough to push you away.

And when you woke up, it wasn’t awkward. You just rubbed your eyes, looked up at him, and smiled.

“You’re comfy,” you murmured.

Sunghoon chuckled softly. “You really just fell asleep on me, huh?”

You laughed, feeling a warmth in your chest. “It’s not like I did it on purpose. I didn’t even realize.”

And even though it had only been a few seconds, you both lingered in that moment, your eyes meeting briefly before he gave you a smile that made your heart flutter.

You’d brushed it off as nothing—just a friendly gesture.

—

You’re still sitting in your room, the jacket still on your shoulders. It feels like a weight, not because it’s heavy, but because of the memories it brings. The warmth lingers on your skin, but so does the uncertainty. You can’t figure out why this is bothering you so much.

Your phone buzzes on the table, pulling you from your thoughts. A new email. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s from him. Sunghoon.

The message is simple: “Still need help with the project. Let me know if you want to meet up.”

You close your eyes and let out a slow breath. You want to ignore it. Pretend you didn’t see it. But you can’t. Because part of you wants him to be there. Part of you wants him to still be the one to help you, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You stand up, pacing around the room, the jacket slipping slightly off your shoulders as you move. You pull it tighter around you, almost subconsciously.

You know you’ll have to face him again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe sooner. Hopefully later. But right now, with his jacket still draped over you, you’re not sure if you're ready.

But for some reason, you know you’re going to have to take it off.

—

You walk into the classroom, clutching the jacket in your hands. It’s been a couple of days since you woke up to find it draped over your shoulders, Sunghoon’s jacket—a silent gesture that spoke more than words ever could. He hadn’t said anything when you first found it. It had simply been there. At first, you thought it was an accident, but the longer you held onto it, the more it felt like something else. You hadn’t returned it immediately, unsure why you kept it. But now, with the fact the two of you share a class together, it felt like the right time.

You spot him sitting by the window, alone, lost in whatever thoughts occupy his mind. He doesn’t notice you as you approach, and the moment feels strangely... intimate, even though you're still far from the comfort you once shared.

You stand in front of him, holding out the jacket, but he doesn’t immediately take it. His eyes flicker up, and for a split second, something unreadable passes between you. He reaches for the jacket, but as his fingers brush yours, it’s more of a reflex than any real desire to touch.

Before you can pull away, a voice from behind you cuts through the moment.

"Are you two... together or just friends?"

You glance over to find a couple of classmates watching you both curiously. It’s a casual question, but the curiosity in their eyes is unmistakable. Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-motion, his fingers still hovering over the jacket. He looks back at them briefly, his gaze faltering, not quite meeting yours.

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say. You notice how Sunghoon looks at the ground, avoiding any real response. His lips press together, his hand still unsure of whether to take the jacket back or not. He’s hesitant, as always.

You, on the other hand, feel the weight of the question, but you don’t shy away from it. Not this time. You stand tall, glancing over at your classmates and meeting their gaze.

“We’re just friends,” you say, your voice steady and clear. “Nothing more.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything. He just takes the jacket from your hand, his fingers brushing yours again, but this time it’s almost mechanical. You turn away quickly, the moment lingering behind you like an unspoken tension.

Your classmates exchange glances, their curiosity piqued, but they don’t push further. They turn their attention to the front of the room as class starts, but the question still lingers in the air.

You sit down at your desk, feeling the eyes of your classmates on you for a moment longer than usual. You force yourself to focus, pretending it doesn’t matter, but the thought of that brief interaction, the way Sunghoon avoided the question, settles heavily in your chest.

The class continues, but your mind drifts, back to that jacket and the weight of unspoken words. You can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said if you hadn’t answered for both of you.

No, that’s what he should’ve said because you guys were not dating, he broke up with you, and now the two of you were simply forced to work together. That’s it.

—

The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves as the two of you walked side by side down the quiet street. The school festival had just ended, and the distant hum of laughter and music still echoed behind you. Groups of students were lingering back at the event, but somehow, the two of you ended up here, together, away from it all.

It wasn’t planned. It never was with him. It was just how things always seemed to happen.

You hugged your arms around yourself because of the cold, cursing at yourself for not bringing a bigger jacket knowing the weather but wanting to look good for the event. He walked a little ahead, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jackets, his head tilted slightly towards you as if he was waiting for you to say something.

You had always been the talker between the both of you. The one who made friends easily, the one who never hesitated. But right now, the words sat heavy on your tongue, unspoken.

He let out a small sigh, looking up at the sky. “It’s late.”

“You should’ve left earlier then.”

He huffed, a tiny, almost-smile tugging at his lips before he looked back ahead. “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t feel like staying.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. The festival had been fine, fun even. But then you’d seen him standing by himself, lingering near the edges of the crowd, not quite a part of it. And suddenly, the excitement of it all had dimmed.

He kicked a small rock with the tip of his shoe, watching it tumble along the pavement. “Didn’t think you were the type to leave a party early.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

A breeze picked up, and instinctively, you crossed your arms tighter over yourself. Without a word, Sunghoon shrugged off his jacket and held it out to you.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“You’re cold.”

You scoffed. “I’m not cold.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept holding the jacket out with that blank expression of his— the one that meant he wasn;t going to argue. You hesitated for a second too long, and then, as if deciding for you, he draped it over your shoulders himself.

You looked up at him, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but then you caught the way his fingers lingered just a second longer against your shoulder, the way he swallowed, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

Your heart did something stranger in your chest, a quiet stutter. But then he pulled away, shoving his hands back into his pockets, eyes flickering elsewhere like it was no big deal.

Like he didn’t just leave you standing there in the middle of the empty street, drowning in the scent of his cologne, trying not to overthink what had just happened.

“Let’s go.” he said, his voice calm, steady. Like always.

You didn’t move right away. You just watched him, this boy who always seemed out of reach.

Then you exhaled and started walking again, side by side, your steps falling in sync.

And if your hands brushed once— just once— neither of you said a word about it.

—

After class, you head out of the room, your mind still lingering on the awkward exchange. As you walk down the hallway, you notice Sunghoon a few paces behind you, his expression neutral. You don’t turn around, but you can feel his presence. It;s the same as always, but somehow it’s different.

The hallway stretches ahead of you both, and you find yourself wondering if it’s the same for him, if he’s feeling the same weight of the unsaid words hanging in the air between you. But then you push the thought away. You can’t keep thinking about it. Not now. Not like this.

The day continues, but it doesn’t feel the same. Something has shifted again. Not a big thing, just the subtle change in the air whenever Sunghoon is around. But for now, you focus on the present. The project. The work. There’s no room for anything else. At least not yet.

—

Sunghoon hated studying in public places. He hated the noise, the crowded spaces, the way it was impossible to concentrate. But for some reason, he was here.

With you.

The library was dimly lit, the only sounds coming from the occasional turning of pages and the soft clicking of keyboards. It was nearly empty at this hour, just the two of you tucked away in a corner, buried under textbooks and notes.

You sighed dramatically, stretching your arms over your head before slumping onto the desk. “I’m going to die here.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up from his notes. “You say that every time we study.”

“Yeah, and one day it’ll be true. And when that day comes, I hope you feel bad about it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Dramatic.”

You turned your head to look at him, resting your cheek against your arm. The lamplight softened his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his skin.

He was so pretty.

Unfairly so.

You frowned, furrowing your brows. “Do you know you’re pretty?”

That finally made him look up. He blinked at you, pen pausing mid-air. “What?”

“What?”

There was a flicker of something in his expression— surprise, amusement, something unreadable. He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t think about that kind of stuff.”

You scoff. “Oh shut up.”

Sunghoon shook his head, turning back to his notes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Because it’s a weird question.”

“It’s not weird.” You sighed, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “I just think it’s unfair that some people get to be smart and pretty.”

His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re calling me smart too?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You hadn’t meant anything by it. It was just a passing thought, casual observation. But for some reason. Sunghoon kept stealing glances at you for the rest of the night, his fingers tapping idly against his notebook, like he was trying to figure something out.

—

The library is quieter than usual tonight. The steady hum of air conditioning fills the space, and the dim, golden glow of the desk lamps casts long shadows on the wooden tables. It’s late— too late to still be working— but neither of you have left.

At first, you barely acknowledged each other. The project was the only thing keeping you here and even then, you refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. You typed your sections. He worked on his. Simple.

But at some point, between the furious clicking of keys and the scratching of his pen against paper, something shifted.

The silence wasn’t as sharpe anymore. The air between you wasn’t quite so cold.

You were still stubborn, still keeping your distance, but Sunghoon had started to slip through the cracks.

It was in the way he quietly slid your match closer when he noticed you reaching for it absentmindedly. In the way his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary whenever you furrowed your brows at the screen, lost in thought. In the way he wordlessly handed you a new pen when yours ran out of ink, his fingers brushing yours just for a second.

Little things.

Things you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Things that made it harder to pretend that you hadn’t missed this— missed him.

You force yourself to focus on the words in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. On him. On the past.

—

It had been a long night.

You weren’t supposed to stay out this late, but somehow, time slipped away. It was just the two of you, walking home after an evening study session, the sky stretched out in a blanket of deep navy blue. The air was crisp, autumn settling in with a quiet chill, and your footsteps echoed against the empty sidewalk.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” you muttered, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Sunghoon glanced at you, amused. “Then why didn’t you bring gloves?”

“Because I didn’t know it’d be this cold.”

“You say that every year.”

You huffed, nudging him with your shoulder. “And every year, I am caught off guard.”

He rolled his eyes but reached for your sleeve, tugging your arm towards him. Before you could react, he took one of your hands in his, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket along with his own.

The warmth of his palm against yours sent a shiver up your spine— not from the cold, but from something else.

Something you hadn’t quite named yet.

Neither of you said anything about it. You just kept walkin, the streelights casting soft golden halos around you.

You reached your doorstep too soon.

Sunghoon stood there, shifting on his feet, his fingers still loosely curled around yours.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve said goodnight. But instead, you just stood there staring at him.

The light from the porch illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark eyes softened when they met yours. His gaze flickered down— just for a second— before he quickly looked away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. “Are you gonna keep standing there, or—”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

And then—-

He kissed you.

It was hesitant, barely a whisper of contact. But it sent your heart into a frenzy, your breath hitching, fingers tightening around him without thinking.

When he pulled away, his ears were red, and he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I— I wasn’t planning to do that.”

You blinked at him, mind still catching up. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeated, this time smiling.

Sunghoon exhaled, sometimes easing his shoulders.

“You;re still holding my hand.” you pointed out.

He let go immediately, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Shut up.”

But you could see the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

—

You stare at the screen in front of you, but the words are a blur. The memory lingers, making your chest feel tight.

Sunghoon shifts besides you stretching out his arms. His sleeves push up slightly, revealing the faint outline of veins along his forearms. You look away quickly, annoyed with yourself.

This is ridiculous.

You don’t care. You don’t.

“Take a break,” he says, voice low.

You exhale, rubbing at your temples. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You shoot him a glare, but he’s already looking back at his screen, unaffected. Typical.

Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now. He’s too close, the air between you too charged.

And then—

“Do you still hate me?”

Your breath catches. The question is quiet, but it feels deafening.

You turn to him, meeting his gaze for the first time in what feels like hours. His eyes are steady, but there’s something else there— something raw, something careful.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

He swallows. “ you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to scoff, to roll your eyes. “I look at you all the time.”

“Not like before.”

That makes you freeze.

Because he’s right.

Before— before everything— you had looked at him like he held the universe in his hands. And maybe, in some ways, he had.

But that was then.

And now—

Now you don’t know what to do with this version of him, this version of you.

The air is thick with something you don’t want to name.

And before you can think better of it, before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

It's reckless, desperate, a collision of past and present, of things left unsaid and things you don’t want to admit.

His lips part slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in, his fingers grazing your jaw, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

And maybe you are too.

But then—

Reality crashed back in.

Your eyes widen, and you pull away abruptly, breathless, heart hammering.

Sunghoon blinks, still processing, “Wait—”

But you’re already pushing away from the table, standing up too quickly, your chair scraping against the floor.

“I have to go,” you say, voice unsteady.

And before he can stop you, before he can say anything else—

You turn and walk away.

Leaving him sitting there, watching you go.

Again.

—

Avoidance has always been your best defense.

You mastered it after the breakup, convincing yourself that if you could just stay out of Sunghoon’s orbit, then none of it— none of the pain, none of the unanswered questions, none of him— could touch you.

But ever since that kiss, it’s been impossible to keep up the act.

You stop sitting in your usual spots in the library. You change your walking routes between classes. You leave early to avoid any chance of running into him. Your emails about the project become even shorter, even more detached.

And still— it doesn’t feel like enough

Because the problem isn’t just him.

It’s you.

It’s the way your mind keeps replaying that night in the library, the way your lips still burn with the memory of his, the way your chest aches everytime you think about how you didn’t pull away immediately.

You shouldn’t have let it happen.

You shouldn’t have wanted it to.

But worst of all— you shouldn’t still want it now.

You tell yourself this over and over again. But nine of it matters when you turn the corner one evening, only to find yourself face-to-face with the one person you’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Sunghoon.

Waiting for you.

Like he knew.

“You’re avoiding me again,” he says, his voice eerily calm.

You grip your bag tighter and look away. “I’m busy.”

“Liar.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

You take a step back, but he matches it, blocking your way. His eyes search yours, and you can feel how tired he is— tired of the silence, of the pretending, of whatever this is.

“Do you hate me that much?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, something sharp and desperate.

You exhale hardly. “Sunghoon—”

“Just answer me,” he pressed, jaw clenched. “Do you hate me?”

The words catch in your throat.

You should say yes. You should give him the finality he seems to be looking for.

But you can’t.

And maybe he sees it— maybe he sees the way you falter, the way your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag— because his expression shifts.

And then—

The door beside you suddenly swings open. A group of students spills out, laughing and chatting, shoving past both of you.

You barely register it before someone crashes into you from behind, sending you stumbling backwards—

Right into the supply closet.

And of course— because the universe must hate you— the force of it slams Sunghoon into the tiny space as well.

And before either of you can react— click.

The door locks

Silence.

Then—

“You have got to be kidding me,” you hiss.

Sunghoon tries the handle, but it doesn’t budge. He exhales sharply, resting his forehead against the door for a second before turning back to you.

“Great.”

You let out a bitter laugh, crossing your arms. “What, you think I planned this?”

“No, but it’s convenient, isn’t it?” He glares at you, frustration bleeding into every word. “You’re always running away, and now you can’t.”

Your pulse spikes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he mutters. “You left the night. You’ve been avoiding me ever since. You won’t even talk to me—”

“Because there’s nothing to say!” you snap.

“Bullshit!” His voice rises, his patience unraveling. “Don’t act like you don’t care. You kissed me, and then you ran away like it meant nothing.”

You freeze.

Because he’s right.

It wasn’t nothing.

But admitting that? Giving him that satisfaction? You can’t.

So you do what you do best.

You push back

“You don’t get to act like you’re the victim here, Sunghoon,” you say, voice colder now. “Not when you broke up with me.”

Something flickers across his face.

“And not just that,” you continue, the weight of everything you’ve bottled up finally breaking through. “You left me without any warning. You didn’t talk to me about what was wrong. You didn’t even try. You just decided one day that it was over and that was it.”

—

It had been an ordinary afternoon. You remember it oo well— how he wouldn’t look at you, how his hands trembled slightly as he shoved them into his pockets.

And then—

“I think we should break up.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You laughed at first, thinking it was some sort of joke. But then you saw the way he avoided your gaze. The way his fingers curled into fists.

“Why?” Your voice had cracked. “What happened? Did I do something?”

He had only shaken his head. “It’s just…. I don’t think this is going to work.”

“What—”

“I am not sure I am what you really need.”

It was the last thing you expected to hear.

But it was the only explanation he ever gave you.

That's what started it, why you just started running away from him.

—

“You thought it wouldn’t work?” you glare at him now, eye burning. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Sunghoon pressed his lips together, like he regretted saying it. But it’s too late.

“You didn’t even give us a chance,” you continue, voice rising. “You just decided that it wasn’t going to work out for the both of us.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was what you really needed.”

Your breath catches. “Sunghoon—”

“You’re always surrounded by people. You make friends so easily. I wasn’t like that, I am not like that.” His voice is quiet now. “I feel like I was always holding you back.”

You shake your head, feeling something sharp and painful twist in your chest. “That’s what you thought?” You let out another bitter laugh. “You know, I thought that’s what brought us together. That we were so different. That worked because of that.”

Sunghoon looks at you then, something unreadable in his expression.

“There were two people in our relationship, you and me. You made that decision that we don’t work well, for the both of us.” you say, voice shaking. “And now you think it’s going to work now just because you want it to?”

He doesn’t answer.

And you hate how much that silence still hurts.

You exhale shakily, turning away. “I don’t trust you., Sunghoon.”

His jaw clenches. “I know.”

“And I don’t trust myself to let this happen again. Because if you could leave that easily once, what makes you think I believe you won’t do it again?”

This time, he doesn’t try to deny it.

Because he knows.

Because he did leave.

And you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive him for that. You hated yourself for never being able to hate him at all.

The only sound in the tiny space is the faint buzz of the overhead light—

And the deafening weight of everything left unsaid.

The supply closet is cold, but the tension in the air is suffocating. When the door finally swings open, neither of you move right away. Sunghoon steps back first, his jaw clenched, like he’s holding back something he’ll never say. You follow a second later, not looking at him as you walk away.

After that, things are different.

You don’t avoid him anymore. Not really. You still exchange emails about the project, still sit across from each other in the library, still in the same space without outright hostility. But the sharpness between you dulls— replaced by something softer, something sadder.

One night, long after the library should’ve closed, you look up from your notes to see Sunghoon staring at you. He doesn’t look away this time. Neither do you. For a moment, the world stills.

Then you blink, and the moment is gone.

—

The project ends.

So does your reason to stay in each other’s orbits.

You expect things to go back to normal, whether normal is supposed to be. You expect distance to creep back in, the silence to settle.

But somehow, Sunghoon lingers.

He doesn’t force conversation, doesn’t push. But you catch him in the corners of your vision— watching, waiting, hesitation. As if he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

—

Then one evening, you run into him.

It’s late. The air is cold, thick with the scent of winter. Sunghoon is standing outside the campus gates, hands shoved into his pockets, the street lights casting long shadows around him. He notices you before you can turn away.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You hesitate. Then, “Hey.”

There’s so much unsaid between you, so much left unfinished.

A part of you wonders— is this it? The last conversation before you both fade from each other’s lives completely?

Sunghoon opens his mouth, like he wants to say something more, but you shake your head, stopping him.

“It’s okay.” you say. “You don’t have to.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. He nods.

The streetlamps flicker above you. A car passes, its headlights flashing between you like a border, a final dividing line.

You should say something else. You should tell him you’ll see him around, that you’ll stay in touch, that you’ll find your way back to him someday.

But you don’t.

Instead you step back, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Take care, okay?”

For a second, you think he won’t respond. But then, finally— softly— he nods.

“You too.”

You turn around first. You don’t look back.

Sunghoon watches you walk away, his hands still in his pockets, his lips parts like he wants to stop you— but he never does.

The night swallows the both of you whole.

And just like that, it’s over.

—

The city hums in silence in the distance, but here, on the rooftop, it’s quiet/ the two of you sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The night is warm, the stars barely visible through the glow of streetlights.

“You’re gonna fall,” Sunghoon murmurs, eyeing the way you lean forwards slightly, hands bracing against the ledge.

You grin, tilting your head towards him. “You’d catch me.”

He doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but won’t let himself.

A soft breeze ruffles his hair. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing through the strand, smoothing them down. Sunghoon stills at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You do that a lot,” he says after a moment.

“What?”

“Touch my hair.”

You blink, your hand dropping back to your lap. “Does it bother you?”

He exhales, looking away, down at the glittering streets below. “No.”

That’s all he says. But in the way his fingers clench slightly against his knee, in the way his shoulders stay tense even as the night air cools his skin— you realize something.

Sunghoon likes it.

He likes being close to you.

The thought makes your chest feel warm, something soft and fluttering settling behind your ribs. You don’t say anything about it, don’t tease or push. Instead, you lean back on your palms staring up at the sky.

“Feels like we could stay here forever,” you murmur.

Sunghoon glances at you, his expression unreadable.

Then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

“Yeah.”

author's note: basically everything in here thats inpso from irl with my actaully ex. the water bottle incident but it was in a classroom. us actually having fucking class with each other the next semester. me running away constantly every time i see him now. me buying him a pencil as a present and him still using it (i really want to steal it back). him asking me if i hate him cuz i keep running away and even dragged a friend as i run away from him. him saying "i dont think it's going to work out" and thinking becuase im very outgoing and him being a big introvert was something that would lead to us breaking up, haha but it was just him and him not communicating with me about his feelings. el oh el.

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen fluff #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon enhypen #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x you #enhypen sunghoon #enha fluff #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha

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elieenaliak · 1 month ago

Text

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — AND THEIR HOBBIES IN FREE HOURS.

amongst the many hobbies of your beautiful hard working husband, one of them stood out the most: racing. zayne drives with such grace, he probably would have received 16 missed calls from whole cast of fast furious asking him to be part of the next movie. treating patients with such patience by day, racing by night… what a man! He can afford it after all, so why not? he is the type to make you fresh orange juice with pulp in the morning and then go outside drift so effortlessly, it makes professional racers question their entire careers. he doesn't even need a coach—he learns purely through vibes and sheer elegance. he steps into a car, smells the air, analyses, feels it, does a couple of stretches, and suddenly it's like watching poetry in motion. you have no idea how he does it, you're not about to question a racer who hugs the apex like it's his favourite granny-who can explode- and still flips the softest, fluffiest pancakes before the next shift in hospital.

xavier, on the other hand, has the raw power for basketball but none of the coordination. you made him join the basketball club, this man had to do something sportif after all! though he got very passionate about basketball he could not play. his idea of a "drabble" is launching the ball into another building, and if you ask him to do a serve, he’ll literally twerk- he is serving after all?

he gets the hang of it eventually—almost a full year later, when everyone else has already moved on to their next hobby. now he’s just waiting for the basketball season to come back so he can finally convince everyone to play with him again. poor thing. you can find him standing outside the court with his basketball, looking like a stray dog waiting to be let inside.

sylus is… passionate about tennis. let's just leave it at that. he swings the racket like he's trying to destroy all his enemies along with it, and any unfortunate soul who dares to play against him ends up fearing for their life. And no, zendaya would NOT call him to join the cast of next challengers movie- he will still arrange it- every ball he hits sounds like gunfire, and the courts have a dedicated "sylus damage fund" because he’s broken so many rackets, fences, and possibly the willpower of a few umpires. he can not play, but he doesn't believe in "low peasant" talk - the racket he accidently sended to the orbit made scientists go insane. news headlines for the next month were "A RACKET SPOTTED IN SPACE!! ALIENS ARE REAL?!"

there’s also rafayel. or "rafayel-the-fashion" as he calls himself. the man who buys everything-everything- that is trending, both for you and himself. "We gotta slay honey" he tells you while buying latest glamour lois luivitton purses-not that you complaining. The man, the artist, the diva- he feels the aesthetic whenever he walks to any room and he adjusts to it, he buys closes which match with room design, he slayes.

"Design is soo gnarly an-" and now as soon as his art editor who he asked politely-made-to come to his house at 3am to discuss his new art piece he straight away indulges in description of the piece, untill he spots something, he stops, he squints, he watches, he observes- he notices something even lucifer would have diarrhea out of from.

"IS THAT FAKE CHANEL ON YOU?!" he shrieked in utter horror, falling to the nearest sofa, clutching to his chest. He couldn't believe it, he couldn't! the shear audacity! To come into his house in....in....this!- it is 3 am -"oh, I think I am having have heart attack or heart dead whatever you people call it!" he wailed "this is,th- I HOPE SOMEOME FARTS INTO YOUR BREATHING MACHINE WHEN YOU GET OLDER, YOU FASHION TERRORIST!!"

someone actually did fart into editors breathing machine years later- rafayel made sure of it.....

and finally, there's caleb, apart from his many hundred jet models collection, he buys you underwear. now, when he met you in university he knew- knew that he needs to be in charge of your underwear department. Though he restricted himself in takeover of such honourable post until you two got married.

you lost him in the mall? no, you didn't, he is in lingerie section, nodding at some cheetah print lingerie's like it was some soldiers doing admirable job in serving their country. he doesn't even ask for help, he knows. he knows what he is buying, what size he is buying, he feels it and he is not embarrassed, no. this man watched so many documentaries on "art of lingerie" you are surprised he doesn't even open his own business. you kind of found it cute until he crossed- bended- the line like now with his: "Baby maybe we just need to take one cup bigger so i can put my hands through it, yeah?"- people turned around passing by, eyes wide, desperately trying to not make eye contact.

your eye twitched, hell you think even you whole brain twitched. with voice which could be mistakenly taken for sweet you smiled "Caleb?"

"Yes, pipsqueak?"

"I have a gun on me"

"Yes. pipsqueak." though his poker face didn't match the way he clutched the bra of your size from the section, size bigger magically disappearing in air - he threw it across the shop, if he doesn't see it nobody sees it..

@uzmacchiato dividers!

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charliedawn · 1 month ago

Note

Slashers with a goth reader? Pls include Bo, Arthur, and Pennywise I beg😭😝🖤 and drink water!

Bo Sinclair

“Aw, hell, ya walkin’ to a funeral?” he’d smirk, watching you strut through Ambrose in a floor-length black coat and heavy boots. But oh, he’s watching. Closely. You are in black lace, your silver jewelry, your sharp tongue? He eats it up.

Secretly thinks you’re so hot, but won’t admit it until you catch him staring and call him out. “You wearin’ a corset to kill me or what, darlin’?”

If any tourist so much as mocks your look though, he goes full wrath-mode. You’re his beautiful little bat, and he won’t let anyone make fun of you—besides him.

Jason Voorhees

Jason doesn’t understand fashion, but you in black lace and boots? He’s stunned. You look like something out of a dream he didn’t know he had.

He especially loves how confident you are. He notices every detail—the little silver bat necklace, your dark nail polish, the ripped stockings. You look like Halloween every day, and that calms him.

If you sit by the lake in your black clothes and softly hum something haunting, he’ll sit with you for hours. Just…content. You soothe his rage. He won’t say it, but you’re beautiful to him. Like a graveyard in moonlight.

Norman Bates

Norman finds your goth look strange…but also deeply intriguing. He’s drawn to your aesthetic the same way someone is drawn to a haunting painting—curious, reverent, cautious. He thinks you’re like a character out of a gothic romance novel, all mystery and dark elegance.

At first, he’s worried you’re too “morbid.” But when he sees how you treat him kindly despite your edgy exterior, he decides the way you look doesn’t really matter to him. He nervously offers you a flower and says, “It reminded me of…well, something you might like.”

It’s a dead black rose.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent adores your goth aesthetic. He thinks you’re art.

He sketches you constantly. Every fold of your clothing, every choker, every twist of your hair—it’s all going into his notebook. You find his studio littered with gothic statues inspired by your look.

He won’t say it aloud, but you can feel the admiration in every careful touch, every time he straightens your collar before a photo. He especially loves the contrast of his waxy, silent world with your dark energy.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms thrives on dramatics, so your gothic look delights him.

“You look like a bride for the dead,” he coos, hiding behind doorways and peeking out like a shy Victorian ghost. He wants you to read him poetry, especially sad ones.

He gets jealous if anyone else compliments your look.

“She’s mine. My beautiful little widow.”

He makes you black-and-white drawings and leaves them under your pillow.

Freddy Krueger

He’s instantly into it.

Fishnets, velvet, combat boots—he’s drooling. Not just because you look amazing, but because you look like trouble, and Freddy loves trouble like he loves dreamblood and bad puns.

You walk in all moody and mysterious, and he gives you that big toothy grin:

“You look like a walking Tim Burton wet dream—and baby, I wanna direct the sequel.”

He’ll flirt constantly, call you “Gloom Girl,” “My Little Hex,” or “Wednesday,” and demand you teach him about your music. (He pretends to hate The Cure, but you catch him humming “Lullaby” while sharpening his glove.)

When you talk about loving cemeteries or reading Edgar Allan Poe, he doesn’t make fun of it—he leans in. He gets it. Deep down, Freddy is all rot and ruined beauty too. He likes that someone else likes that kinda stuff too.

Michael Myers

One day, when you look at Michael and ask, “Do I scare you?”, his head tilts.

Then slowly, deliberately, he lifts his notebook and scribbles: No. You calm the part of me that scares everyone else.

Arthur Fleck

At first, Arthur doesn’t know how to categorize you. You show up in his life dressed in all black, lace gloves, long coats, maybe a parasol on sunny days.

“Are you…in a play or something?” he asks with genuine curiosity, squinting at your eyeliner and jewelry. When you smile and say, “No, I just like it,” he smiles. He doesn’t tease you. He admires you.

And of course he spirals just a little with obsession. You’re not just a person to him; you’re a symbol. Something hauntingly beautiful in a world that’s always been so ugly to him. He starts getting jealous, though, when others compliment your look. When someone in public sneers or laughs, Arthur gets tense—starts giggling in that eerie, unstable way that means someone might get hurt.

But when it’s just you two?

He’s gentle. His fingers tremble as he touches the lace on your sleeve. He lights a cigarette just to watch the way the smoke curls around your silhouette. “You look like a funeral I’d love to attend.”

Chucky

“Okay, Wednesday Addams, you trying to kill me or what?” At first, he teases the hell out of you. “What’s with the Dracula cosplay? You got a bat named Gerald or somethin’?”

But underneath the sass, Chucky is into it. He’s never met someone who could wear leather and lace, quote Nietzsche and then flip someone off in the same breath. You’re dark, deadly, and a total smartass—his kryptonite. He brags about your look constantly, shows you off like a trophy. If anyone side-eyes you? He’s got a knife out in seconds.

“Mess with my girl, and I’ll carve eyeliner wings on your lungs.”

Penny

Penny absolutely loses his mind when he sees you in black mesh, eyeliner, stomping boots, and skull jewelry. He’s obsessed.

He doesn’t fully get goth culture, but he adores everything about you. He thinks you’re the coolest thing he’s ever seen and will mimic your style instantly. Expect him to come back with smudged eyeliner, a black shirt with “GLOOMY BABY” written on it, and a hundred questions:

“Is this spooky enough? What’s a ‘post-punk funeral-core’ and can I be in it?”

He calls you his “little bat” or “spooky human” and wants to do everything goth with you—graveyard picnics, dark poetry readings, listening to Bauhaus while decorating a coffin-shaped bookshelf.

Pennywise

He grumbles the moment you walk in, boots thudding, black lipstick perfect, eyeliner sharp enough to kill. He crosses his arms, scowling, leaning against the doorway of the rec room like a disapproving dad.

But his eyes? They follow every move.

You sit beside him, and he scoffs dramatically.“You dress like death. You act like death. You listen to that screeching human music—what was it? Siouxsie and the Ghastlies?” He waves a hand. “I’ve devoured kingdoms with more color than your closet.”

He likes it, just isn’t used to giving compliments.

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #slashers #pennywise 1990 #pennywise 2017 #pennywise x reader #jason voorhees x reader #arthur fleck x reader #chucky x reader #norman bates x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #freddy krueger x reader #michael myers x reader

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pittsick · 1 month ago

Text

METALHEAD ART HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. hair pulling. knife play. blood kink. spitting. face-fucking. choking. unprotected sex. marking. orgasm denial. praise. exhibitionnism. voyeurism. slight impact play. panties fetish. recording with consent. use of toys. body worship. power imbalance via aesthetics. aftercare. unhealthy devotion. art’s fetishization of softness. erotic horror energy.

pairing: metalhead art x soft!afab!girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved

★ ── Underwear sniffing addict. Art steals your panties constantly. You’ll be looking for a pair and find it days later in his guitar case or under his pillow. He jerks off with them stuffed in his fist, moaning your name like a prayer. If you catch him? He doesn’t stop—he looks you dead in the eye and keeps going.

★ ── He worship the contrast. Art’s obsessed with how soft you are; your sweaters, your clean nails, the pastel socks you wear to bed. The way you look curled up on his filthy mattress surrounded by his torn band posters? He stares like it’s the most surreal painting he’s ever seen. “You’re like a fucking angel in a pit of Hell.” He mutters once, kissing your knee.

★ ── Toys with your orgasm like it’s a game. He’ll use vibrators on you and turn them off when you’re seconds from the edge. Laughs low, kissing your trembling lips. “So greedy. I said not yet.” Sometimes makes you earn it with your mouth.

★ ── Sleeps in old band tees, usually stolen or faded beyond recognition. Most of his shirts are threadbare. You can barely read the logos. Some have crusty paint splatters. Grease from his corpse paint that never left. Others are torn at the neckline or re-stitched with dental flows. He refuses to throw a single one away.

★ ── Orgasm denial king. He lives to edge you. Ties you up with his band tees, spreads you on his mattress, and teases you until you’re crying. “Not yet, baby. You haven’t begged right.” He’ll bring you right to the edge five, six, seven times before he lets you come—and when you do, it’s brutal and messy.

★ ── Brings you to shows, but protects you like you’re glass. You don’t even like the music, but you stand in the back, cheering for him anyway. Art makes sure no one bumps you, no one breathes wrong near you. Afterwards, he’ll lift you off your feet and whisper, “Did I look hot, baby?” Corpse paint smudging when he kiss your cheek.

★ ── He’s covered in scratchy, DIY, and occult-inspired ink. His tattoos look like they were done in basements and bathrooms; which most are. Stick-and-poke runes, sigils, knives, snakes, Nordic symbols. He doesn’t care if they are pretty. They are his.

★ ── Voyeurism & exhibitionism combo. Will absolutely finger you under the table at a bar while making eye contact with the bartender. Gets off on the idea of being watched—loves mirrors, windows, risky places. Once made you ride him with the blinds wide open, his hand around your throat and a smirk on his face: “Let ‘em see how good you take it.”

★ ── You trace his tattoos in bed. Sometimes after sex, you just lie there touching his arms, tracing every runes, line and scar. He pretends he doesn’t like it. But he always turns toward you, lets you study him like scripture. “They are not sacred, babe.” He’d tell you and you’d reply, “To me, they are.”

★ ── Doesn’t own a proper bed frame. His mattress is on the floor. There’s graffiti on the wall above it; band logos, sigils, lyrics scrawled in marker. A pocketknife is usually wedged under his pillow just “in case.”

★ ── Blood kink is deeply spiritual. Not just for fun—he reveres it. Whether it’s from knife play, rough scratches, or period sex, Art treats your blood like a sacred offering. He’ll lick it off your skin, smear it on his chest, even kiss you with a stained mouth. He calls you his altar.

★ ── Performer like a man possessed. Onstage, Art is unhinged; black boots stomping the monitors, mic cable wrapped around his throat, eyes rolled back as he screams like he’s trying to tear his vocal cords out. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t break. He just bleeds.

★ ── He thinks it’s cute you don’t know the bands. You mispronounce band names and ask if Gorgoroth is “that one anime-looking guy.” He pretends to groan, but secretly? He melts every time. “God, you’re such a little poser,” he says grinning. “I’m gonna fuck you until you do like blast beats.”

★ ── Public brat tamer. Loves when you tease him in public—but he always makes you pay for it later. You wear a short skirt to a gig? You’re bent over the bathroom sink after the set, panties pushed to the side, mouth full of his rings while he groans, “Mine. Every inch of you.”

★ ── Respected but not necessarily liked. Art doesn’t do fake politeness. He’s blunt, cold, and brutally honest. Most people in the scene respect his work; but a lot are scared of him. He’s not part of the post-show small talk, he’s already vanished by then. He doesn’t need to make friends with anyone.

★ ── Music collection from Hell. He has shelves of cassettes, burned CDs, and secondhand vinyls. He still burns mix CDs just because he likes the ritual. Thinks Spotify is “too sterile”. He alphabetizes his black metal by country of origin and era.

★ ── He loves it when you wear his clothes. Hi shirt hang off your shoulders. His jacket swallow you whole. The first time you wore his torn Mayhem hoodie, he couldn’t stop staring. “Jesus. I’m going to ruin you in that.” And he did. Right there, on the floor, with your thighs still half in denim and his hoodie halfway off your shoulder.

★ ── Doesn’t smile in pictures, ever. Art thinks posing is fake. His photos are all candid or grainy Polaroids where he looks half-possessed. The only exception: blurry backstage selfies with a cigarette between his lips, smudged corpse paint and blood on his knuckles.

★ ── He’ll fight someone in the pit. If he sees someone harassing a woman, throwing elbows too hard or acting like a fascist, he’ll get off stage and personally beat their ass in front of everyone. No hesitation. No apologies. Then, he’ll go back to playing like nothing happened.

★ ── Spits in your mouth, slaps your face, kisses fou after. His favorite combo: spit, slap, praise. He’ll degrade you, ruin you, then whisper “Good girl. You take everything I give you so well.” It’s filthy and tender—like you’re his favorite pet and his religion all at once.

★ ── He thinks your music taste his hilarious. Your playlists are full of soft pop, acoustic love songs, even maybe musical soundtracks. He pretends to mock you. “Is this Taylor Swift? I’m gonna die.” But the moment you fall asleep in his lap to it? He listens to the whole album in silence to understand you. Every. Damn. Track.

★ ── He’s not religious, expect for you. Art doesn’t believe in God, but when he’s buried between your legs, licking blood from a shallow cut he made just for pleasure, when you’re moaning his name, trusting him with everything… you might as well be divine. “You’re my altar,” he tells you once, kissing the spot where his blade left a thin red line. “And I’m never gonna stop worshiping you.”

★ ── Anarchist energy but quiet about it. He hates cops, capitalism, and rules; but he’s not the kind of yell in public. He’ll burn something down when no one’s looking. Writes anti-authoritarian lyrics and slips them into every riff.

★ ── Worships your thighs like a starving man. He’ll spend hours with his head between them—biting, kissing, sucking bruises into the skin. He’ll mutter filthy things while he licks you slow: “This pussy's the reason I can't think straight.” You’re not allowed to close your legs, even when you’re overstimulated.

★ ── His room is a graveyard of gear and grime. Cable snakes across the floor. Pedals and amp are scattered under piles of clothes. There’s always at least one crackled candle, a knife left on the nightstand, and an ashtray he definitely hasn’t emptied in weeks.

★ ── Other guys talk shit until they see him play. There’s always a dude who rolls his eyes at Art’s look; the hair, the rings, the age. That is, until he hears him play. Then he shuts the fuck up. Art never says “I told you so.” His riffs say it for him.

★ ── Keeps a secret photo folder. Filled with Polaroids, nudes, pics of your bruises, your moaning face, the mess he made on your stomach. Sometimes he takes videos of your orgasms just so he can jerk off to the sounds when he’s on tour. His favorite clip? You drooling with his fingers down your throat, eyes glazed over.

★ ── Corpse paint ritual. Art does his corpse paint in silence, alone, with black metal blasting and a cracked mirror lit by candlelight. The white goes on first, then jagged black lines like rot around his eyes and mouth; raw, smudged on purpose. It’s not for looks. It’s armor. Once, you caught him halfway done — chest bare, one eye darkened, and he looked at you and said, “Don’t get scared.” Then smeared a streak of white on your cheek like a blessing. You didn’t wash it off.

★ ── Loves gore art and erotic horror. Has stacks of obscure zines filled with disturbing illustrations. Loves the intersection of pain and beauty. Thinks blood is the sexiest color. Draws anatomical hearts and crucified angels in his sketches.

★ ── Face-Fucking connoisseur. Loves to hold your hair in a fist and gently, slowly fuck your throat until you’re sobbing and drooling. He praises you the whole time. “You’re my perfect little fuckdoll. Look at that mouth, so full.”

★ ── Aftercare god. For all his filth, he’s soft as Hell after. Bathes you. Brushes your hair. Plays some mellow doom metal and lights a candle. Kisses every bruise and cuts. Holds you until you fall asleep in his arms, whispering. “You’re my perfect girl. No one gets me like you do.”

#★ mika’s writing .ᐟ #challengers headcanon #challengers x you #art donaldson challengers #challengers fanfic #challengers x reader #challengers smut #art donaldson #art donaldson headcanons #art donaldson x you #art donaldson blurb #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson au #₆⁶₆ metalhead art .ᐟ

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spitefulsatanfics · 2 months ago

Text

CASTIEL AS A HUSBAND

A Headcanon Aesthetic

by Little Devil <3

> Grace pressed into knuckles. Storms calmed by the sound of your voice. Ink-smudged fingertips. Prayers whispered into collarbones. The weight of wings you can’t see. “I was made to love you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1. He doesn’t sleep—but he watches over you like it’s sacred.

Castiel doesn’t sleep, not like humans do. But he kneels by the bed, quiet as starlight, and watches over you with a reverence born of Heaven.

> “Are you just going to stare at me all night?”

“Yes. You’re very… peaceful when you dream.”

(beat)

“Also, your face does this thing when you’re about to drool.”

There’s a kindness in it. Not obsession. Just awe.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

2. He learns domesticity like it’s ancient lore.

Folding laundry like it’s a mission from God. Burning pancakes with fierce determination. Fixing a leaking sink by watching four hours of YouTube tutorials.

> “I believe the pasta is… al dente.”

“Cas, this is cereal.”

“Yes. But it’s firm to the bite.”

You teach him how to live. He turns it into liturgy.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

3. He uses endearments he learned from books and languages long dead.

“My love.” “Beloved.” “My heart’s anchorage.” Sometimes in Latin. Sometimes in Enochian. Always spoken with weight, like the words themselves are relics.

> “Cas, just call me babe like a normal husband.”

“You are not ‘babe.’ You are the axis upon which my world spins.”

“…Jesus.”

“No. Castiel.”

Every phrase from his lips sounds like it’s never been said before.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

4. He doesn’t understand why he can’t heal everything.

He wants to—God, how he wants to. A paper cut. A stress headache. Your bad day. The ache in your chest when you miss someone. He wants to lay grace on it all.

> “Let me take it from you.”

“You already do, just by being here.”

“…But I could—”

“Cas. You don’t have to fix me. Just love me.”

It’s the first thing he can’t smite, and the first thing he learns to hold.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

5. He studies your habits like scripture.

The way you hum when you cook. The sigh before you fall asleep. The rhythm of your typing. He catalogues it all like sacred text—because in a world where nothing made sense, you did.

> “You tilt your head 2.6 degrees when you’re concentrating.”

“…And you’re still a little creepy, babe.”

“But observant.”

“Yeah. Observantly creepy.”

You are the verse he rewrites his purpose for.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

6. He gets flustered when you call him "husband."

Not because he doesn’t understand it. But because he does. Fully. Holy. It carries too much gravity, too much grace. And when you say it—so casual, so light—it makes his vessel burn a little brighter.

> “Hey, husband—can you pass the salt?”

(pause)

“Are you alright, Cas?”

“…I’m experiencing… joy. It’s overwhelming.”

He wears the title like armor and mercy all at once.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

7. He asks if he can kiss you every single time—until you beg him not to.

Respect, always. Worship, quiet and constant. But eventually, the reverence makes you ache.

> “Cas. You don’t have to ask.”

“Consent is sacred.”

“I know—but we’re married. I want you to kiss me.”

(soft smile)

“Then I’m honored.”

When he does, it’s like falling into holy fire.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

8. He’d fall again, for you, without hesitation.

He’s already fallen once. Already bled for humanity. But he’d burn off his wings, cast aside his name, sever Heaven’s tether again and again and again—just to be yours.

> “You don’t have to give everything up for me, Cas.”

“It’s not giving up. It’s giving to. I choose this. I choose you.”

Loving you isn’t rebellion anymore. It’s resurrection.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

written by @satanslovergirl

(reblogs and crying in the tags highly encouraged. make it a shrine.)

#castiel x reader #castiel husband headcanons #supernatural canon compliant #angel husband #emotional intimacy #soft!cas #domestic castiel #gentle celestial vibes #tumblr textpost #castiel is in love and it shows

#supernatural #spn imagines #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagines #supernatural x reader #supernatural family #spnfandom #spn #spn imagine #sam and dean #castiel x oc #cas spn #castiel imagine #castiel x reader #cas supernatural #castiel supernatural #castiel #castiel smut #team free will

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blushsturns · 4 months ago

Note

I have a request ❤️!! Totally ok if you don't wanna do it but it's waitress reader x Chris. He goes into the restaurant with his brothers and it's just love at first sight and he's super sweet to her and it's so cute and super fluffy!!!

Totally ok if you don't wanna do it xx

title: the diner

word count: 4400

౨ৎ “You know, I’m glad i decided to come here tonight. I wouldn’t have met my future wife if I didnt.”

You rolled her eyes. “Have you always been a flirt?”

He flashed you the biggest grin and nods his head. “Since day one, pretty girl. Hope you don’t mind it.”

It was absolutely dead at the diner. The last patron you had was 30 minutes ago and the time was going by very slowly. The sound of the ticking clock was driving you into insane boredom. The only other noise was the same overplayed songs you’d hear in a retail store playing in the background. It was a random Thursday night and usually the diner isn’t packed until the weekend when all of the people who are drunk or high need a place to go to sober up. Tonight was not one of those nights. You didn’t like when it was insanely busy, but at least it made the time go by quickly when it was.

You stood there behind the counter, scrolling aimlessly through your phone when you heard the door open with the familiar dinging sound followed by laughter and a couple voices talking among themselves, making themselves known of their presence. When you looked up to see who walked in, you were instantly intrigued at who they were.

Three boys who all had the variations of the same face stood there, waiting to be seated. They were all handsome and you could tell they were around your age, but you’ve never seen them before. The one who stood out to you was wearing a hoodie that said “Fresh Love” on the front and wore gray sweatpants. His eyes met yours for a brief moment with a spark of interest in his eyes before turning back to reply to something one of the others said. You didn’t want it to be insanely obvious you were already checking one of them out.

You slipped your phone into your apron pocket and put on your most friendly smile as you walked over to them. “Hi, welcome to the Diner! I’m Y/N and I’ll be your server. Three tonight?” You grabbed three menus as you awaited their reply.

They all looked at you at the same time and immediately stopped talking when they realized they were being helped. The taller one nodded his head, flashing you a friendly smile back. “Yes please, and we prefer a booth if that’s okay.”

The same one you noticed at first stared at you for a long hard moment, his eyes scanning you up and down to take in your appearance, his ocean blue eyes sparkling as his lips curved up into a wide grin before allowing you to lead them over to the most comfortable spot in the corner of the diner with a big booth and vintage photographs above the wall to fit the diner aesthetic.

You grew up going to this diner, and even though this was just a part time gig, you loved it and it was helping you save money for your own apartment. You loved your parents, but you were getting older and wanted a space of your own. The tips were insanely helpful with your “moving out fund” considering you don’t get paid as much as you were hoping for, but it was good practice with customer service skills and keeping you busy while you attended the university nearby full time.

They slid into the booth one by one as you placed the menus down in front of them. The one who you happened to check out stared up at you with his pretty ocean blue eyes, the same smile staying present on his lips. Was he checking you out, or was this all in your head? You usually had creepy old men try and hit on you, considering that was the majority of the type of people who come into the diner, unfortunately. It’s not everyday that a cute boy like him steps foot into the diner and actually seems to acknowledge you as a human being, not a machine who constantly fills your cup.

“What would you boys like to drink? Or do you want to put in any appetizers to start?” You spoke in your most friendly, customer service voice. You pulled out your pad and pen that was stuffed in your apron pocket. The other two boys were looking through the menu at the appetizers, but the boy with the pretty ocean eyes looked up at you, his smile only widening. You felt your cheeks grow hot and turn a light shade of pink at his constant stare.

You tried to ignore the fact that your cheeks were on fire, but it was impossible not to when he stared at you long and hard, his smile soon turning into a slight smirk like he knew that he already had an effect on you and you barely just met each other. How even his smile could make you insanely flustered.

They gave you their drink and appetizer orders, but also told you their names to get aquatinted. Nick, who was the oldest and the one who asked for the booth. Matt, who was super quiet, but seemed really friendly. Then there was Chris, the boy with the pretty ocean blue eyes and dazzling smile who couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you.

You slipped your pad back into your pocket, flashing Chris a widening smile before turning on your heel and walking back to the kitchen to put their appetizer orders in.

You grabbed three glasses and filled them up with their desired drink option before walking back over to their table and setting their drinks down in front of them. “Thank fuck.” Nick replied in pure desperation as he took a long sip of his drink.

Your eyebrow raised slightly at his reaction because he seemed so desperate for his drink. Chris and Matt let out a laugh at their brother. Chris shook his head in disbelief, noticing your confusion with Nick's behavior.. “Don’t mind him. He’s been editing our video for hours and suddenly now the man acts like he’s completely parched and going to die without his precious coke.”

Nick rolled his eyes at his reply, immediately sassing him. “Says the one who drinks a dozen fucking sodas a day.”

All you could do was stand there and laugh at their banter and watch it in realtime. You grew up without having any siblings, so this wasn’t something that you ever got to experience before. “It’s funny, actually. Are you guys from around here?”

Chris immediately replied to your question. It almost felt like he didn’t want the others to reply and wanted to be the one to do it. “Yeah, we live about 10 minutes from here. We were looking for somewhere to eat because we all forgot to eat dinner.”

You frowned at his words as he mentioned they forgot to eat dinner, but you were glad they stepped foot into the diner. Really glad. “Why didn’t you guys eat?”

Matt shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, taking a sip of his drink. “Me and Chris were in a 4 hour stream playing Fortnite, and Nick, well he was editing and doing God knows what else.”

Nick and Matt began to bicker about what his comment meant and that left Chris and you alone for a moment. His eyes immediately fell to yours, his lips curving up into a wide grin. “So, how long have you been working here?”

You bit onto your bottom lip as you stared at him, a small smile staying present on your lips. “About a year and a half. I’m trying to save up for my own place, but shit is so expensive nowadays.”

“I know, tell me about it. It’s just me and my brothers in our house. We do Youtube for a living, and our own solo thing on the side, but shit is ridiculous. You seem like you’re doing great though. Got a good…head on your shoulders.” His words were genuine, truthful, down right sweet. Your cheeks felt extremely warm as your smile only widened. “Thank you..Chris.” His name fell off your tongue for the first time like you could imagine yourself saying it again and again, in many different situations, if you two were to continue talking about them leaving after they finish eating.

Thinking about them leaving after this made you sad and pulled on your heart strings a little. It was nice to have some company in the diner, and overall in your daily life. Life hasn’t been too interesting lately, and even though you feel as if you were doing okay at staying afloat, there was still something missing.

You stood there staring at him for a little bit too long, your smile widening and your cheeks growing even more warm by the second. It didn’t help that he also sat there, oblivious to anything and everything else and stayed focused solely on you.

Until Matt nudged his arm to get his attention, which caused him to break contact with you and whip his head over to his brother. “What the fuck, Matt?”

Matt rolled his eyes at him, a lighthearted chuckle leaving his lips. “Oh sweet, love sick smitten puppy.” He cooed playfully, moving his hand up to ruffle Chris’ hair. “How cute.”

You watched all of this play out, Chris’ cheeks reddening by the second as he shook his head in disbelief, trying to keep himself calm and collected, rather than allowing his brother to mess with him. It was cute to watch this play out, even though you could tell how flustered Chris was.

“I’m going to go check on your appetizers.” You spoke instantly, flashing them a small smile before turning on your heel and walking back to the kitchen. Your heart was thumping hard in your chest, adrenaline pumping through your veins from the excitement of it all. You could tell how adorably sweet Chris was, and a part of you wanted to keep getting to know him, but the other part of you was afraid he’d slip through your fingers once he walked out of the diner.

The appetizers were done and you quickly brought the plates over to their table, the smell of tater tots and mozzarella sticks wafting through your nostrils and making your stomach burn with hunger. You hadn’t eaten in a couple hours, but now that you were smelling their food, it was making you insanely hungry.

“Do you guys want to put in your food orders?” You ask them in a friendly voice, a small smile staying present on your face like you usually do to everyone to help with your “great customer service” attitude.

They gave you their food orders as you wrote everything down on the pad, smiling as you did so. You let them know it shouldn’t take long and you’ll be around if they need anything until then. Before you walked away to the kitchen, Chris flashed you a playful wink and it literally made your heart feel like it was gonna leap out of your chest.

It was just you and the cook tonight, but luckily that was enough and your shift ended in a couple hours anyway. They didn’t order a lot of food, so it wouldn’t take long to make. You found yourself staring at him through the kitchen as you watched him laugh at something Nick said, his laugh being the loudest and most distinctive of the three.

You tried to keep yourself busy on your phone as you waited for their food to be ready, but your eyes kept going back to Chris. You couldn’t believe you’ve never seen him before, especially in the diner. You were drawn to him the moment you saw him, like a gravity pull, wanting you two to find each other.

Finally, the cook lets you know their order is ready and you manage to carry everything out to their table with the help of the tray that was provided for you. They stopped talking once they realized you were approaching with their food, and you swore you saw Matt nudge Chris’ arm playfully, his cheeks slightly reddened at something his brothers were saying to him. How fucking cute was this boy?

You managed to place everything in front of the right person and folded the tray up, placing it under your arm. “Is there anything else I can get for you guys?”

“Sit with us.” Chris said immediately, like it was an invitation and he was inviting you to join them.

Your eyes widened in surprise at him being so forward, but honestly, it sounded very intriguing. You looked around the diner and there was nobody in sight. You hesitated, biting onto your bottom lip. Technically, you still got a 30 minute break before your shift ended, but you never sat with patrons before while you were on the clock. You weren’t sure if it would get you in trouble, but luckily, the cook was a very chill guy and always minded his business. Also, there was nobody else working or coming in to eat so you thought why the hell not.

“Okay, why not.” You flashed them all a smile, setting the tray aside to put away later and scooted into the booth next to Nick, directly across from Chris. They all flashed you a wide smile, making you feel instantly welcomed and warm inside. It wasn’t everyday that you had people be this nice to you, especially at work. The bonus was the cute one who couldn’t seem to stop staring at you, making your stomach erupt with butterflies.

You all ended up snacking on their appetizers and talking for two whole hours about absolutely everything; your childhood and theirs and what it’s like having siblings versus not having, hobbies and interests, and about their job as a creator and how time consuming, but rewarding it can be, and your favorite question of all was Nick randomly asking you if you’re single and what you look for in a guy.

Your cheeks were completely red at his question, a soft giggle leaving your lips.You felt all of their eyes on you, waiting for your answer. You look up into Chris’ eyes, his lips curving into a slight smirk, raising his eyebrow at you in curiosity as he awaits your answer.

Luckily there was still nobody in the diner, so you were able to continue relaxing and hanging out with them without feeling any guilt. You took in a deep breath, blowing a raspberry past your lips, before finally figuring out how to answer the question. “Well, someone who is cute, obviously is a bonus, but looks aren’t everything. Yes I’m single and I’d say what I look for in a guy is all about his heart and personality. I know that’s cheesy, but it’s true. Someone I can be myself with, laugh with, feel truly comfortable and have as a life partner and a best friend.” Your cheeks were even more red after you finished speaking. They all stared at you, but then you noticed Nick and Matt, who looked over at Chris and wiggled their eyebrows playfully at him, giving him subtle hints.

Chris looked back at them with annoyance written all over his face before looking back over at you, flashing you a cheesy smile. “I’m surprised someone as precious and beautiful as you doesn’t already have someone.” He spoke his words so smoothly, with so much confidence and it only made your cheeks even more warm.

“Nah, they aren’t worth my time anyway.”

“Could Chris be worth your time?” Matt asks you, raising his eyebrow up at you curiously.

You opened up your mouth to reply, but you watched Chris hit Matt over the back of the head due to his question. You giggled softly as you watched Matt pretend to be surprised at Chris’ sudden reaction, but from what you gathered by spending some time with them, this was just how they acted on a daily basis.

“The answer is yes.” You replied confidently, not holding back now. You knew that if you didn’t speak freely, even if it meant making yourself flustered, you’d regret it and not get the chance to see him ever again and you already didn’t want that.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of the bell jingling, indicating that somebody walked in. You looked up to see a group of people standing there, waiting to be seated. You felt your heart tugging in your chest as utter disappointment rolled through you with a soft, devastated sigh leaving your lips.

They noticed your demeanor had changed and instantly looked over to see the people waiting to be served. Chris’ face softened, a slight frown appearing on his face. “Looks like you gotta get back to work, huh?” Disappointment filled his tone and his facial expressions as he studied you intently, waiting for your response.

You let out another soft sigh, nodding your head, before trying to have a positive mindset about it, considering at least you got to talk to them as long as you did without having any interruptions. This was your job and you were still on the clock for another 2 hours, after all. “Yeah, sadly. But if you guys hang around for a bit longer, I’ll grab your checks if you guys wanna head out soon.”

“We’re definitely not in a hurry to go anywhere.” Chris said immediately, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he brought his hand up to his tousled locks and messing his hair up a bit to get it to sit properly on his head. You stared at him for a moment, taking in his adorable appearance. Just from talking to Chris and his brothers tonight, you felt like you gained three new best friends, but happened to be crushing on the one you couldn’t take your eyes off.

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you, either.

The other boys nodded in agreement to Chris’ words, laughter following suite as they passed along more innuendos towards him. It only made Chris more red in the face, which you were no stranger to. He was absolutely adorable and you already couldn’t get enough of him.

“See you soon, guys.” You pulled away from their booth, waving to them with a small smile on your face, although inside your heart was aching. If only you were off the clock already, and didn’t have any obligations so you can sit around and chat with them more. You passed one more glance at Chris, who’s eyes were still focused on you. When your eyes met, his lips curved into a wider smile, winking at you once again which made your heart beat rapidly in your chest, and the butterflies continued roaming in your tummy.

With one more sigh emitting from your lips, you returned back to work, putting on the best customer service persona that you knew all too well. The group of people didn’t seem phased that you took a minute to approach them, obviously lost in their own world.

You sat them in the same section as the boys, but with distance and took care of their orders before bringing it over to the kitchen so the cook could start working on it.

Even though he was still in the diner, you couldn’t stop thinking about Chris and how he looked at you, smiled at you, genuinely seemed interested in you and wanted to keep talking to you. The feeling was mutual and it was definitely a night you’d never forget.

You walked back over to the boys, exhaling out a deep breath before letting out a soft laugh. “Gotta love working as a server, always needed or wanted at any given time.”

“I think you do a hell of a job, sweetheart.” Chris replied confidently, the nickname rolling off his tongue, so sweet and gentle it almost made your heart want to leap out of your chest.

“Thanks, Chris.” You replied back sweetly, your cheeks now stained a permanent red and completely warm, a soft giggle emitting from your lips. “Um if you guys are wanting to head out, I can ring you up at the register?”

Nick lets out a soft sigh, nodding his head as he looks over at his brothers before moving his gaze to look up at you. “Yeah, I still have to finish editing the damn video. Chris here pay the bill.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Chris before slapping his credit card down in front of him. “You know what to do.”

You were confused by this, but decided not to dwell on it considering they were triplets and can probably do things without speaking and reading each other's mind. They began to scoot out of the booth to leave but Nick immediately wrapped his arms around you in a hug which you gladly accepted and hugged him back. He pulled away, grabbing your hand and placing three $100 bills in your palm. “The tip. I’m sure you can have Chris’ another time.”

Not only did it surprise you with the large amount of a tip, but also the fact that his words made your cheeks even more red, if that were even possible. You opened up your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. He thought this was hilarious, flashing you a wide grin before waving off to you and walking out towards the door. “See ya soon, pretty!”

Matt was more chill, offering you a hug as well and letting you know that you have amazing customer service and he hopes everyone can hang out again. The feeling was mutual.

Finally, it was just you and Chris alone. He stared at you for a moment, his pretty blue eyes sparkling as he grinned at you. “Let me pay first.”

You let a nervous laugh, nodding your head and motioning for him to follow you up to the front. You rang him up, printing out a receipt and giving him a pen and the copy to sign. He scribbled on it and handed it back to you with the credit card. When you looked down at the receipt, you noticed that it had more than just his signature filled out. He wrote down his phone number.

You looked back up at him, your smile only widening and your eyes gleamed in delight. “I was worried I wouldn’t hear from you, or see you again.”

Chris shook his head immediately, his hands in his pockets. “That’s not possible. I already am quite fond of you.”

A soft giggle emitted from your lips as you bit down onto your bottom lip, a nervous habit, before back up at him. “I feel the same way. I’m pretty sad that you guys have to leave.”

He nodded his head, a soft sigh emitting from his lips. “I am too. You know, I could talk to you for hours, mainly to listen to you talk. You have such a pretty voice, and face, so I don’t mind that either.” He flashed you a playful wink, causing another giggle to leave your lips.

“You are such a charmer, Chris.”

His eyes watched you intently as you charged the card and began printing out a copy of the receipt for him before handing the card back to him. The moment you place the fresh card in his hand, both of your hands brush against each other, causing a spark of electricity to shoot through your veins and butterflies to roam in your stomach again.

He must’ve felt it too, because his smile only widened at the feeling of his hand against yours. He slipped the credit card in his wallet and stuffed it back into his pocket. “You know, I'm glad I decided to come here tonight. I wouldn't have met my future wife if I didn't.”

You rolled your eyes. “Have you always been a flirt?”

He flashed you the biggest grin and nodded his head. “Since day one, pretty girl. Hope you don’t mind it.”

You shake your head, your smile only widening as you keep your eyes focused solely on him. “No, I don’t mind that at all.”

Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms to hug you tightly, his hands moving to place onto your lower back. You immediately accept the hug, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him close to your body, your eyes fluttering closed, almost wanting to melt into his embrace. The smell of his strong, intoxicating cologne wafted through your nostrils, a soft, satisfied hum emitting from your lips. After a couple more seconds, he pulled away from your embrace, which pulled on your heart strings, but you had actual hope now that this wasn’t the last time you’d be seeing him. You could feel it in your gut that he would be here with you through the long haul.

“Text me, pretty. I’ll be waiting.” He flashed you another wink and before you knew it, he walked out the door and out to the car with his brothers.

You already missed him. The way his eyes sparkled when he stared at you, his infectious laugh and charming smile. The way he’d tell a joke and have you laughing until you were crying. The feeling of his body pressed up against yours, the spark of electricity you felt when your hands touched.

Yeah, it was safe to say that you were smitten.

Two weeks later, you’re sitting in your bedroom cross legged on your bed with your laptop in front of you and those three unforgettable boys displayed on your screen. Their Youtube channel was a hit and you’ve been watching them every single day since the day you met them two weeks ago in the diner.

Today’s video? A car video and they were discussing flirting. You almost spit out your drink when they get onto the topic of you, and going into some detail about the night in the diner.

“So, the world probably wants to know, did she end up texting you?” Matt asked him, sitting in the driver's seat.

Chris immediately nods his head, that same damn charming smile displayed on his face as he stared into the camera, almost as if he was talking directly to you, like he knew you’d be watching.

“Of course. We’re going out this weekend, on an actual date.”

You were really fucking glad fate was on your side that night in the diner.

Maybe this was the start of something beautiful.

notes: thank you so much for the request! if you have any more requests, or just want to chat, don’t hesitate to reach out.

taglist: @strangelife122 @rina3476 @chrissturnioloslvt @sturnslutz @sturns-mermaid @matthewsturnsgf @rinahasspots @222wall876 @chris-hallelujah @izzylovesmatt @strniloslvts @oopsiedaisydeer @sophand4n4 @xclusivedesires @mattsplaything @mattsbunnyxx @pair-of-pantaloons @chrissweetheart @slutformatt17 @sturnl0ve @pasteldreams @h3arts4harry @marrykisskilled @wh0remikasas @sturnzslut @camzeecorner @alesturniolos @emely9274 @2muchofaslvt @sturnslux3 @bowsandsturniolos @moustacherryismyhusband @rcameronlova1 @ivysturnss @headzgonewest @il0vey0um0st @violetstxrniolo777 @bigbeefybitch @raesturns @courta13 @sofieeeeex @tylerthecreatorsglazr @kittyyyyykats @sturniszn @estellesdoll @freshsturnzx @ivyyyyyysposts @sturnberries @sturniolochrismatt @lovesturni0l0s

-nessa

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voxslays · 4 months ago

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CLOSE TO YOU — THE SALESMAN

PART FIVE — QUESTIONS PAIRINGS: The Salesman (Gong Yoo) x Reader. WARNINGS: Mentions of kidnapping (sort of), Reader is mentioned to be a foreigner (not stated from where), not proofread. A/N: CHAPTER FIVE!!! Woo! Amazing fanart of this chapter by @m4tsuki!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The next morning, you awoke to a bright beam of sunshine landing down onto your blanketed form. As you stretch your arms from your long, (surprisingly peaceful) nights rest, you hear the birds outside your window chirping a sweet melody. What a great way to start the day.

You casually sulk into the bathroom to get ready for the day, brush your teeth and picking out your chosen outfit of the day. Everything was going surprisingly smoothly. Hell, you couldn’t remember the last time you had such an amazing morning. It must’ve been forever ago, if it even happened.

Humming your favorite song, you close the door to your room, and stroll down the pink hallway lined with a dark red carpet. They were really going for the ‘love�� aesthetic when they built this place, weren’t they? You walk until you reach door ‘218,’ where the salesman currently resides. Maybe today was the day you’d finally get him to talk.

You were still thinking about what he said the previous night. What did he mean by ‘you’re not special?’ And why had it affected you so much? You pull the key out of your pocket, and unlock the door, expecting to see the enigmatic salesman still chained up in the bathtub, but what you see instead is much worse.

He’s completely free of his restraints, staring at Gi-hun’s calendar on the wall—the calendar that contains every single day he’s been looking for the salesman for the past two years. The ravenette is holding a small juice box of apple juice as he turned to you. “I see you’re finally awake, miss.”

“What the-” You pause, looking him dead in the eyes. “How did you…?” The salesman sets down his juice box, walking dangerously close to you. “You said you wanted to play a game last night, so let’s play.” He offers. “What game would you like to play? I’ll let you pick.” His tone makes you sick. He’ll let you pick? How kind of him…

“I’m not up for one of your games today.” You sneer. “I’m fact, I was having a great morning until I saw you.” The salesman chuckles, before continuing. “How about Ddakji? It’s a classic.” You scoff. “You mean the game you use to lure innocent people to their deaths?” You ask, fire in your tone.

“They all sign up willingly. I simply give them the card.” He smiles, holding up a blue Ddakji tile. “Now let’s play.” As you take the blue tile, he grabs the red one, gripping it tightly. “I’m sure you know the rules by now, miss.” He says, placing his tile on the red carpet. “You can throw first.” Oh, how kind of him.

You throw the blue tile down with all your strength, yet it doesn’t flip. It barely even moves. You look to the salesman, who is giving you a mocking pout. Asshole. He grabs his own tile and slams it to the ground with ease, making the blue tile flip in an instant.

…

Before you know it, your face is slightly bruised from all the slaps you have received. “One last time.” You huff, slamming your tile down. To your surprise, it flips. “Yes!” You scream, readying your hand. Yet, as you get ready to slap the man in front of you, he catches your hand.

“Since you won, I’ll answer your first question.” He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting your own. “How could I possibly trust someone like you?” You look him up and down in feigned disgust. In all honesty, the man was attractive. He was tall too—about six feet, maybe? No wonder people were so eager to play with him.

“When I play with the recruited players, I always give them the money they’ve earned, don’t I?” He smirks. “You’ve been watching me for quite a while, I thought you’d have known that.” You gasp. So he knew? How the hell were you supposed to respond to something like that without sounding like a total creep? On second thought he was doing this on purpose, wasn’t he? All he wanted was to-

“Gong Yoo.” He interrupts your train of thoughts. “What?” You ask, clearly befuddled. The bright sunlight shone through the windows, making you squint at his handsome face. He chuckles as you hold your hand above your eyes, trying to see him clearly.

“My name is Gong Yoo.”

TAGLIST: @scuzmunkie @iloveinhodaeho @devilishdelirium @muchwita @ang3lgvts

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subtlenighttribute · 18 days ago

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Who the Heck is Jeremiah?

Selkie AU | Reader x Selkie!Sylus, Selkie!Rafayel, Selkie!Zayne, Selkie!Caleb, Selkie!Xavier

Featuring: Jeremiah (platonic) | Jealousy | Seal Shenanigans | Fluff + Humor

Another request done :D did this one half asleep

---

A friend of yours from the city wanted to go on vacation himself. Also wanting to know why you decided to move sea side, so he asked to stay at your place.

You hadn’t even finished dragging your friend’s luggage inside when it started.

Jeremiah—charming, easygoing—grinned at you and said, “Cute place. So this is where you kept disappearing to?”

You barely had time to respond before a low thud echoed from the hallway.

Followed by another. And another.

You sighed.

“…they're here.”

---

🐺 Sylus

Sylus came barreling in first, all white-furred menace and narrowed red eyes. His whole posture screamed: Who is this? Why are they talking to you? Why are you smiling?!

He placed himself between you and Jeremiah like a fuzzy wall of jealousy.

Jeremiah blinked down at the sleek, snarling seal. “Is he…guarding you?”

You tried not to laugh as Sylus growled (as much as a seal could) and then bumped his head into your thigh protectively. You gave him a scratch behind the ear. “That’s Sylus. He’s a little…territorial.”

Jeremiah bent to offer a cautious wave. Sylus slapped his flipper down with insulted drama.

---

🫧 Rafayel

Rafayel showed up fashionably late and very dramatic—sprawled across the kitchen counter like a showpiece, gleaming with seawater and glitter from who-knows-where. The chair he used to get up there was knocked over behind him.

He stared at Jeremiah. Then at you. Then back at Jeremiah.

And then, without breaking eye contact, Rafayel knocked a cup off the counter with his flipper.

“Is…is he glaring at me?” Jeremiah whispered.

“No,” you lied. “He’s just… expressive.”

Rafayel proceeded to flop dramatically on b the counter with a thud and groan, then down the hall, returning five minutes later with one of your scarfs wrapped around his neck like a prince scorned.

---

🪨 Zayne

Zayne didn’t make a sound, but the way he looked at Jeremiah was enough to freeze boiling water.

He sat in the corner of the room like a judgmental statue. His whiskers twitched. His eyes squinted. You could practically feel the words radiating off of him:

“Why is he here?”

“Why are you laughing at his jokes?”

“Do you think he’s funny? Because I’m funny. I ate a rock for you once.”

You gave him an apologetic smile and nudged a bowl of fish snacks his way.

He ignored it.

Jeremiah tried to compliment the cozy aesthetic of the house. Zayne slowly slid himself across the floor like a grudging ice cube, parked beside you, and didn’t move for the rest of the day.

---

🦭 Caleb

Caleb was too excited to be jealous at first.

“Guest!!” his whole body seemed to say as he flopped in a full circle around the living room. He nosed Jeremiah’s shoe, licked his pant leg, and immediately tried to show off his “seal tricks” by spinning on the floor and nearly knocking over a lamp.

You laughed. “Caleb, no backflips indoors—”

But the moment Jeremiah handed you your travel mug and smiled warmly at you?

Oh.

Oh no.

The switch flipped.

Caleb froze. Then slowly, deliberately, crawled into your lap like a jealous toddler, stared Jeremiah dead in the eye, and farted.

You choked.

Jeremiah blinked. “…Okay, so that one’s Caleb?”

---

🌊 Xavier

Xavier didn’t show up until evening.

But when he did—he locked eyes with Jeremiah and very slowly let the tide wash over his fur like he was about to deliver some ancient judgment.

He didn’t approach. Just watched. Watched like a Roman senator watching a gladiator bleed out.

“Your seals are…intense,” Jeremiah muttered as he helped you set the table.

You shrugged. “They’re just not used to visitors.”

Xavier took that moment to slam his entire body weight against the porch screen door, as if to say "Leave."

---

Eventually, after snacks and a beach walk, Jeremiah looked at you with a crooked smile. “You weren’t kidding. They’re all a bit…attached to you.”

You grinned sheepishly. “They’re sweet. Just…weird.”

You didn’t see Sylus stick his tongue out at Jeremiah when his back was turned.

---

Later that night, after Jeremiah fell asleep in the guest room, you shuffled out to find your seals all piled in the living room in a suspicious heap—like a jealous gang of sea puppies.

You curled up in the middle, and one by one, they flopped closer again. Sylus huffed. Rafayel sniffed dramatically. Zayne pressed his tail to your leg. Caleb chirped sleepily. Xavier curled by the door, watching.

You patted them fondly.

“Jealous weirdos,” you murmured.

They did not disagree.

#lads #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads x reader #lads xavier #lads zayne #love and deepspace #selkie #selkie au #lads caleb

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solarmorrigan · 8 months ago

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You've Got Me

For the @steddie-spooktober day 16 prompt: "Would you please stop trying to scare them?" Rated: T | Words: 1430 | CW: references to PTSD, nightmares | Tags: established relationship, protective Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson being an asshole, just for a little bit though he didn't know any better, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

The ringing of the phone in the hall jolts Eddie from what had otherwise been a peaceful sleep.

He lies there a moment, attempting to parse out what the hell he’s supposed to do to make the ringing stop, when someone pats him vaguely on the chest and rolls out of the other side of the bed, telling him, “I’ve got it.”

Steve, Eddie’s brain supplies. Steve’s always been faster to wake, moving from dead sleep to motion in a way Eddie only manages after nightmares.

The ringing stops, followed by the sound of Steve’s voice, faint but audible through the cracked bedroom door. Eddie blinks at the ceiling, trying to kick his brain into gear. What time is it? What day is it? Who the hell is calling in the middle of the night?

Eddie turns to squint at the clock in the dark. It’s just gone three in the morning. It’s… October 30th? Something like that. It’s almost Halloween, Eddie knows that for sure – which is when it hits him.

Almost Halloween. Almost an anniversary.

He’d bet money it’s either Dustin or Lucas on the phone. Slight chance it’s Max, if she’s been shaken up enough. Doubtful that it’s Mike – he wouldn’t stoop to admitting he needs to talk to Steve in the middle of the night; he usually waits until morning to call, if he’s going to at all.

Eddie’s heard the full story of Upside Down Event Number Two, everything that took place around Halloween of 1984, and he understands the phone calls now. He understands the tension that threads through their little group around this time of year, even as they all try to enjoy Halloween. Even though he’d had no way of knowing at the time, he regrets it a little that he hadn’t taken it more seriously – how shaken up the kids had been that first year he’d known Dustin, Mike, and Lucas.

Eddie’s always loved Halloween; loves the aesthetic, loves the candy, loves the premise of running around and causing chaos in the night, loves everything about it, really. Most of Hellfire Club had been in agreement with him: it’s a holiday for misfits. He hadn’t been able to understand, then, what had gotten into his snarky, spitfire little freshmen – for a few guys who’d seemed like they’d be really into the holiday, they mostly seemed edgy about the whole thing.

And so Eddie had tried to get them into the spirit.

He’d done so by running a special campaign all through October, something filled with darkness and monsters to set the mood. He also may have done so by occasionally sneaking up on them and spooking them; he doesn’t really have an excuse for that one, they’d just been such easy pickings. He hadn’t understood at the time why.

He may have done this one evening after Hellfire, when Steve had come by to pick the boys up.

And instead of waiting in his car and occasionally beeping the horn impatiently, like usual, Steve had parked, gotten out, and marched right up to the drama room doors where everyone had been waiting.

“Go wait in the car,” Steve had told the boys, his tone harder than Eddie had ever heard it when they were in school together. “I’m gonna take a minute to catch up with Munson.”

The fact that no one had argued with him should have clued Eddie into how serious the whole thing was, but he’d mostly been distracted by what the hell Steve Harrington could have wanted to talk to him about.

“So, what have I done to earn an audience with the king?” Eddie had asked once the boys had gone.

Steve hadn’t taken the bait, only crossed his arms over his chest and answered, “Would you please stop trying to scare them?”

Eddie had blinked at him, surprised. “What?”

“Look, I know what you’ve been doing.” Steve had said, expression as stony as his tone. “Henderson’s been telling me all about your horror adventure or whatever it is, and he’s mentioned your little jump scares, too, and I’m telling you: you need to knock it off.”

At the time, Eddie had only bristled; people didn’t tell him what to do – especially not people like Harrington.

“They’re big boys, Harrington, I think they can speak for themselves if they object to a few jokes.”

“They shouldn’t have to,” Steve had snapped. “Just– those kids have been through some shit, okay? So maybe take that into consideration before you go jumping out of closets or whatever the fuck you’ve been doing.”

Eddie had not been jumping out of closets, for the record, but Steve’s words had given him pause. “What kind of shit?”

Steve had shifted, almost uncomfortably, but stood his ground. “You remember the whole mess with Will Byers?”

Who didn’t? That whole thing had been a trip and a half; kid goes missing, is found dead in the quarry, gets buried, and then somehow turns up miraculously alive and (mostly) well? It stuck out as an event to just about everyone in town. Eddie had nodded at Steve.

“Well they’re his best friends,” Steve had jerked his head back towards the car. “And we’re coming up on that time of year, so I think you’d be a little jumpy, too.”

It had been all the information Steve had been allowed to share at the time—stories of demodogs and junkyards and tunnels and Hargrove wouldn’t come for another few months—but it had been enough to make Eddie feel a little guilty.

This had only served to make him pricklier, and Steve had taken his sudden, stubborn silence as his cue to make an exit.

“Just think about it, Munson,” he’d said, before turning and heading back to his car.

Eddie had thought about it, and to his credit, he’d stopped with the jump scares and had mildly scaled back some of the gory details in his Halloween campaign, and the kids had come back around to themselves.

Now– now Eddie gets it.

He manages to shuffle himself up and out of bed with a sigh, willing some coordination back into his limbs as he struggles into a pair of sweatpants and stumbles out into the hall. It’s still dark, illuminated only by the kitchen light, but he can see Steve leaning against the wall next to the phone, the handset cradled against his ear with his arms crossed tight over his chest.

He must be cold. The hallway is chilly, and Steve hadn’t even paused to find pants before answering the phone; he’s standing there in just his boxers, but he’s talking calmly to whoever’s on the other end of the line.

“No, you guys did a shit job patching me up,” he’s saying, though he sounds nothing but fond as he does so, “but I’m tough, so I pulled through, anyway.” There’s a moment of silence as he listens to the person on the other end of the line. “You want me to come over there and prove it?” Steve finally offers in response – he sounds flippant, but Eddie knows it’s sincere, and he’s pretty sure whoever is talking to him will know it, too.

After another few moments, Steve asks, “You sure?” Then, “Okay. You have our number if you change your mind… Yeah. See you then, bud.”

“Everything good?” Eddie asks, holding out a hand as Steve levers himself away from the wall.

“Fine,” Steve answers, taking Eddie’s hand and trailing him back to the bedroom. “Henderson. Just a nightmare.”

Must’ve been some nightmare if he’d felt the need to call and make sure Steve was still alive at three in the morning, but Eddie keeps that assessment to himself. He hums in sympathy instead, leading Steve back to bed.

They settle in, Eddie on his back and Steve cuddled up against his chest, leeching whatever warmth he has to offer as Eddie strokes a hand down his back.

“You gonna be able to get back to sleep?” Eddie asks quietly.

The kids aren’t the only ones who have trouble this time of year.

“’m fine,” Steve answers, already sounding like he’s partway to sleep. “Got you, don’t I?”

Eddie smiles into the darkness, slowing the motion of his hand until he can cinch his arm around Steve’s waist and tug him closer. Maybe he hadn’t fully understood what they’d all been going through in the beginning, but he’s there now, and it seems like that must count for something.

“Whenever you need me, baby,” Eddie promises. “You’ve always got me.”

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie-spooktober #steve & the party #solar wrote #eddiesteve

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after-witch · 2 years ago

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Late Night Break In [Yandere Uvogin x Reader]

Title: Late Night Break In [Yandere Uvogin x Reader]

Synopsis: You never expected to find your soulmate. After all, it’s not like there were lots of people named “Uvogin” out there.

Word count: 3000ish

notes: yandere, soulmate AU, breaking and entering

Another Friday night alone.

But it’s okay. You won’t wallow in self-pity and think about the couples who were out and about the city on romantic dates, or snuggled up on the couch prepping for a night of passionate (or not so passionate, depending on the strength of their relationship) sex.

Life’s too short to wallow. And it’s not like you were exactly alone.

You’ve got your movie collection and your antique figurines and your latest purchase, a vintage sofa with restored upholstery that means you get the benefit of the original aesthetic without the downside of years of stains, rips, and potential bed bugs.

And you have friends. Maybe you don’t see them very often, admittedly because you got tired of being asked when you were going to find your soul mate, whether or not you’d consulted a searching service to find them, if you were interested in one of them paying for the service if you didn’t have the money…

Sure, some people might get a little lonely without their soulmate. Someone who you were meant to be with forever and ever, until one or both of you died. And your coworkers who’d long since found their soul mates or who were actively searching day-after day (usually using those paid services that were perfect for such things--not that you wanted to spend your money on that) sometimes looked at you with these awful pity-filled expressions that made you want to roll your eyes.

More so than your friend’s worried clucks and glances between each other, because at least you knew your friends were coming from a place of worry and not from a place of “why haven’t you done this thing society expects you to do?” like your coworkers.

And, really--

It wasn’t your fault that you hadn’t found your soul mate.

It’s not like there were tons of people in your home city named “Uvogin,” after all.

At least his name was well-hidden on your body. It was written, as everyone’s was, in a neat cursive scrawl in black ink that would never come off. You’d heard stories of people who had gone so far as to cut off the skin that contained their soul mate’s name--fighting destiny and all that--only for the name to pop up somewhere else or sometimes even on the same spot, black as ever on the healing, mangled skin.

It wasn’t something you were going to try.

Uvogin’s name, whoever he was, was on the back of your neck, low, between your shoulder blades. You liked it that way. It meant you couldn’t be the target of scammers or people who’d been unable to find their real soulmate and were obsessively, dangerously desperate to get someone (anyone) to be with them.

And you? Well. You wouldn’t deny that it might be nice to find your soulmate. Some of your friends and coworkers and passers-by-on-the-street certainly seemed happy to be together.

But you weren’t going to stop living your life just because you were still on your own. So if you spent your evenings watching movies or rearranging your decorations or making the perfect beef-and-wine stew for one, what was so wrong with that?

You don’t wake up when someone breaks through the wood of your door with a simple stab of their fingers, slides their hand in, undoes the lock, and turns the door knob to enter without any more fanfare.

You don’t wake up when someone’s eyes dart around your apartment, looking for your bedroom. You don’t wake up when your bedroom door opens with only the tiniest creak.

You only wake up when a hand is slapped over your mouth, and you jolt from a dead sleep with a dizzying suddenness that leaves your head swimming.

You’re awake--you think--and there’s someone above you, a big, heavy presence that seems to take up everything in your field of vision. The taste of salt and flesh is on your mouth, a big hand pressed over your lips and jaw to keep you from moving them.

To keep you from screaming.

“Where is it?” The voice asks, and you can tell it’s a man. But he’s huge, tall as anything, and even in the dimness of your room you can see he has a wild shock of hair that makes him look more like a lion than anything else. The thought is almost silly in the fogginess of your head, but as reality comes in, clearing the way, there’s nothing to laugh about right now.

“Where’s what?” You ask, or try to ask, though you can’t do more than mumble against the large meat of his hand against your face.

It takes him a moment to register that you can’t actually answer. You can see, barely, his eyes narrow down at you.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, and you won’t be. He wants money, presumably, and you can give him that. Or your TV. Or whatever he wants. As long as you make it out alive.

Slowly, he removes his hand, as if waiting to see if you’ll try to scream.

You don’t. As he moves his hand away, your thoughts come quick, untethered, flitting about the unfairness of the situation. You haven’t really lived yet, and you’re too young to die, and you hope he doesn’t hurt you at all but if he does just let him not kill you at least, is that too much to ask, God, you hope not--

“Where is it?” He repeats. And maybe it’s just your imagination or the fear getting to you, but he seems like he’s lowered his voice a little, sounding less harsh and more considerate. Maybe because you didn’t scream and you aren’t making trouble. That’s a good sign, maybe. It’s hard to tell.

You swallow. You wish he would move back, so you weren’t lying on your back in bed. But he does no such thing, so all you can do is stare up at him, heart hammering, mouth dry.

“Where’s what?”

He snorts.

”Your soulmate’s name.”

Does your heart stop? No, but it feels like it does. You expected him to say something else. Like. Your money or your safe or your most valuable items. But your soulmate’s name? Is he some sort of deranged loner who couldn’t find his soulmate and he thinks you’re itt?

Or…

You swallow, thick, as the thought finally comes to you. It’s not something you thought about often, because most people weren’t worried about things like this. But sometimes your soulmate was someone Not Very Nice. Someone that Hunters might be tasked to go after. And this man, bulky and strong and intimidating as hell, could definitely be a Hunter.

More often than not, they went after civilian soulmates when catching the criminals proved to be too difficult--though no one could say for sure what might be done to them afterward.

Some of them were used as bait. Some of them were taken to the authorities to help track down their not-so-law-abiding soulmates. And some… well. You’d heard rumors that killing a soulmate could hinder certain types of criminals.

“None… none of your business.” Your teeth clack against each other, a thin, quick pain that seems to linger on in your mouth.

The man’s lips twist into a frown, half-shadowed by the darkness in the room, although as your eyes adjust you can see more of him. It doesn’t make you feel any less worried about what’s going to happen, though.

“No?”

You see his arm move, and think he’s about to slap his hand over your mouth again, but what he does instead is shove his arm right in front of your face.

You blink.

And stare.

And it takes you a moment to realize what you’re looking at--on his arm, bulky as it is, scared as you are.

It’s your name. In a nice, neat scrawl. Unmistakable and permanently stained on his skin.

This man isn’t a Hunter sent here to kidnap you or drag you into a station or kill you. And he certainly isn’t here to steal your wallet or your television or your collection of rare comic books.

He’s your soulmate.

Uvogin.

“B-Back… back of my neck,” you say, stammering.

He hums. And then he shifts over on the bed, and you instinctively sit up in your bed, glad to no longer be prone underneath him.

“Let me see,” he says, gruff. But there’s a gradual lessening of heaviness in the air, now that you know he isn’t here to kill you or rob you or who knows what else. That still doesn’t excuse breaking into your apartment and doing this, but…

You lean forward, and with a surprising gentleness considering his size, he pulls down the back of your nightshirt enough to see what’s underneath.

“Heh, there it is, huh…”

He lets the fabric go and you lean back, looking at him. He stares down at you, his weight sagging your mattress, his bulky frame taking up most of the bed.

“You gonna scream?”

You think. You bite your cheek. You shake your head.

“You gonna try to run?”

You breathe out through your nose. And you think. And you shake your head. You won’t scream, you won’t run--you can tell without asking that neither of those would do you any good. And… do you really need to? There’s a strange sort of curiosity that’s building inside you, now that you know who he is--your soulmate.

He nods, tilting his head back a little, craning his neck as if to stretch it.

“Hope so. Would be stupid if you tried, and I hope my soulmate isn’t that stupid. You get me?”

You nod again, and your breath hitches just a little when he stands up and begins to stretch his neck again. He sighs, evidently pleased by the releasing of tension, or maybe pleased that he’s found you and you didn’t shriek like a wild banshee and try to get away.

You could still try to run. Your fingers grip on your sheets, still uneasy. Sure, he was your soulmate but… soulmates didn’t usually burst into people’s rooms at night and tell them not to scream. Usually.

Uvogin, like his name, was definitely an outlier.

He leans against the wall next to your bed, looking down at you with appraising eyes. It almost makes you wish you weren’t sitting in bed wearing an old nightshirt, eyes bleary, hair messy. It wasn’t exactly a good first impression.

“Been looking for you for a while,” he tells you. “I thought maybe you were good at hiding… Shalnark’s soulmate kept him out of the loop for a while.” He chuckles to himself, reliving some private memory. “But looks like you’re just that much of a nobody.”

Something inside your chest bristles.

“Excuse me?” You sit up straighter, and finally get the nerve to lean over to your bedside table and flick on the lamp. Your eyes squint for a moment. The addition of new light doesn’t make your soulmate look any less intimidating. But it does make you feel less like some helpless rabbit in the dark, at least.

He raises his eyebrows, and there’s a small part of you--a churning in your stomach--that tells you to sit down and shut up. But you’re not about to be

“That’s rude,” you say, as calmly as you can. “I’m not a nobody just because you couldn’t find me. Maybe it means you’re bad at looking.”

There’s a pause, a beat. You wonder if you’ve pissed him off. But then he throws his head back and laughs.

“Fair enough,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fair enough.” He sighs, then, and looks up at the ceiling. “There is the question of what to do with you, though.”

Ah, there it is again. That churning in your stomach. A growing pit, tight and electric.

You sit up straighter, and piece what little you know of these puzzles together in your mind. It doesn’t add up to anything particularly wholesome, even with giant chunks missing.

“I… I’m guessing you wouldn’t be okay with a long distance relationship,” you mutter.

He scoffs, a little laugh. “Oh? What gave you that idea?”

He leans forward, and you don’t know exactly what you expected him to do, but it wasn’t to pat you on the head. But he does.

“Smart,” he says, while his voice is teasing there’s something that sounds a little genuine in there. Or were you imagining it? Was it just part of the soul mate bond, maybe, to automatically see things your soulmate did as pleasant?

He sits back down on the bed. The bed frame creaks. You aren’t keen on spending money to replace it, but you aren’t keen on scolding your very large, very strong soulmate right now either. So you keep mum.

He leans forward and rests his hand on his palm, keeping his elbow on his knee.

“Well. I don’t exactly got a house with a white picket fence. Or without one, for that matter.” He rubs at his nose, and it strikes you, how casual this conversation is… your soulmate, sitting on your bed, after breaking into your apartment in the dead of night. You take the moment of his consideration to lean over and look through your bedroom door, which faces the entryway. You can just make out the busted wood of your front door… fuck. What would your landlord say?

“Some of the others got one place they keep their soulmates, suppose I should think about it…” He glances at you, gauging something. “Makes it easier when you have one place to go, ‘stead of dragging your soulmate everywhere.”

His words finally do let you feel a sense of unease. You don’t know who the “others” are, or why they would need to be dragging their soulmates everywhere. He wasn’t a Hunter, but maybe something like it. Something that kept him moving. Or, more likely considering the circumstances of your first meeting, something that kept him on the run.

The thought of being dragged around or even taken to some sort of strange house brings back that churning in your stomach, an awful, lurching feeling. Your eyes dart around your room, to everything you’ve set up in your life up until now.

Every inch of your apartment was carefully chosen, down to the rugs on the floor and the color of the tension rods you’ve shoved into the windowsill. But it’s not just the decor. It’s… your whole life. Your job, the coworkers you’d carefully built relationships with, the fact that you have a favorite diner for breakfast and takeout spot for the weekends.

“I… don’t want to leave here.” Your voice is soft and at first you think he doesn’t hear you, but when you see him raising his eyebrows and lean forward, you get the nerve to continue.

“If-if that’s possible,” you add, a little quickly. “I’d like to stay here. This could be your… the place where you keep me. Or whatever.” The last words come out mumbled. They’re almost embarrassing to say, like you’re some kind of pet.

He doesn’t say anything for a little while. You almost start talking again, some half-baked plead, but he leans a little closer to you. His look is serious.

“How could I trust that you won’t just run away after I leave?”

Your lips press together.

“I worked hard for this place. For this life. I would hate…” And you search for the words, lost somewhere in the dimness of your room. “I would hate for it all to become worthless.”

You sit up straighter, before leaning towards him. Maybe it will be easier to convince him if you don’t act so rigid, so scared. You can do that.

“If you let me stay here, or-or even if you just let me take my favorite things with me, I’ll be… good?”

He snorts. There’s a hint of a smirk as he leans forward.

“Yeah? You’ll be good?”

Warm flushing creeps to your cheeks, and for the first time you think about what it really means to be someone’s soulmate. Togetherness. Intimacy.

Your words come out halted, and fumbling. But you mean them, as long as it guarantees that you don’t have to give up your life. Your apartment, your spots, every carefully curated bit of your existence here. Or even--and the thought is desperate--if he is going to take you away, it would be enough if you could keep your belongings. Just enough.

“I’ll do what you want?” You shrug, keeping your eyes downcast on your lap, though you can see him shift out of the corner of your gaze.. “Cook or clean or… whatever.”

There’s a hand on your chin, but this time he doesn’t cover your mouth. Instead he tilts your chin up and holds it there, forcing you to keep eye contact.

“So what? You want to make a deal? I let you keep some furniture, and you’re going to be a good little housewife for me?”

“I didn’t--” You say, practically spluttering the words out. “I didn’t say that.” Your cheeks feel impossibly hot.

He laughs, and lets go of your chin. You don’t look down.

“No, I like it. It’s cute.” He grins at you. “I’m lucky. Some of the others, well…” He rolls his eyes, and you don’t press him on it.

He drums his fingers against the bed.

You look up at him, eyes wide, hopeful.

He sighs, then gives you a lopsided grin that makes your stomach churn in a different way than before. Though the feeling is just as unnerving.

“All right,” he says, with a casual sort of finality. “You can stay here.” A pause. “For now. If you try anything--and I mean anything, like going to the cops, telling your friends, whatever…” He moves his wrist around in a gesture that you can only take to mean “all of this goes away.” He looks at you with a seriousness that makes you want to press yourself through the headboard and into the wall. “Got it?”

You nod.

But then…

“There’s… one thing I need you to do before morning, then,” you say, voice tight and quiet but determined. “Uvogin,” you add, hoping that using his name might make him a little less intimidating. It doesn’t, but maybe that comes with time.

Both of his eyebrows raise. You almost think he’ll just shut you down, but instead he asks--

“Yeah? What’s that?”

You gesture towards your open bedroom door, towards the front of your apartment.

“You have to fix that door first. My landlord will have a fit.”

For the second time since meeting you, Uvogin throws back his head and laughs.

#yandere uvogin #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere #yandere soulmate au #afterwitch writes

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surpriseelejahmonth · 17 days ago

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Surprise Elejah Month - Fan(fic, edits, art & meta) - August 2025

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Pre-Event Celebration - [August 1 - August 2] - As a warm-up to the main event, and to get into the right kind of shipper headspace... let us consider some appetizers, if you will:

Fave Stuff Rec Party - Reblog or post links to your favorite Elejah fanworks and share the love (please no reposting; link to the original work or reblog it and tag this blog if the fanwork in question is already available on Tumblr).

Orphan Prompts - Post the answers to the Orphan Prompts that have caught your fancy during the last two months (more about Orphan Prompts here; but in short if there's an Elejah idea you have but don't feel like doing yourself? Send it to the Ask Box from now until the beginning of August 2025)

Adrenaline Jolt to the WIP - Shuffle through your half-finished edits and anxiety-buried half-chapters of your WIPs. Pick that thing up and see what happens, or maybe just post what you have as a sneak peek. Alternatively, and in tandem with Fave Stuff Rec Party, say something nice to the person whose Elejah WIP you still occasionally think about to brighten their day.

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Week 1 - [August 3 - August 9] - Meeting of Contradictions - Push together angst and humor. Make something fluffy, but also have it be horror. It's a giggle at a funeral. Both rage and blissful happiness. Alive and dead. There is love within a void. And maybe one has to be lost to be found? Both terror and relief.

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Week 2 - [August 10 - August 16] - Week of the Literary Love Story: (each prompt is given a separate day, but that does not mean you must create something for all of them, pick the one(s) you want, or skip the week if none intrigue you).

Sunday - Beauty and the Beast. Monday - Odyssey. Tuesday - The Nightingale and the Rose. Wednesday - Pride and Prejudice. Thursday - Helen of Troy. Friday - Orpheus and Eurydice. Saturday - Hades and Persephone.

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Week 3 - [August 17 - August 23] - Significant Memento - the burning letter / the dagger to the chest / a bedroom windowsill / the blood in champagne / gazebo in sunlight / his expensive suit / the red in her hair / the skip in her heart / the trust before a betrayal / the negotiation in the middle of night / a kiss like a lie / a promise in a glass bottle / the ground that crumbles under feet / the taste on their lips / the reflection in the mirror / always and forever.

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Week 4 - [August 24 - August 30] - Love Letter to an Episode - take an episode (any episode) from any of the TV series in this universe and make it Elejah. It can be as canon-compliant as you want. Play with American Gothic. Grab an Originals episode and drop Elena in there. Drop her and Elijah both into Legacies. Hell, push a plot of an episode you like from a completely different show onto Elejah, the world is your oyster! (If you're writing meta posts and don't feel like dealing with just the canon Elejah content either, discuss how Elejah would have dealt with the plot from your chosen episode.)

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Post-Event Celebration - [August 31] - Now for the last curtain call with all its bows and cheers, so that we may go out with a bang:

No Theme, FREE-FOR-ALL - Let's post as much Elejah content as we want, with whatever focus we want. The more, the merrier after all!

Lost, But Not Forgotten - But if some theme direction is what you want? How about picking up one of the themes that lost the poll after all?

Orphan Prompts - Or, if the adopted prompts took longer than expected, you could always finish up to post that now.

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What do you need to do to join the Surprise Elejah Month? Just be a fan of Elejah! Write some meta, write a story (one-shots, drabbles, first chapters of new WIPs, and new chapters of old WIPs are all accepted), make a gifset, fanart, poem, an aesthetic, edit, song playlist, or a fan video created for the event (or if all else fails, crochet their names into a scarf), and tag @surpriseelejahmonth + add #elejahmonth2025 to the first 5 tags.

There are no limits on how many or how few works need to be created to "count" as having participated. Everyone is welcome!

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Special invitation: @kaizsche, @wholoveseggs, @vorpalmuchness, @jennifersminds, @kol-elijah, @becasart, @elejah-verse, @katherineholmes, @lovelyelejah, @moonysmate, @anphibole, @reina-petrova, @sevensistersofsussex, @sharkboy305, @elejah12, @xneens, @thereideffects, @darknightfrombeyond, @teenage-apocalypse-trilogy, @ao-anonymousobsesser, @coazysdaydream, @myfuchsiadreams, @keepsdeathhiscourt, @bada-bing-bada-boom-pow, and literally anyone else who feels like trying their hand at creating something for Elejah.

#elejahmonth2025 #surpriseelejahmonth #elejah #elena gilbert #elijah mikaelson #tvd #the vampire diaries #elejah fic #elejahedit #elejah week #elejah month #elejah month calendar #info

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jinxedhrts · 3 months ago

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⟡꩜ .ᐟ ──── SHE LOVES THE MUSIC THAT MY BAND MAKES!

PREVIEW OF : band-member!Natalie x florist!Mari, A slowburn between the two!

A/N:comment to be in taglist, hopefully posting 2night or tmr!

Natalie walked into "Forget me not?" scoffing lightly to herself. "Huh. I guess this is the floral shop." This isn't a place Natalie would usually go. Too neat. She was only here to pick up flowers for her bandmate Van to give to Taissa but with the fragrance of the flowers pulling her in, delicate and intoxicating just like her. Mari Ibarra as beautiful as ever. Natalie hadn't seen her since graduation but her beauty never faltered. She looked the same, just more put together—like she actually knew what she was doing with her life. Something Natalie didn’t know much of. Natalie was so drawn in, watching her move effortlessly behind the counter like she belonged there, until—

"Woah is that Mari?" Misty's voice cuts Natalie's thoughts, taking her back to reality. Misty adjusts her glasses, squinting as if she couldn’t believe the girl behind the counter was actually there. Then before Natalie could even think about stopping her she's rushing over, "Mari! It's so nice to see you" A big smile playing on her face.

Natalie followed behind her slowing, giving Mari a lazy wave with a quirk of her lips slightly amused. "Van said she comes here often to get flowers for Tai, She didn't mention that you worked here."

Mari meets Natalie's gaze, smug and amused as ever, "Yeah, This is my shop. My dad helped me start her up." She said her voice proud. Then as any other day she moved from behind the counter towards the rose section. Fingers trailing lightly over the petals she passed. "Van she usually gets Taissa orange roses mixed with evening primrose and marigold. It's a beautiful combo."

Misty nodded to each word Mari said while Natalie on the other hand didn't hear a thing to be honest. She was focused on Mari's hands adorned in gold rings that caught the light perfectly. A stark contrast to the silver ones Natalie had on herself. It was dumb and meaningless to notice but she couldn't look away. Mari was like a shining light to her always standing out in Natalie's eyes despite being boring to others. Natalie swallowed, shifting on her feet. She didn't come here to ogle Mari and to her luck Mari noticed.

"Damn, Nat, if you stare any harder, I might make you a custom ‘doom and gloom’ bouquet. Dead roses, cigarette ash, maybe even some wilted lilies for the whole ‘tragic poet’ aesthetic?" Mari teases, grabbing the wrapper paper for the bouquet in her hands.

Natalie rolls her eyes smiling, There she is. The Mari she knew "Yeah? Maybe throw in a free beer for me too" she scoffs flipping Mari off with a smirk.

#marinat #yellowjackets #yellowjackets smut #yellowjackets fanfic #yellowjackets fandom #yellowjackets fanart #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio fanfic #natalie scatorccio smut #mari ibarra #mari ibarra fanfic #mari ibarra smut #nataliescotorccio #mariibarra #marinatfanfic #marinat fanfic #marinat smut

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morelikeravenbore · 7 months ago

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Can I Make It Any More Obvious? — part one.

Sk8erboi!Sebastian meets Ballerina!Aurélie

(Or: my slow descent into madness via a sk8er boi x notebook crackfic au.)

Inspired by the girlies in the writing server, thanks for the sk8er boi brain rot. I don't know why I'm writing this and I have absolutely NO IDEA where it's heading.

Content: MODERN AU. 🛹 It's 2002 and Sk8er Boi is rockin' up MTV. 🛹 Sebastian is an idiot (affectionate). 🛹 Sebastian thinks he's good at skateboarding but is secretly a nerd. 🛹 Basically Canon!Sebastian with a skateboard. 🛹 Yes I squeezed in a reference to my favourite Notebook scene. 🛹 Yes there will be more Notebook references. 🛹 Part two when? Who knows. 🤙🤙🤙

Warnings: SFW. Non graphic mentions of blood/head wound.

Word count: 2.6k

👉 PART TWO HERE.

[read on wattpad]

Wizarding folk, among which Sebastian was usually proud to include himself, had a distinct fondness for cobblestones. Great for aesthetics, sure: nothing screamed eccentric magical village quite like alarmingly uneven roads — but what worked for aesthetics was absolutely shite for skateboarding.

That's right. Skateboarding.

Luckily, Sebastian was a wizard — and quite a gifted one at that — and though his professors from his Hogwarts days would likely argue that inventing a hovering charm specifically to ride a Muggle skateboard over otherwise un-skateable terrain was a waste of his talents, he was inclined to disagree — especially now, as he hurtled down the main street of Hogsmeade, dodging carts, villagers and stray cats at speeds that rivalled the newest model of the Firebolt.

No, far from a waste of time, this was undoubtedly the most impressive use of his magical prowess since he'd successfully cast the Torture Curse on the first go.

That is until a Thestral-drawn carriage pulled out right in front of him.

‘Fuck —!’

For all the time and effort he'd put into developing his hovering charm, he'd neglected to install an emergency braking system.

Swerving hard to avoid collision, he heel-flipped upwards, accidentally performed his signature mid-air 360 Great-Merlin Kickflip over the top of the carriage, then rail-flipped off a lamppost before launching skyward again.

Choosing to ignore the fact that he'd just performed the best tricks of his life while careening uncontrollably through the air, Sebastian let out a great ‘Yeeeeew!’ of triumph — but the sheer force of his excitement threw him sharply off balance. Wobbling precariously atop the board, arms flapping like an overfed Diricaw trying to outrun a diet plan, he tried to regain control —

But it was no use.

He hit the ground, whacked his head on something hard — a bloody cobblestone, probably — and rolled neatly across the way before the great double doors of the Three Broomsticks finally ended his epic wipeout.

Groaning miserably, he rolled onto his back to find two blurry faces peering down at him with mirrored expressions of shock.

‘Are you alright?’ they asked in perfect unison.

Blinking rapidly, Sebastian's entire world flipped on its axis (er, again) as the face of the prettiest girl he'd ever seen came into stunning, albeit upside-down relief: backlit by the summer sun, a halo of auburn hair framed a pair of eyes so piercingly blue that he was sure they saw into his soul.

Fuck, he was dead, wasn't he? He was dead and this vision of beauty above him was an angel come to take him away to — ah, fuck fuck fuck! Death by malfunctioning magical skateboard was not how he'd planned to go out!

He scrambled gracelessly to his feet.

‘Shit,’ he replied, flicking his swishy hair out of his eyes. ‘I mean — fuck. Hello — shit, you're pretty.’

Taken aback, the girl's orphic eyes widened in alarm.

‘Did you — are you hurt?’

Sebastian swayed on the spot. ‘Who, me?’ He tried to chuckle, but nonchalance was difficult with a head wound. ‘Yeah, I'm fiiiine — completely, totally fine… Never been better, actually. Feel amazing. Best ride of my life.’

Her gaze lingered on his forehead. ‘You're bleeding…’

‘Am I?’ He definitely was — he could feel it. ‘S'alright, happens all the —’

A very disorienting moment later, Sebastian found himself in the back room of the Three Broomsticks with a cold rag pressed to his head and a very irate barkeeper clicking her tongue in disapproval.

‘Skateboarding!’ Sirona tutted. ‘Right through the middle of Hogsmeade! What were you thinking?’

But Sebastian wasn't thinking. At least, not about anything but startling blue eyes.

‘Wasn't,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Where girl?’

He stood up; Sirona shoved him back down.

‘Sebastian, you've got a bloody great gaping wound on your head!’ she scolded, holding him down by the shoulders. ‘I've called for the Healer —’

‘Fuck the Healer.’ He stood up again, swiping his bloody forehead with the back of his hand. Just a scratch. He'd be fine.

‘Oh for the love of —’ Catching him by the sleeve before he could stumble for the exit, Sirona levelled him a look she usually reserved for unruly patrons who’d indulged in too much firewhisky. ‘The girl who brought you here — while you were semi-conscious and incoherent, might I add — is eating lunch in the corner booth. But behave yourself, will you?’ she called after him as he wrenched out of her grip. ‘She's French!’

Sebastian liked Sirona — really, he did; she was the only villager who let him practise his kickflips out the back of the Three Broomies without calling the authorities — but right now he'd push her off a cliff if she got in the way of him and the girl.

Still unsteady on his feet, he barrelled into the tavern proper, where the lunch hour was in full swing and the smell of ale and shepherd's pie made his head spin. He made for the corner booth, flattening his hair with his hands and praying to Merlin above that he didn't look as fucked up as he felt — but his heart dropped when he found the booth occupied not by a dainty little redhead girl but by a group of menacing-looking warlocks tucking into a pig's head for lunch.

Shit.

He spun around. Maybe it was the concussion speaking, but he had the most awful, gut-wrenching feeling that if he never saw her again, terrible things would happen.

He had to see her again.

Scanning the crowd with increasing desperation, he was just about to accost Sirona for more details when he caught a flash of long, red hair slipping through the exit. He dashed across the room, chasing that swishy hair the way a bull charges after a Matador.

‘Hey!’ he called out, skidding through the doorway and into the sunlit street beyond. ‘Hey, wait!’

Frantic, he pushed through a group of disgruntled old ladies, jumped over a very startled cat and almost lost his footing again as he hurtled down the road, this time driven not by magically charmed skateboard but sheer desperation.

‘Hi,’ he panted when he finally caught up to her.

The girl cast him a sideways glance.

‘Oh, look,’ she said with a melodic French accent, ‘it's my new husband.’

Sebastian stumbled over another cobblestone.

‘I — what?’

‘You must've hit your head quite hard indeed if you don't remember professing marriage to a complete stranger.’

He stopped dead in his tracks. Was she joking?

‘I didn't,’ he said, aghast.

‘You did,’ she returned, flashing a wry grin over her shoulder as she walked on.

He hurried after her. ‘Fuck, I'm — I'm sorry, I hit my head really hard.’

‘Oh, so you're revoking your marriage proposal?’

‘No —! I mean, yes, but — I don't even know your name.’

‘Hmm.’ She stopped to peer interestedly at the window display of Tomes and Scrolls. ‘Makes our engagement a bit awkward, no?’

Sebastian could only gape wordlessly as she drifted gracefully into the bookstore.

‘Hang on.’ He dumped his board at the door and lumbered in after her. ‘You said yes?’

The girl pressed her lips together in suppressed amusement. ‘I said I'd think about it. – Bonjour!’ she added, greeting Mr Brown so sweetly that the shopkeeper's usually surly countenance brightened like he'd swallowed his sun. Sebastian wondered if he, too, looked equally as ridiculous as he followed her down the nearest aisle…

Likely he did.

He didn't really care.

‘You'd think about it?’ he whispered, lowering his voice as a show of respect to the books crammed into the overstuffed shelves on either side of them.

Though he'd be hesitant to admit it aloud to anyone (lest the truth ruin the bad boy persona he'd been carefully cultivating for many years), Sebastian was at his happiest when surrounded by books. No longer having access to the Hogwarts library since he’d graduated a year prior, he'd taken to visiting Tomes and Scrolls so often that Mr Brown, a fervent bibliophile and an avid sesquipedalian, had given him a part-time job and leased him the shoebox flat on the second floor, ‘...since you refuse to cease importuning me with your quotidian ritual of perambulating about my pulchritudinous premises!’

Crammed with books but bereft of furniture, the tiny, two-roomed flat was dingey, draughty and, judging by the thick layer of dust that’d greeted him on his arrival, hadn't had a living soul cross its threshold since 1892 — but it sure beat living with Solomon in Feldcroft: the only thing his uncle hated more than Sebastian's boards was Sebastian himself, and though piles of books didn't offer much in the way of conversation on those long nights alone in his flat, at least they'd never called him a good-for-nothing waste of space nor gotten so black-out drunk they’d passed out in the middle of the living room for several days.

No, when it came to companionship, Sebastian generally preferred the fictional sort.

Today, though, squeezed between the narrow aisles with a girl whose radiance rendered him dumber than a flobberworm, Sebastian wouldn't have noticed if the books became sentient, grew papery legs and performed a perfectly choreographed flash dance in the village square. Deep in the reverential hush of the bookstore, they could have been the only two people in the world.

‘Well, you seemed so terribly earnest about us getting married…’ mused the girl, trailing delicate fingers over book spines and blurbs. ‘And I didn't want to hurt your feelings when you were injured. And then the barkeeper came —’

‘— Sirona.’

‘Oui. And you asked her to prepare us a wedding suite.’

Sebastian stared at her. ‘I can't tell if you’re joking or if you’re just…’

‘French?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mm,’ she said simply, and it was only when she looked him over did he become horrifying aware of his state of dishevelment: his grey hoodie was caked in dirt, there was a new tear in his jeans that he hadn't artfully produced on purpose, and when he glanced at his reflection in a nearby glass cabinet, he was shocked by how much blood was smeared across his forehead.

This was not Sebastian's first head wound. It was, however, his most mortifying.

And yet, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, this angelic girl, with her silk blouse and balletic gait, wasn’t running from him, threatening to hex him, or even regarding him with the slightest bit of ridicule. In fact, unless the knock to his brain had skewed his ability to accurately interpret social cues, she rather seemed to be enjoying his company.

Or at the very least, she found him amusing.

He could work with amusing.

When she disappeared down the next aisle, he steeled his nerves, cast a (mostly useless) cleaning charm over his scraggly appearance, and followed after her again — only this time, with the strategic use of his signature swagger in full swing, the effect of which usually left hoards of girls swooning in his wake.

He tousled his hair.

‘Anyway,’ he began, confident, suave, assured, ‘I'm Sebas —’

‘— Sebastian Sallow,’ she said, not looking up from the book she was perusing. ‘I know, you told me earlier. You also told me your age, your middle name, which house you were in at Hogwarts, your favourite colour, and,’ — she flashed a dubious glance at the cut on his forehead, — ‘that you're “hands down the best skater in all the Highlands.”’

Sebastian's swagger visibly deflated.

‘Is that all I told you?’ he gulped. Given his recent history, blabbering on about marriage was not the worst thing he could’ve told her.

Not by any stretch.

‘Mhm.’ She slipped the book under her arm and glided deeper into the shop. ‘Aside from the marriage proposal.’

‘Right,’ he swallowed. ‘Aside from that. So, uh.’ He stepped around her before she could flit off again. ‘Are you going to tell me your name?’

She smiled up at him, and he wondered if her plump, strawberry lips tasted as sweet as they looked.

Fuck.

‘I already did,’ she said coyly, lightly stepping around him again. ‘But you evidently did not commit it to memory.’

Whatever remained of his short-lived confidence packed up its bags and slinked out of the bookstore with its tail between its legs, leaving him fully exposed as the poser he truly was.

‘You didn't,’ he moaned, chasing after the scent of her floral hair like a bee starved of pollen.

‘I did.’

‘No.’

‘Twice, actually.’

‘Twice?’

‘Mhm,’ she said, picking up another book. ‘Not a great start to our whirlwind romance, is it?’

Sebastian looked at her sideways.

‘I still can't tell if you're joking,’ he lamented, feeling a burgeoning sense of anxiety tighten his chest. ‘What if I guess?’

She set the book down and turned to him.

‘Listen, Sebastian,’ she began, pronouncing his name the French way, ‘you seem very sweet, but —’

‘I am!’ he blurted. ‘I am sweet! Very sweet, in fact! Unless —’ A surge of panic stole through him. — ‘Unless you don't like sweet? In that case, I'm not sweet, I'm horrible. A nightmare. I'm literally the worst, I'm —’

‘You're dumb,’ she interrupted with a giggle.

Sebastian softened like fucking butter.

‘I can be that,’ he said with so much earnestness he wondered what the fucking hell was wrong with him. ‘I can be dumb, if that's what you want. Just tell me what you want, and I'll be it.’’

‘What I want,’ she said, regarding him with equal parts exasperation and pity, ‘is for you to get your head looked at.’

'You sound like my uncle,' he snorted. 'I mean, uh, I will!... If you come with me?'

‘Do you need me to hold your hand?’ she said archly.

‘Yes!’

‘Mm…’ She pretended to think. ‘Non.’

‘But — wait! What if — What if I have a concussion and I die without ever knowing your name? Wouldn't that be tragic?’ He pressed his hands to his chest and went on dramatically, ‘As I lay dying, holding the vision of your face in my mind's eye like a guiding light, my only regret will be that I never knew the name of beauty.’

Clearly unmoved, she levelled him a look so dry it would've parched a weaker man than he. But Sebastian Sallow was no coward! — Especially not with books at his disposal and the smell of parchment in his lungs. Inspired into a literary fervour, he swept his arms wide.

‘Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips,’ — his voice dropped to a whisper, — ‘O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss…’

‘Oh, mon dieu.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It's Aurélie. — Aurélie Collins.’

Sebastian's mouth dropped.

‘Aurélie Collins the ballerina?’

‘Oui.’

She turned. He followed.

‘The famous one?’

‘Oui.’

‘But you're the youngest ballerina in the Paris ballet or — whatever. Right?’

‘Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris,’ she corrected, holding herself a little straighter. ‘I didn't pick you as a ballet fan.’

‘I'm — well, I'm not,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘But my best mate is. Fancy prick, Ominis is, but all the Gaunt's are.’

She stopped so abruptly that he bumped into her.

‘Ominis Gaunt is your best friend?’

Considering they hadn't spoken in over a year, “best friend” seemed a bit of a stretch, but for all intents and purposes, Ominis was really the only friend Sebastian had. Or used to have: after that one time Sebastian had used the torture curse on him, their friendship had become a little… strained.

‘Why?’ He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said loftily. ‘In fact, he and I have a date planned in ten minutes from now.’

Don't worry, there's not a single universe in which Sebastian and Aurélie don't fall stupidly in love. I just needed a foolproof way to make Sebebe jealous in part 2, and what better than to have his girl (quote unquote) go on a date with his estranged best friend who he tortured for a spell book that one time lol.

#Sk8erboi!Sebastian #Ballerina!Aurelie #sebastian sallow fanfic #sebastian sallow crackfic #sebastian sallow au #aurelie collins #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy au #hogwarts legacy crack fic

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