(you Need To View The Image Or You'll Just Like The Post)

Daichi: I love all my children equally! hinata, yamauguchi, *looks at smudged handwriting on his hand* kagayllama, tanatoe, noma and *squints* sushi

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

Solving mysteries, solving problems.

Shaggy Rogers (Scooby Doo Mystery Inc.) X reader

Got a request for a fic like this, and I had fun with the ✨angst✨

Your hands move quickly as you lock up the food counter for the night. You technically weren't supposed to close today, but your coworker got sick. You've already cleaned out the soda machine tray and flipped the closing sign over to closed. Despite this, when your back is turned to clock out, you hear a crash behind you as the front door swings open. Sighing, you turn. Collapsed on the floor is the lanky form of your... friend, Shaggy Rogers.

"Y/N!" He says in his scratchy voice, getting up from where he collapsed on the floor. He notices he knocked over a promotional cardboard cutout for the shop, and awkwardly tries to place it back up. It falls again, and he spends about 5 minutes repeating the action, while you watch from behind the counter. "Uh, like, sorry about your decor man..." He says after giving up on his task. He strolls over to the counter, and looks at the menu. "Shaggy, I don't know how to tell you thi-" He completely ignores your talking, hyper-focused on the menu. His eyes squint and his brows furrow in concentration, and you stop talking. 'He's totally tuning me out.' you think, rolling your eyes. "Okay!" He slaps his hands on the counter, his posture determined. "Give me, like, one of everything on a sandwich. No, two sandwiches!" he stops. "Gotta pick up something for Scoob." He mutters. He then looks up at you expectantly, only to be met with your annoyed face. "Dude, we're closed." you say. He only stares in disbelief, blinking once or twice, before collapsing once more before the counter. He clasps his hands together, and sits on his knees. "Wha- NO! Y/N, come on, please!" He shuffles forward, trying to look more pathetic. "I'm practically on the verge of starvation, man!" You sigh. "Shaggy, we closed like half an hour ago, you know this." You lean forward over the counter to look at him.

"You've let me eat here before after hours!" He yells. You push your hands forward in shock. "Shh, no, don't be so loud, I could be in serious trouble for that!" You exclaim quickly. He sighs and slumps back to the ground. "Like, what am I gonna do, man?" He asks. "I'm sure you'll think of something." You attempt to go back to your work, but he pops up over the counter and scares you. "Hey, maybe Daphne has some snacks. She's, like, super loaded!" He says. "Come on, we can go together!" he begins to leave. "Wha- no, I need to close, and besides," You shut the cash register, "I walked here. Daphne lives on the edge of town." Shaggy's positive attitude never falters. "Don't worry, man. I'll drive us! We just have to pick up Scooby, and-" You cut his rambling off.

"No, Shaggy! Just, no!" You yell, a bit harsher than you meant. His face falls and he looks at you. You sigh, and turn away. "Just, not tonight, okay?" You shake your head. Shaggy walks towards the counter, his face confused and his posture cautious. He sits up on the counter. "Y/N, if you don't wanna go to Daphne's that fine, we can go somewhere else..." He suggests. "No, it's not that." He thinks for a moment. "Then, what is it?" He asks. You remain silent for a minute.

"How long have we been friends, Shaggy?" You ask. He tilts his head at the confusing question. "Um, about a year now, maybe a year and a half?" He says, scratching the back of his neck as he thinks. "And how long have you known the gang?" He looks up. "Is that what this is about?" You sigh. "I guess, it's just. Do you know how hard it is to try and be friends with the gang?" You ask. "I thought you guys, like, liked eachother!" He says. "I do! Individually, everyone is really nice, but..." You pause. "But, together, everyone is so close, it feels like I don't belong..." You look down. "Y/N... No! I'm sure if you asked the others, they'd tell ya' you fit in." He tries to reach out to your shoulder, but you dodge it. "You're totally one of us, like," he pauses. He remains silent for so long, you look up. He is deep in thought, possibly more than you'd ever seen him.

"Like, if I asked the gang, I'm sure they'd let you become a permanent member." He suggests, before smiling at you. You sigh. "Would they?" You ask. "Sure, man, why wouldn't they-" he stops when he sees your frown. "I know that I wouldn't get in. Not officially." You sit next to him on the counter, and look at your lap. "You can't know that, like, we let in that weird little Scooby once." He shivers, remembering the horrors of Scrappy Doo. "I talked to Marcy the other day, I thought she could understand my dilemma." When you glance over at him, you see him nodding. He appears to be pretending to know who Marcy is. You sigh. "Hotdog water...?" You ask, and he nods, recognizing the old nickname. "Yeah, she was great, like, super nerdy." You roll your eyes at Shaggy's anecdote of the brilliant girl. "Yeah, well, she was a necessity to the gang, an assets. I mean, she was a genius, and you guys didn't let her stay." You say. "I don't really have anything to add to the team, I'm even worse off." You chuckle sadly. You're both silent for a while.

"Well, okay. You don't have to be a member of the team, or even hangout with them if you don't want to!" He says, nodding as if to assure himself. "But there your friends, I want to be able to get along with them. So you can hang out with them and me at the same time." You say sadly. "I hang out with them all the time, but, like, I do wanna spend more time with you." He stops himself, as if he can't decide if he should say what he's thinking. "I wanna spend more time with, just you." He mumbles. You blush a little, and look up. "With, just me?" You ask. he swallows awkwardly and nods. "Can I ask why?" It's his turn to look uncomfortable.

"When we hangout with the gang, like, they're always doing, y'know, group stuff. And I'm part of the group." You're a bit confused, but wait for him to go on. "Like, I'm always busy, man! Fred called us out at like 3 in the morning last week!" He says, hands flying up in exasperation. "I still don't see what this has to do with me." You mention. "Right, right. I just, I don't know man, I really like, like you. We haven't been able to see each other." He admits. "I, yeah, okay." You say, trying to think.

"So, like, could we go out to eat soon?" He asks. "Sure, but I feel bad. I mean, the gang is a huge part of your life, I feel like I should be able to at least get along with your friends..." You say. He shrugs, and says "You do get along with them, but, you don't have to be there best friend. I'll try to talk to the gang about, like, being more open or something..." He trails off. You smile. "Thanks, Shaggy." You say, hopping of the counter. "Lemme finish closing up the sop, then you wanna watch a movie at my place?" You ask. "Like, totally, man!" He says, giving you a thumbs up. Once your out of sight in the back of the shop, he sighs, and fidgets awkwardly with his hands.

He thinks to himself, 'Jeez man, I've gotta get this crush thing under control!'.

procrastinating my homework and wrote a non-sensical poem in my notes app again

The Midnight Subway

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x GN!Reader

Deranged Five my beloved ❤️ They massacred your character

(this is not canon compliant in the slightest; prepare for gross misinterpretation of Five's new powers)

Summary: You are the only passenger on the timeline subway. You've met many iterations of the same traveler, but he never comes back. Until he does, and he finally asks the right questions. He claims to know how to stop the apocalypse, and all he needs is your help, but is he worth leaving behind all you know?

Word count: 3.6k

(AN: Confession: I never watched season 4 because I saw what a trainwreck it turned out to be, so this is very VERY loosely based in canon. Also the relationship between Five and Lila doesn’t exist because Genuinely What The Fuck. Basically I saw the vague concept of a time subway and ran with it.)

He’s covered in blood again.

He is more often than not.

In the middle of wiping arterial spray off his face with a handkerchief, he notices you, and surprise and suspicion flit over his face. Not a version of him that’s met you before, then. You’ve met him… eleven times now? All different versions from different timelines. All tired. All old beyond their years.

They get off at the same stop every time and never get back on.

This one’s wearing his school uniform. You’ve never seen him dressed like that before. His hair is long like the rest of them, though, strands hanging over his narrowed eyes.

“Who the hell are you?”

You blink. He’s not usually so aggressive. “I’m just a passenger.”

“How did you get here?”

You shrug. “Stepped off the station platform, I think.” It was a long time ago, except it wasn’t. You’ve been riding this subway for a very long time, except you haven’t. Your mind is filled with a hundred thousand identical minutes of staring out the window at the blurred lights, but you look exactly the same as you did when you boarded. “Hey, what year is it for you?” Sometimes he says something truly outrageous.

He ignores your question in favor of trying to pull open the subway doors, but they don’t budge. He curls his hands into fists. Blue light crackles around them and he pushes, but nothing happens.

You clear your throat. “Unfortunately, that won’t work. You’ll just have to wait until we get to your stop.”

“What do you mean, my stop?”

“I don’t know. I think you just have to feel it.”

“Well, aren’t you cryptic.” He rolls his shoulders and angles his chin, a tell you’ve noticed he does just before attacking. Sure enough, out comes the gun from his pocket. He angles it square at your forehead and snaps, “Explain. Now.”

“I can’t.” You raise your chin, daring him to shoot. You’re not sure if people can die on the subway. You’re not sure if you can die. You’re not sure that you don’t want to. “Obviously I’ve never felt it.” You gesture pointedly at your seat. “I’ve been here a long time.”

“How long?”

“Time doesn’t really exist here.”

For a moment it’s obvious that he’s internally debating whether or not to shoot you. “Fuck.” He shoves the gun back into his pocket. “When’s the next stop, then? I need to get off, I need to save my family. There’s an apocalypse—”

“I know,” you say gently. He’s always worried about one apocalypse or the other, always running from a million different ways to end the world. “You might as well sit. There’s no way to stop the train. It’ll stop when it’s meant to.”

“No. No, I don’t have time for this.” He shakes his head. “I’m finding a way out. You can rot here for all I care.”

“I won’t,” you say serenely. Until the timelines implode, you’ll continue to ride the subway. And once they do, you probably still will. It exists outside of the continuum. All that will change, you think, is that there will be no more stops. It’ll just be one long subway ride for eternity. If not, then at least you’ll go out painlessly.

He sighs and looks around for anyone to commiserate, but there’s only you. Without so much as a goodbye, he’s stalking away in that little ramble that reminds you sometimes of an adolescent bear: a dangerous beast that thinks it’s as large as it will be, not as it is now.

He slams the door to the next compartment. You sigh and scratch the cheap paint on the pole to your right. Sometimes he stays longer, sits down in a seat across from you and asks questions meant to seem casual, but you always know they're an interrogation.

You'll see another him soon enough. There's no indication of time on the subway—if it was real, it would be in an underground tunnel, and the only light comes from the flickering fluorescents above and the occasional tunnel light through the window. Days don't pass with the indication of a sun and moon. You're not sure if you've ever even slept. So you're not sure how long it will be before another shows up. Once two showed up at the same time and tried to kill each other. At least the survivor was nice enough to drag the body away before he got off.

Some time later you feel the subway shudder. You tilt forward slightly as it starts to slow down and eventually stop. Both sides of the doors open to a nondescript subway station, and the train repeats its usual monotone monologue. Time for him to get off, then. Maybe there's a difference in the destinations depending on which side you choose, but probably not. You're pretty sure the subway knows what its riders need.

An hour, a day, or a year passes, and the door to the next compartment opens. He steps through again. This one is wearing the same schoolboy uniform, and he doesn't look surprised to see you.

In fact, he's strangely intent.

"There's no one else on this train," he says, and you realize this is the same boy you just saw.

He came back.

He's never come back before.

Something stirs inside of you, something you haven't felt in a long time. It's still trapped beneath the blanket of dull apathy you've nurtured for so long, but its shape starts to rise in your throat.

"So why are you here? How are you here? Who even are you?" He stands in front of you close enough that you can see blood on the side of his neck that he didn't wipe off.

"I told you before. I got on. Why didn't you get off at your stop?" He's never stayed on the train longer than he has to. He's never stayed.

"This isn't a subway you can just 'get on.'" He uses finger quotes. "Do you work for the Temps Commission?"

"No," you say slowly. "I don't know what that is."

Abruptly he sits down across from you, loosens his tie, and asks, "What day were you born?"

"What a strange question. I don't know."

"You don't know an awful lot."

"I was born sometime in the fall of 1989," you say. "Sometime in September, I think, or maybe early October. That's what they estimated at the orphanage, anyway."

He sits back and runs a hand through his long hair. "You don't know."

"What do I not know."

"Who you are." He looks at you curiously. "That's why you keep ignoring the question."

You snort. It's not even very funny, but you haven't had anything to find amusing ever since you stepped on the platform. What a relief to learn that you can still laugh. Of all the things the universe stole from you, laughter isn't one of them. "Of course I know who I am. I'm one of you."

"What?"

"Or I was supposed to be." He still looks confused, so you elaborate, "One of the umbrellas."

"How do you know about that?"

"I didn't grow up on the train. I got on when I was nineteen. I saw your team all over the news growing up." A familiar hurt pangs in your stomach. "Why was I the only one your father didn't adopt?"

He lets out a long breath, then says, "Jesus." He stands up, then sits back down. “Well, if it makes you feel better, you weren’t the only one. Reginald only needed seven. He made forty-three.”

“Oh.” You slouch a little in your seat. It’s comforting to know that your exclusion wasn’t personal. You and thirty-five other kids hadn’t been found. Had their parents kept them? They probably had families. And even though the Umbrella Academy’s families hadn’t kept them, at least they had each other.

It’s comfortable to sink back into self-pity.

“So what can you do? Do you have a name, at least?”

“Of course I have a name,” you say, and tell him what it is. “Funny you ask me that when you’re the one that doesn’t. Is this where you went when you died?”

“No.” A shadow crosses over his face. “I went somewhere much worse.”

“Sorry,” you say after a pause. It seems like the appropriate response. You haven’t had a real conversation in a while. Or maybe you had the last one yesterday, just before stepping onto the subway.

“So what can you do?”

“Change time.”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you think I made it here?”

Technically, time broke when you and Five were born, bunching into little pockets like the one you made your home. When he jumped through time, though, he started the branching of realities.

The only real difference between you two is that you can manipulate time, and he can get in and out of it. That's not to say that he doesn't have its own influence over it, though.

"I made this little pocket of time into a circle, and around and around we go.” You spin your finger in the air. “But it’s because of you that it looks like a train. Five, who do you think broke the timeline in the first place?”

He stares at you, speechless.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say defensively. “And you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“That’s—just so—how does that make any sense? People are still dying! My family will die!” Instead of the gun, this time he pulls out a switchblade and flips it open. The tip glints under the fluorescents.

This has never happened before. The Fives never come back. They’ve never asked the right questions. After all, you’re not hiding anything.

“You can’t kill me,” you say wearily.

“I can try,” he growls, and lunges.

Here, you exist constantly. It's a circle and it's one stationary point. The track is an ouroboros, and the train isn't even moving. Five lunges and he doesn’t, and your throat splits and it doesn’t, and blood spills all down your front and it doesn't. You choke as it rushes out, and—

There is no blood. No cut. Five is back in his chair holding the switchblade, and you’re still in yours.

“You can’t surprise me,” you say apologetically. “I’ve seen everything. Before you even try to kill me I’m stopping you.”

“I’ll figure out a way,” he growls.

The subway grinds to a halt. You look around, surprised, when the brakes squeal. That’s never happened before. The announcement over the speakers is so gravelly you can barely understand a word.

The doors open. Five looks between you and the exit several times, then makes his decision.

“I’ll be back,” he promises. Threatening, like that’s supposed to scare you. You’d be glad for the company, you think. You’ve been sitting in silence for so long.

He steps off the train and the doors whoosh closed.

The ride starts again, and you fall back into the comfortable lull of the engine’s rumbling.

Some time later, the subway stops again. Its words are still garbled through the speakers. Technically, no time exists here, but you're pretty sure these intervals are out of the ordinary. Are they affecting the subway?

It starts back up again, and the connecting compartment's door opens. In walks a new Five. He's wearing the same schoolboy uniform as the last—you think. Instead of a spray of blood on his face and collar, though, he's completely soaked in it, like he drained a hundred bodies and bathed in their entrails. His hair is soaked flat against his head, and his teeth are red when he bares them.

"I'm back," he growls.

It's the same Five.

He came back again. No one's ever come back for you even once, let alone twice.

"What did you do?" Your stomach twists. You're not squeamish, but this is... a lot.

"I went to a diner," he huffs and sprawls in the chair across from you. The gaudy faux-velvet seat drinks the blood up greedily. "Met a lot of alternate versions of me."

"Did you kill them all?" you ask, horrified. Some of them had been polite. Gentle, even, beneath their hard exteriors.

"They had given up," he snarls. "They wanted me to give up on saving my family. I haven't spent decades of my life fighting for them to do that." A manic light shines in his eyes. "One of them made brisket."

Your lips twitch. "You're not a fan of brisket?"

"I like brisket fine," he says, giving you an annoyed side eye. "What I didn't like was their attitude."

"So you killed them all."

"Yes."

Well, at least he remains secure in his decisions.

“So I broke the timelines?”

“We both did.”

“So we’re the only ones with a chance of mending them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why not?” he challenges. “You said you made a pocket of time—this pocket of time—a circle. Why can’t you fix it?”

“Because our birth was what broke it in the first place,” you say sharply. “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re so selfish you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself for the world?”

“The world’s never done anything for me,” you say. Cruel foster home after foster home, orphanage between them, minimum wage paychecks kept in a box beneath your bed because you couldn’t open a bank account without guardian permission as a minor, and an abrupt stint at being homeless the moment you aged out of the system. You couldn’t afford housing even on the highest-paying job that would hire you. You couldn’t afford a college degree to get a better job. No, the world never did a thing for you. That’s why you left in the first place. “It’s not my responsibility to save it. Besides, you’d have to die, too. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?”

“For my family, in a heartbeat,” he says immediately. “I’ve killed plenty of people to save them. What’s another two more?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” you sigh. “For as long as we exist here, the timelines stop branching.”

“What?”

“I already did the world a favor by leaving, but you kept breaking it by jumping through time.”

“If you won’t come willingly, I’ll force you.”

“You could certainly try.”

“I’m leaving.” He stands abruptly.

You sigh as he does, accompanied by the train's distorted, "Arriving now—doors clear at—see you—"

What a miracle that he visited you thrice. The company should tide you over for a long while yet.

You sit for a while, just looking at the blood stain he left on the chair across from you. Eventually it starts to stink, or maybe that’s just in your head. Either way, looking at it makes your stomach turn.

Ever since you got on the train and sat down, you’ve never switched seats. It’s almost a surprise that you can stand up. You clutch the pole close to you for balance when the floor vibrates underneath your feet just slightly with the force of the train’s engine.

You head across the compartment and sit in a seat facing away from the bloodstain, but the back of your neck prickles. It’s in the shape of Five’s body, and you can’t stop picturing it coming together as a facsimile of a person, a terrible lumbering blood-shadow creeping up on you.

You jump to your feet and whirl around, but it’s just a bloodstain.

You can’t stay here, but you don’t know what the next compartment looks like.

Will it be exactly the same? Will it be completely different?

It's the same, and for some reason you can't bring your feet to stop moving. You pass through that car, then the next. They're all the same, except none have the bloodstain that Five left on his seat. Would it still be there if you were to return? Can you even go back?

You can't stop opening the doors, but the train never slows. You want to get off. You want to explore more of this inbetween space.

You want to find the Five that came back for you.

You give up after a hundred compartments and stand in the middle of one, clutching the nearest pole for dear life, barely swaying with the train's gentle movement. The train was always an escape for you, but now it seems more like a trap. One that you sprung on yourself without knowing how to get out.

Do you even want to get out?

The air shifts, and you turn just in time to see the bag close over your head.

Five drags you away from the pole and slams you into a seat. Something poking out of it digs into your back. You can only see the faint light filtering through the bag, and that makes you hyperfocused on Five's hands on your shoulders.

"I figured it out," he snarls, the sound so close he must not be more than an inch from your face. "You and everyone else that gave up were wrong. There's a way to save the world and save my family, so you're going to get off this train now, or you get off the train in thirty minutes after I cut off each of your fingers and feed them to you and you beg me to stop you."

You suck in a breath. It's one of his more graphic threats for sure. Oddly enough, you can't see how this will play out. The bag over your head means you can't see where the blows will come from.

For the first time in a long time, you're scared.

Your mouth opens without knowing what to say. You're saved by a screech of static. The train announces, "Congratulations! All passengers—to a book club—third compartment in any direction—Ben will see you there."

The pressure of Five's hands disappears from your shoulders, and you hear hurried footsteps. He never tied the bag, so you rip it off in time to see him pass through the door to the next compartment.

Your pulse bounds in your throat. That announcement was new, and makes the train sound much more sentient than any train ought to. You're supposed to be the one in charge of this pocket dimension, but what if you're not? What if someone else has been calling the shots this whole time?

You chase after Five. At least with him, you know what he wants. You know how to appease him. He doesn't go out of his way to hurt people, at least, though he doesn't seem to think of himself as anything more than a killer.

You only catch a glimpse of his heel in the next compartment. You start to run. What if the doors lead you to separate cars, and you never see him again? The only person that ever came back for you, and he did it four times.

You're still running when you make it to the third compartment, and you run straight into Five's back. He doesn't even seem to notice it, apart from stumbling a bit. He's too busy staring openmouthed at the man sitting down. His hair is a little bit longer than it was when you saw him last.

The stranger has dark hair and glasses, and there's a book forgotten on his lap. He looks just as surprised to see Five as Five is to see him.

Five chokes out, "Ben?"

Oh. Ben Hargreeves. Number six of the Umbrella Academy. The Horror. He always seemed so gentle when you saw him on TV, at least when he wasn't covered in blood.

"Five." Ben puts the book to the side and stands. Five is already striding towards him, and they collide into a tight hug.

Seconds later, Five pulls away and demands, "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know." Ben shrugs. "I woke up on this subway a couple days ago with this book."

A muscle twitches in Five's jaw. "And instead of trying to find a way out, you started to read it?"

Ben says, "It seemed like the right thing to do." His eyes slide past his brother and land on you. "Who's this?"

You introduce yourself and Ben's eyes widen. "That's you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain. It's just... you exist in this subway." The way he says exist sounds like he means something bigger. Deeper. He just doesn't know the right words for it, because there might not be any. "I was waiting for you to find me."

"Why?"

"It felt right."

What on earth does that mean? If it felt right for him to wait for you, why didn't it feel right for you to seek him out? Why did it take you decades or minutes to chase after Five and bump into Ben? None of it makes sense.

Five grabs Ben's sleeve. "Hold on to me." He looks at you and says firmly, "You have to let go."

"Let go of what?"

"You know what. The reason you got on the train in the first place. Y/N, you have to let go."

Your lips tremble. "I don't want to."

"I know. But you have to." Five's hand takes yours. He squeezes it comfortingly. "I need you for this. Won't you come with me?"

You take a deep breath.

And you let go.

Five x Reader Taglist

@statsvitenskap @dare-the-punisher @thespian-anon @ask-veronica-sawyer-heathers @fivegallaghers @ggclarissa @akiyamakuro @featuringcone9 @badluckqueen @littleamoux

My requests are open! As always, let me know if there's anything you particularly want to read!

Y/N: Okay, truth or dare?

Sherlock, shrugs: Truth.

Y/N: How many hours have you slept this week?

Sherlock:

Y/N:

Sherlock: ...Dare.

Y/N: Go to bed.

Sherlock: I don’t like this game!

“You promised you wouldn’t forget me” + ambrose please?

+ “I wished every day to hold you once more”

I haven’t written Ambrose yet so I hope this is somewhat good!!

Ambrose’s house arrest was a touchy subject. He had his family, of course. He could act like that was enough, but he craved more. He would feign indifference.

He often remembers his life outside of the Spellman household, the people he met, the lovers he had. He remembers, but wishes he could forget. There is nothing worse than those memories. The memories taunt him in his dreams. Y/N haunts him in those dreams. 

The bed was suffocating as he attempted to unwrap his body from the sheets. The dreams, again. The same face he’s seen every night for 75 years in this house. He rubs at his eyes, trying to get rid of the thought, but he can’t drop it. Y/N. They had lost contact after everything that happened with the Vatican. He’s tried to find traces, but to no avail. You did not want to be found. The feeling of betrayal was the only thing he had left from you.

“How long has it been, Ambrose? 70 years?” A voice from across the room made him scramble in his bed.

“Who’s there?” He was never one to be scared, but the voice was hauntingly familiar. It was just there, in his dreams. Was he still dreaming?

The room is dark, he’s unable to see a thing. “You promised you wouldn’t forget me.” The voice teased, bouncing of the walls from every side. It itched at him as he stood up from the bed, hating the way the voice taunted him. This was all too familiar. He fumbles around the room for his light, flicking it on.

Ambrose meets the same face he’s seen every night for 75 years and he’s positive he’s dreaming. Except, the hair is different, the eyes aren’t as bright, but that’s the same seductive smile from years ago. Not a single word seems to be able to escape his mouth, even though there’s a million of them swarming his thoughts. “Y/N.” Is all he can say, eyes wide. “You’re not real.”

“Why would you say that?” You questioned, reaching a hand out to touch his cheek. He responds instantly, leaning into your touch. It feels like you never left. “It’s me, Ambrose.” You reassure him.

He searches for something that would tell him otherwise, but he finds nothing. It has to be you. “I wished every day to hold you once more.” He confesses, eyes pleading with your own. He’s never felt so vulnerable, yet so complete at the same time. “Why did you leave?” He finally questions, but doesn’t pull away, too scared you’ll disappear.

You open your mouth to answer, but Sabrina bursts into his room. She looks frightened, but stops in her tracks when she sees the scene in front of her. She steps forward tentatively, reaching a hand out to Ambrose. “Ambrose…” She trails off, eyes apologetic as she touches his arm. “There’s a sleep demon in the house, this…” She glances at your figure. “This isn’t real.”

Ambrose turns to meet your eyes again, wondering if what his cousin is saying is true, but you’re gone. He can still feel your hand on his cheek. He was simply reliving all the other dreams he’s had for the past 75 years. The real torture is waking up, the real torture was him believing you’d ever come back.

“You have to wake up, Ambrose.”

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 𝟣

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞! 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞! 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 + 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲! 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞! ♡

“Yah! You’re billowing dust all over me!” You giggle as Su-Hyeok all but shakes the fabric of the infirmary beds excessively, sending unwanted particles in straight descension your way following the height difference slope between you two. He smiles at you cheekily over where he was currently holding onto the corners of the white linen, repeating the motion once more to send your hair flying into a mess.

He finally stops long enough for you both to fold the sheets nicely and stretch it taut over the very last cot in the room. Taking a step back, you eye the result of your hard work for the past few hours as you scan the now pristine room, each bed surface without a wrinkle in sight.

Most other students would disagree with you that cleaning duties was their favorite of the student requirements at Hyosan High, but you found it to be therapeutic in a way. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely considering your career choice for the future, you were in your element with anything and everything even remotely close in relation to the medical field. Or, it could be the fact that Su-Hyeok would always try to sign up as your cleaning partner before anyone else has even had a chance to look over the room assignments for the week—all that just to spend more time with you.

You dramatically slide your hands back and forth across each other, dusting them off. Nodding your head in satisfaction as you survey the surroundings, you proudly exclaim, “Look! Isn’t this just perfection, Su-Hyeok?” As you’re smiling at the end product, you don’t catch him gazing at you fondly.

“Yeah, more than perfect,” he mumbles to himself. With only the two of you in the room, it’s hard to miss, though you don’t register the full meaning behind his words.

Holding up your hand for a high five, he returns it, intertwining your fingers together to tug you towards him, the movement practically sending you crashing into his chest. Flustered, you opt to tease him instead to ease the tension you always feel around him. “Yo–You’re too close. I can smell your feet from here, Su-Hyeok.”

“Bear with me for a second,” he chuckles as he pulls you nearer. You can’t bring yourself to look up into his face as he smooths down your hair—entirely his fault from beating the sheets against your head earlier instead of the posts in the room that serve an obvious purpose. Except, you don’t have to worry about that as once he’s finished, he lets go of your hand and bends down to your level, making direct eye contact as he pats your head playfully. “Now, you’re presentable.”

You scoff, mock offended, finally stepping away from his personal space in hopes that the blush on your face isn’t as visible as you imagine it to be. “Are you saying I wasn’t before?” Su-Hyeok puts both hands up in defense, countenance teasing, before flopping unceremoniously onto the nearest bed.

“Aish!” You reproach. “We just made them!” He ultimately springs back up in fear of your relentless whacks to his chest. Glancing at the clock, it was already well into early evening, so you decide to call it a day. “Let’s go! Hopefully we can catch up with the others outside on our way to the entrance!”

“Race you there!” Su-Hyeok dashes out of the room without so much as a second glance, leaving you dumbfounded as you chase after him, dodging other students in the halls also on their way home.

When you finally make it outside, you and Su-Hyeok both spot Gyeong-Su and Cheong-San in the distance. Decidedly heading there together, you deliberately bump shoulders, trying to make the other fall over to no avail. Lightly kicking him in the shin as petty revenge for having sprung a race on you earlier, you sprint off toward your friends in front before Su-Hyeok has time to react.

You don’t give Cheong-San any indication of your presence until you jump on his back, arms around his neck. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall as Gyeong-Su whips around in surprise before seeing it’s you. He laughs at Cheong-San’s struggles as you finally let go. “It’s your little sister from a different mister!”

Growing up together and being the only child in your respective families, you, Cheong-San, and Su-Hyeok have always been close enough to the point that showing up at one another’s residences became commonplace. Mr. and Mrs. Lee never fail to bring up the fact that you’re the daughter they always wanted but never had to pull their son’s leg whenever you come around. Actually, now that you think about it, even when you’re not, they still do so out of habit, resulting in you getting an earful from Cheong-San the day after about how his parents’ affections are prioritized in the wrong order. You frequently laugh it off, but deep down, you’re grateful that the whole family is so protective of you, particularly Cheong-San, almost as if he was your brother by blood.

Though exasperated, when you cutely open your arms for a hug, Cheong-San rolls his eyes and gives in. “One day, you and On-Jo are going to annoy me to death,” he says as you guys let go.

“What an honorable death that would be for you,” you stick your tongue out at him.

“Don’t I get a friendly hug too, Y/N?” Gyeong-Su asks before pulling you into one.

“All this tenderness is making me want to throw up,” Cheong-San says as Su-Hyeok reaches the group.

“I think that’s been long enough,” Su-Hyeok warns, jealous.

“Nope,” Gyeong-Su refutes, not letting you go to make a point, causing you to laugh. He releases you soon after though, before Cheong-San has a chance to scold him.

“I get a kick in the shin and they get hugs?” Su-Hyeok grumbles, nearly sulking.

“If you wanted one so badly, you could’ve just asked.”

“No flirting before dinner, guys. I’ll lose my appetite.” Gyeong-Su puts an arm around Cheong-San’s shoulder, amused at the scene in front of him.

As Su-Hyeok spreads his arms wide, you mirror him, before handing over your backpack, heavy with beginner’s medical textbooks. “Free hug for you from my lovely backpack.” Gyeong-Su cackles at the priceless expression on Su-Hyeok’s face while Cheong-San just shakes his head, tired of the familiar behavior between the two of you he’s had to witness against his will over the years as the eternal third wheel.

You wave as you see On-Jo and I-Sak approaching, the former shoving Cheong-San’s shoulder so hard, he drops his phone on the ground, rattling against the gravel from impact.

“My phone!” He scrambles to pick it up.

“Hey, gopher. Let’s go have some fried chicken,” On-Jo says, jutting out her backpack.

Regardless of their endless bickering, he doesn’t hesitate in taking the bag from her, though you’re not really surprised. You’ve known about Cheong-San’s massive longtime crush on On-Jo before he even knew it himself. To this day, you’re still waiting for him to make something happen, though you expect to be waiting forever.

“It hasn’t opened yet,” Cheong-San says, peeved.

“Yeah, it has. Your mom said she’s testing out a new recipe today,” On-Jo counters as Gyeong-Su hits Cheong-San, somewhat affronted. You assume they’ve already been over this once before the girls arrived. On-Jo and I-Sak pull you to their side, linking their arms through yours as everyone confirms their attendance to the impromptu chicken dinner invite.

“Ohhhhhhh,” Gyeong-Su drawls excitedly. “Is this a triple date?”

“Mwoya? How annoying.” I-Sak couldn’t be more disgusted as she drags you and On-Jo away speedily towards the school’s entrance, leaving the boys trailing behind to Gyeong-Su’s happy whistle rendition of Auld Lang Syne, extra backpacks and all.

»»————-————-————-————-————-————-————-—««

“There’s the cute couple!” Cheong-San’s mom bellows, referring to you and Su-Hyeok, handing over the largest platter of fried chicken you’ve seen in your life. She immediately embraces you before you even get a chance to sit down.

The boys convene on one side while you and the girls take seats opposite them, somehow paired up as Gyeong-Su had hoped for.

“Mrs. Lee, we’re not together,” you correct as you dig into the plate in front of you, the mouthwatering smell of freshly fried chicken wafting through the vicinity.

“Do we get extra fried chicken if we are?” Su-Hyeok inquires, genuinely curious. You kick him under the table and Mrs. Lee looks on, entertained.

Somehow, the lighthearted conversation as your little group eats shifts to more serious matters when Mrs. Lee heads back to the kitchen to reevaluate the briny recipe with her husband after taking everyone’s feedback into consideration.

“Ah, right. Did you guys catch wind of what’s circulating around school about Mr. Lee? I-Sak starts.

“What about him?” Cheong-San questions, as everyone turns their attention towards I-Sak, wondering what the latest gossip was.

“He emits the odor of a rotting corpse.”

Cheong-San sighs. “Na-Yeon’s the one who spread that rumor, right?”

You roll your eyes. “Knowing her, of course she did.”

All five pairs of eyes turn towards you, scandalized. “Wow, this is the first time that you, the nicest person in the world, have clearly expressed your dislike for someone,” Gyeong-Su states to everyone’s agreement. “Our own future doctor and resident angel with a pure heart full of compassion finally has one person on her hit list,” he teases.

“Pshh, stop it you guys. Refrain from giving me these grand nicknames I can’t live up to. An angel, seriously?” You deny, slightly embarrassed at them putting you in such high regards.

“Su-Hyeok surely thinks so, in a literal sense—" The person in question elbows Gyeong-Su forcefully, on the brink of sending him toppling over in his chair. Everyone laughs as Su-Hyeok shoves a drumstick into Gyeong-Su’s mouth to shut him up.

“Don’t force it, Gyeong-Su. I think he likes Nam-Ra.” As the words leave your mouth, everyone snaps their head your way, staring unbelievably, almost comically so.

On-Jo recovers first. “So, you’re saying he likes someone smart, kind, and beautiful. Hmm, sounds like someone we all know,” she stares right at you.

“Yah, Y/N, you’re supposed to be the smartest one out of all of us here, including almost the entirety of the school. How are you so dense?” Cheong-San clucks his tongue, frustrated.

“Excuse you? I can feel him burning a hole through the side of my face trying to get a glimpse of her in class,” you defend. Up until now, Su-Hyeok hasn’t said a word, though he resorts to beating his forehead lightly and repetitively against the table.

“Care to remind me who’s beside Nam-Ra and sits in the aisle seat?” I-Sak looks at you pointedly.

“It’s me, obviously, that’s how I can tell.” Gyeong-Su ends up choking on his chicken as he snorts while the others just give up.

“Anyway,” On-Jo moves on, circling back on the conversation. “What I-Sak says is true! Mr. Lee was absent for a short while after his son went missing, then showed up one day to class with a deathly smell.”

“How would Na-Yeon know the smell of a cadaver? It’s not like she has any experience being in close contact with one; I doubt the majority of us have.” Cheong-San criticizes.

“No idea, but if it’s the only one she’s not accustomed to, she can’t be wrong about the unidentified scent. He did act exponentially bizarre in the aftermath of what happened to his son,” On-Jo clarifies.

“Poor Jin-Su was an outcast from what I remember. I heard he got bullied severely.” I-Sak looks down at her plate, pitying the boy.

“I feel sorry for him, and Mr. Lee as well. Can you imagine knowing your child getting mistreated but not being able to do anything about it? I wouldn’t be able to bear it, much less fathom what his thought process was at the time,” On-Jo pauses before bringing up another matter. “Do you guys recall him leaving class last week all of a sudden?”

“He had written all these biological terms in English, madly, in some sort of craze on the blackboard,” you detail. “The sound of the chalk was eerie when it scraped so wildly across the board’s surface.” Everyone nods as Gyeong-Su asks you what Mr. Lee had written, with your history of having studied abroad before entering high school. “I’m not quite sure what they meant. It was just a bunch of complex information about parasites, viruses, and cells. But the thing is, his writing wasn’t complete. Those notes seemed like it was solely for him to comprehend,” you deduce.

“He’s known around the school to have been a genius in his prime.” I-Sak stops before adding as an afterthought. “Though, I guess he’s still considered a genius now.”

“Geniuses often go crazy,” On-Jo murmurs.

“You may accumulate a hundred problems, but for the rest of your life, I suppose you’ll never have to worry about that being one of them,” Cheong-San says wittily.

Gyeong-Su laughs as On-Jo scolds him. “Are you looking down on me? Grades aren’t everything.”

“Be careful, Y/N. You might go crazy one day,” Su-Hyeok jokes.

“If I do, I’ll bite you first.”

Gyeong-Su taps your empty plate with his chicken bone, tone fake reprimanding. “Now, now, my dear Y/N—that’s not very school appropriate.”

Before you can get back at him, I-Sak’s rushed reminder sends everyone fleeing from the table, clearly running late to their English academy. After all of your hasty goodbyes to Cheong-San’s parents, Gyeong-Su is the first one out the door, afraid of your wrath-filled kicks if he were to stay any longer. He knows better than to mess too seriously with a black-belt.

You and Su-Hyeok don’t attend the same academy—well he just doesn’t attend one at all—so you two have fallen into a routine of him walking you home everyday after school even though your house is next door to his.

As you walk, the back of your hands keeps brushing against each other’s, close enough to touch but not enough to hold. That is, until Su-Hyeok boldly reaches over to clasp them together without hesitation, always making sure you’re on the inner side of the sidewalk.

A few blocks later, you shiver against the cold, realizing you should’ve heeded your mom’s advice this morning about putting an extra layer on top of your thin green cardigan. Su-Hyeok takes off his black blazer for you to wear, disappointed in having to let go of your hand for you to put it on properly. The only problem was it’s completely too large on you, the sleeves dangling in a funny way and the length almost a dress, but it serves its purpose and smells entirely like Su-Hyeok.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” You ask him, fretting, despite how touched you are by his actions.

He entwines your hands again and drags you closer to his side. “Not really.” He glances down at you. “I think I’m warm enough.” It’s hard to suppress your smile as you huddle a tiny bit closer, his red name tag lined up with your heart.

When the door of your house comes into view, you reluctantly draw your hand away from his, proceeding to take off his jacket, intending to return it. Before you can so much as get it past your shoulders, he stops you.

“Give it back to me tomorrow,” he smiles shyly at you.

“Alright, thanks.” You shuffle your feet, suddenly at a loss on what to say. When did things become so awkward? “Well, this is me,” you point to your gate as if he didn’t already know. “It’s getting late, you should go.”

“Not until I see you inside first.”

Your heart is warm as you turn around to head in. When you lock the gateway behind you, he calls to you through the opening between each metal post.

“It’s not Nam-Ra that I like.”

The statement is entirely too random until you remember the conversation at Cheong-San’s family restaurant.

“Then, who? Do I know her?”

“You do—very well.”

“Will you tell me?”

“I’ll let you know before the end of tomorrow.”

“Then, see you tomorrow, Su-Hyeok.”

“Always.”

sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 𝟣

© 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐍𝐞𝐭𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐱’𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨, 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭. 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

y/n: I’m kind of crushing on someone, but I’m worried about telling you who it is, because you’re not going to like it.

obi wan: Just rip the bandage off.

y/n: It's Anakin.

obi wan: Put the bandage back on.