Is This A Richy Reference??

heyy can I request headcanon for dating rodrick heffley with female reader??

a/n: Okkkk, i love this one sm

DATING RODRICK HEADCANNONS:

Unlike the mean ass personality facade he puts up for other people, this man is such a softie bro

you would find out that information pretty quick into the relationship

His mum ADORES you, like she thinks you're the best

he would lay in your lap while you play with his hair

you always catch him staring at you with such an adoring expression

manz is insecure

when he sees you with other ppl, like hitting on you, he will cry about it later

like he would act all tough and shit in front of them, but no

holding your hand in public is his favourite thing in the world

like PDA makes this kid feel so wanted it's unbelievable he loves it

random nights in his van at a random gas station fucking around.

If he's feeling confident, he will reach up (or down) and grab your boobies lmaoooo

no shame

he loves it when you watch his band rehearse

he teaches you how to play the drums and its so cute

he's so gentle with you its so cute

happy halloween!!

Do you only write Hannibal lecter or do you also write for NBC Hannibal?

Yandere! Hannibal x Reader: The Grand Meal

Gather around for a short story in the spirit of Thanksgiving. You have been invited by Hannibal Lecter to a celebratory dinner, although unexpectedly barren of other guests. He will be entertaining you this evening, carefully describing each dish as he battles his own inner turmoil. (For extra immersion, I suggest listening to Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze')

Warning: Cannibalism and detailed gore. I'd advise against reading if you're squeamish. 

[Horror Masterlist]

He politely aids you in removing your coat, folds it over his forearm, and steps aside, expectantly. You glance at him, somewhat confused.

"Your bag, if I may."

"Oh, I...I was planning to bring it with me. I have my phone in it and all the essentials." you stutter, unsure.

Uh huh. Your etiquette seems to be lacking in certain areas. Nothing that cannot be chiseled. 

"You won't be needing it, I assure you." he extends his hand out, waiting. 

You hesitantly place the dark leather Pochette into his fingers. Hannibal has always been rather particular when it comes to decorum. You wouldn't want to upset him, especially given his generous invite to his Thanksgiving celebration. He'd heard your complaint of being alone during the holidays and he encouraged you to join him instead.

As you hurry behind him down the spacious hallway, you quietly marvel at the expensive, tasteful paintings sporadically adorning the walls. 

"I suspected they might be to your liking." He briefly peeks back at you with a faint smile on his lips. 

The heavy wooden doors creak open and your nostrils are quickly overwhelmed by the tempting smell of intricate dishes. You narrow your eyes, taking in the flavors. Once you finally look ahead, you notice that the table, although neatly decorated, consists only of two seats that have been prepared for dining. Two opposing seats, causing the whole setup to seem of ridiculous length. 

"Pardon my intrusion, but is anyone else attending?" You cannot contain your curiosity.

"Oh, no.  Not really." Hannibal pulls your chair outwards before departing to his own designated place. "It's you and me. Does that bother you?"

"I suppose it's cozier this way." You brush it aside with a chuckle. Better than being alone, you tell yourself.

He nods in agreement before settling down. He takes a moment to examine the table, confirming that everything is indeed in its proper place. A final, satisfied incline of his head.

"Allow me to introduce today's dishes. I don't want to keep you waiting for too long." He says as he remembers your earlier little gesture of delight. "It's a little bit of a scattered theme, if I am to be honest with you. I've drawn my inspiration from varied cuisines."

"I can see. How exciting!" You swiftly scan over the diverse plates, enthusiastic and hungry.

"The main course is over there. Balsamic-glazed oven baked ribs. I recommend a drizzle of cranberry sauce to go with it."

As he points to the dish, he can almost hear the dry crack of the bone. Abruptly, he's been taken back to the previous night, to his humble slaughter room - the meat needs to be fresh after all. Shears cut through the ribs with little resistance. The blades go around the thoracic cavity, contouring the ribcage. Once a proper opening has been made, he firmly grasps each side of the ribcage and nonchalantly lifts the bone flap, resting it over the face. 

Wait. He quickly digs through the skin and fat that had been shoved aside with the carcass, searching for the face of the victim. It's you. How delectable and surprising that you've wandered into such a recollection. Well, not quite a surprise that you've invaded his memories; from the very moment he met you he's been plagued by this indecent idea: How would you look on the dissecting table?

His musings are interrupted by the sizzle of the sparkling wine he's currently pouring in your glass. He finds himself back at the dining table, together with his favorite guest. You graciously thank him, and as he gazes over your features, he can't help but continue this game of imagination he's just spontaneously devised. Whoever had been carefully served for this occasion will be temporarily replaced during the theatrical retelling by you. And what a fine actor you'll be, even though you're not aware of it.

Alright, one must start from the beginning. He traces the edge of the autopsy table and inspects the drain just below your feet. He wouldn't want an incident. Would you be mortified if you'd learn your secretions and discharges leaked and clotted against the sieve? Don't worry, you'll be spared of such scenarios. He'd never willingly embarrass you like that. He softly presses the scalpel against your bare skin, going under each breast and stopping at the pubic bone. Now to trim the thick layers of fat sticking to the dermis. You're not making much of a mess, but then again it's a dream within his idle mind. A mischievous grin takes over his expression once he witnesses his clean work. The segments of skin detach smoothly, revealing your glistening, bloated organs. 

He already went over the ribs. That part has been covered. What comes next? His eyes rest on the most obvious: your intestines. Which reminds him...

"This one is a Middle Eastern dish. Stuffed intestines. You gently cut the membrane, like this." He demonstrates on a separate plate. "Don't worry about seeing some additional blood. Naturally there are many capillaries irrigating the walls, so you might open them up in the process. It quickly seeps into the mixture and adds a bit of a stagnant flavor to it, but it's merely noticeable."

You swallow dryly.

Back to the original matters. He searches for his scissors and cuts along the attachment tissue smoothly. Once the bowels have been freed, he fondles them into his hands, cupping them into place, and hurries to the nearby counter. The entrails collapse and spread onto the marble surface, like mischievous tentacles. He languidly eyes them. Do organs resemble their owner? Absurd question, really. Do they reflect one's health - that much is indubitable. Yet he can't help feeling that if presented with an endless row of viscera, he could, without hesitation, point and state which ones are yours. It's a mysterious confidence whose source he cannot pinpoint. You've always captivated him. Just when he thinks he's had you like an open book, you slip and slither between his fingers. Fitting.

What is it about you that preoccupies his mind to such degree? He turns back to the table and scans the remaining options. Your intelligence? The tool drawer opens and his fingers linger over the saw and skull chisel. Perhaps. But there's more to it, really. His analytical, rational self craves for more than what it can grasp. And what it lacks, well...

He pinches the visceral fascia and lifts the translucent membrane, with the same delicacy of unveiling a young bride, and reveals your heart, cold and still. There it is, the answer to everything. A transect to the vena cava near the diaphragm and the organ has been separated from the rest of the body. An angel with clipped wings. Holding it like this, he can almost discern the faintest throb, the fibrous muscle pressing into his skin. 

"And this?"

He purses his lips, taken aback by his own rudeness. Has he been zoning out in plain sight?

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The dish, I mean."

He follows the direction of your stretched out index. Ah.

"Heart stuffed with mushroom duxelle. Old English classic with a twist." 

"You sound like a professional chef", you respond as you laugh. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Is there? He considers it. Right before his revelation was discontinued by your inquiry - absolutely not your fault, the ill manners were his - he was wondering if he possesses the capacity to love you. He definitely prefers you over all of the people he's encountered in his life, and your behavior and way of thinking never ceases to make him curious. Yet love is a conclusion he cannot asses with certainty. 

He had hoped a vivisectionist approach would offer him concrete data, palpable reasoning, but his journey only reinforced that some concepts must be tested outside of pure introspection. Or, as one would describe it colloquially, he has to take the bull by its horns. 

"By the way, what meat is this?" You have arranged yourself a platter with a little bit of everything, and just finished chewing a hearty bite. "Ox or something? It's very tender."

If Hannibal is to embark on his expedition of human feelings, he needs to reflect on his choices carefully. Or does he? Hmm. His methodical tactics are what caused this impasse in the first place. 

One can afford to give in, every now and then. How will you react to his self indulgence? He rests his head on the back of his intertwined hands and stares at you with a determined look. 

"Human."

I.N BURNIN' TIRES, 2025

MY MEEEEEEN!!!

Miguel is a menace to Spider-Society😢

Imagine being married to Adrien Brody, and both of you being petty after an argument.

Every couple had their arguments. After the Honeymoon phase passed, and real life set in and you acknowledged that not all of your partner’s flaws were as cute as you once thought, or that their views on something had changed so it didn’t suit yours, or well-ingrained bad habits weren’t going away as fast as you had hoped. Like your own husband, Adrien, who had a habit of being perfectly on time for everything and everyone - except for you.

Late to another one of your dinner dates, making you sit by yourself for over half an hour after the reservation. He came just in time, so you didn’t get kicked from the table, but regardless, you were furious. However, you tried to enjoy the rest of the dinner, the delicious food, the great atmosphere. You’d punish him when you got home.

You gave him the good old silent treatment. You didn’t talk to him on the car ride home, letting him listen to the radio. He apologized a dozen times but you gave no acknowledgement or forgiveness for any of it. Stare straight ahead. Say nothing. It continued into the evening, when you went to take your bath and then went to bed early. And then it even continued on into the morning when Adrien woke up, wished you a good morning, then went downstairs to start on his breakfast while you got ready for the day. Maybe the next day was taking it a bit too far but - you were still hurt. If you had been one of his friends, he would have made sure to show up on time.

You descended down the stairs and heard the sounds of - really annoying music, actually. One of those bands that Adrien liked that you didn’t. You had compromised on it, he agreed to listen to it mainly on his headphones, but now it was loud enough to fill the entire main floor of your house. Your nose curled at the sound but you refused to give in.

“Good morning Mrs. Brody,” Adrien said, being a little too cheerful. You narrowed your eyes at him but continued your morning routine of going to the kitchen and making your breakfast. “Don’t you look beautiful today, Mrs. Brody.”

If anything, he was annoying you more. You didn’t give in. You popped two pieces of your favorite bread into the toaster, and then got the jam out of the fridge. Normally, it was easy to open. But as you gave the lid a twist, it was really stuck on there. You know you didn’t close it that tight. And then you spotted your husband out of the corner of your eye, lingering in the doorway, trying to look as innocent as possible.

You put down the jar then turned to your husband with your hands on your hips. “Did you seriously tighten the lid on my jam jar?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Mrs Brody.”

Your glare eventually turned into something else, a look of amusement, and then you started to laugh. His revenge to your silent treatment was honestly hilarious, and you couldn’t stay mad at him for too long. He started to laugh along with you, coming in close and opened the jam jar with only a little difficulty. “You’re such a - I don’t even have words,” You said, shaking your head, still laughing.

“Don’t hate me but I did the pickle jar as well.”

Requested by: Anonymous

Israel has wiped out 881 families.

881 bloodlines.

881.

CHAPTER 3

Genre: Slow-burn, Arranged Marriage au!, angst, fluff, Workplace Romance, Dramedy & power dynamic.

Warnings: visa stress, mild panic response, mentions of deportation, workplace tension, mentions of legal pressure, cursing, light crude language, mentions of death and somewhat proofread.

Please note that the visa processes and mentions are not accurate and should be ignored for the purpose of the story.

WC: 6.2K

a/n: I have realized that chapters are not as long as i want them to be, for the pace of the story. So the chapters from now onwards would be somewhat this length. Hope you enjoy!

Feedback, Reblogs and likes are all greatly appreciated!

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Synopsis: When a cold, career-driven art gallery director in Sydney faces sudden visa trouble, she proposes a fake two-year marriage to her charming but reluctant assistant, Hwang Hyunjin. What starts as a professional arrangement quickly spirals into chaos, complete with immigration scrutiny, staged couple moments, and Hyunjin’s dramatic, high-society family. Trapped in close quarters and tangled in lies, can they keep up the act… or will real feelings get in the way?

The deal was made on a Wednesday.

By Monday, it felt like it had never happened.

The chaos of the gallery had swallowed the last few days whole—back-to-back meetings, frantic approvals, half-eaten lunches, and more meetings again. Your inbox was a battlefield. Your head was pounding. By the time the office emptied out, the sky outside had long faded into navy, and the halls were quiet—eerily so.

Everyone had gone home. Everyone except you.

“One last email and then sleep,” you muttered under your breath as you walked back from the conference room toward your office, fingers wrapped around a too-hot paper coffee cup. The bitterness was comforting. Grounding. You focused on that instead of the way your legs ached or how your to-do list still glared at you from your phone screen.

Lost in thought, you shook your head and reached out to flick on the lights—

And nearly dropped your coffee.

Hyunjin was already inside.

Not just inside, seated comfortably in your chair, feet tucked under him, spinning in slow, lazy circles like a kid waiting for his ride home. He looked completely at ease, like he owned the place. Or like he’d been here long enough to forget he didn’t.

You froze in the doorway.

“Why are you still here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, but it came out more startled than you’d meant.

Without missing a beat, he held up a bright pink Post-it, waving it in the air like a prize on a game show. It was smudged and crinkled, your name scrawled across it in thick capital letters next to a crude stick-figure drawing of you in what might’ve been a wedding dress… tumbling dramatically off a cliff.

“We’re getting married on Saturday,” he announced, grinning like he’d just solved world peace.

Your brain short-circuited. For a full second, you just blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Saturday,” he repeated, rising from the chair and stretching like this was all perfectly routine. “That gives us five days. Marriage license today. Suits tomorrow. Rings Wednesday. Couple photo Thursday. Interview prep Friday. Wedding on Saturday. Boom.”

He clapped his hands once for effect. Like a director calling a cut on a scene he’d just nailed.

And the worst part?

He was completely serious. Deadpan. Calm. Irritatingly collected, like this wasn’t your entire career and life imploding beneath a Post-it and a five-day plan.

You, on the other hand, were unraveling. Quickly.

“I never said Saturday.”

“You didn’t say not Saturday,” he replied with a maddening shrug, as if that loophole sealed the deal. “And time’s ticking, boss. You want to stay in the country, right? Keep the job? Want me to fake-love you in public for two years?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows raised. “Well, here I am. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, he walked past you, out the door. Like he ran this operation now. Like you'd somehow become the assistant in your own crisis.

You stood there, stunned. Coffee cooling in your hand. Heart pounding behind your ribs.

This is happening too quickly, you thought, breath catching in your throat.

No... you need it to be quick.

Before you have time to think. Before it starts to feel like something it’s not. Before either of you mess this up worse than it already is.

When the early sunshine came the next day, both of you had already made your way to the marriage license office building.

The marriage license office was a beige wasteland.

The walls were a dull, lifeless color, interrupted only by peeling posters that had probably been there since the 90s, advertising marriage benefits with awkward stock photos of smiling couples. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds, casting a sterile, almost oppressive glow across the cramped, windowless room. A sad, half-dead plant in the corner struggled to stay alive, its brown leaves limp and curling.

Hyunjin sat next to you in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, whistling the Jeopardy theme under his breath, a tune that seemed at odds with the suffocating blandness of the place. He tapped his foot rhythmically, clearly doing his best to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the middle of this absurd situation.

You focused on the forms in front of you, the sound of your pen scratching across paper filling the silence. The clicking of the clock on the wall was the only other noise in the room, ticking away seconds that felt like hours. You could feel the weight of everything pressing on you—the speed of it, the absurdity of it—and yet, you kept filling out the forms. No room for second thoughts now.

The clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with an air of resignation about her, didn’t even look up from her computer when she asked, “So, are you excited?”

You glanced at Hyunjin.

He didn’t hesitate. “We can’t wait,” he said, his voice smooth, warm enough to fool a polygraph. His tone was perfect—too perfect, like he'd rehearsed this exact moment in his head. His eyes were locked on the clerk, his smile a mask, too easy and practiced.

But you noticed the shift—the subtle tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders were a little too straight, the small, almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. The smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach him, not all the way. You'd seen that look before—at work, when something went wrong, when things started to spiral and he was too proud to let you see how it affected him.

And then, as if on cue, his hand brushed yours under the counter. It was a casual gesture, the kind that could’ve meant nothing, but you knew it wasn’t. It was too quick, too deliberate, too smooth. Reflex. A small part of the performance, the play they were both trapped in now.

Still, it made your fingers twitch. Like the brush of a phantom pain, sharp and unexpected.

You signed the papers with a flourish, the pen moving automatically, your thoughts distracted by the tension that hung between the two of you.

Hyunjin signed next, the quickness of his movement a little too sharp, too efficient. No hesitation. Done.

The deed was done.

Tuesday was suits.

The boutique smelled of cedarwood and old money, the kind of fragrance that clung to the air like a memory of aristocracy. Hyunjin groaned from the fitting room, his voice muffled but still carrying that familiar mix of irritation and drama.

“I look like a funeral,” he grumbled, stepping out in a charcoal three-piece suit that clung to his frame like it had been tailored just for him. Every seam, every stitch, was perfect, but he wore it with an unmistakable air of discomfort.

“It’s a wedding. You’re supposed to look expensive,” you replied dryly, trying to mask the fact that the suit actually looked unfairly good on him.

“I am expensive,” he muttered, tugging at the collar with a scowl that was far too cute to be taken seriously. “You just don’t appreciate the natural splendor of me in hoodies.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Mostly because you had no retort that could be as sharp as the suit’s fit on him. His hair was neatly tied back, a few stray wisps framing his face, and his posture was effortless, almost regal. His cheekbones, sharp enough to cut glass, could have been considered a weapon in their own right. It made your thoughts catch and linger, whether you wanted them to or not.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk.

“What?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

You quickly looked away, a hint of heat creeping up your neck. “Nothing. You’ll do.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening into something more playful. “Careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you turned on your heel and left before he could push any further, feeling the weight of his gaze still lingering on your back as you walked out the door.

Wednesday was rings.

The moment you stepped into the jeweler’s, the air was thick with the scent of polished silver and diamonds, their brilliance almost blinding under the soft, ambient lighting. The sales clerk launched into her rehearsed spiel about clarity, cut, and the importance of the perfect setting, her voice rising in enthusiasm with every word, as if she were presenting the very secrets of the universe.

But Hyunjin wasn’t having it.

He interrupted her after only five minutes, his expression a perfect mix of boredom and amusement. “Do you have anything that says ‘I barely tolerate her, but the IRS is watching’?” he asked, his voice too casual for the ridiculousness of the question, a hint of playful defiance in his tone.

The clerk blinked, visibly thrown off. For a brief second, you thought she might lose her composure, but she recovered quickly, her professionalism returning. You weren’t surprised by Hyunjin’s usual brand of sarcasm. You shot him a look—half exasperated, half resigned—and then turned back to the clerk, ready to end this charade. “Two plain gold bands. Size seven and nine.”

Hyunjin let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising in mock surprise. “Wow, boss. You know my ring size. I’m touched.”

“I Googled,” you said flatly, your voice laced with just enough amusement to mask the flicker of warmth that touched your cheeks.

Hyunjin tilted his head, his expression turning smug as his eyes locked onto yours. “My ring size is on Google? That’s a bad lie, boss,” he teased, the glint in his eyes daring you to keep the story straight.

You glanced away, pretending not to care as you fought the urge to smile. “You left your ring once on your table. That’s how I know.”

A pause, then his lips curled up at the corners, a small, knowing smile. He looked down at the floor, almost like he didn’t want you to catch the pleased glint in his eyes, the one that betrayed how much the moment meant to him. It wasn’t often you saw him like this, vulnerable, even in his smugness. But when you did, it made the world feel easier, the connection between you two oddly natural. It was a moment that could’ve stretched on forever, something too comfortable, too effortless as though you’d done this a thousand times before, even if you hadn’t.

The clerk eventually brought the rings over. Their simplicity stood in stark contrast to the store’s otherwise glittering display, a quiet testament to the unspoken commitment they symbolized. You inspected them briefly, feeling the weight of their promise in your hands, then paid without hesitation. The motion was swift, practicing a routine you’d long since perfected. You handed over your card with the kind of precision only someone who’d done this a thousand times could muster.

And then, without another word, you walked out.

As the door chimed softly behind you, there was a strange silence between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with unspoken thoughts. The weight of the rings, the deal, everything that was yet to come, it all seemed to settle between you like a shared secret. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to

Thursday was Felix.

The gallery was quiet, the kind of silence that settled into your bones when the lights were dimmed and the world outside carried on, oblivious to the small dramas unfolding inside. Felix, the in-house photographer, showed up after hours, a DSLR swinging from his neck like a necklace and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His energy was contagious, but you didn’t need him to know the truth. You didn’t need anyone to. He was too excited, too thrilled to question anything.

“You’re in love,” he squealed, bouncing toward you both, his hands moving toward Hyunjin’s hair as though he were fluffing it for the shot. “Ugh, enemies-to-lovers is real!”

Hyunjin took it all in stride. His expression was blank, but there was something about him, some subtle shift in his posture, that made it seem like he might be getting better at pretending. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was there, a faint curve of his lips, like he could almost fake his way through a wedding photo.

You stayed by the brick hallway, the one corner of the gallery that had a faint trace of romance. The soft warmth of the stone, the low hum of the air conditioning, and the way the light caught the edges of everything, it was the closest thing to a quiet moment you could find in this chaos.

Hyunjin walked toward you and came to stand beside you. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.

You hesitated for only a moment.

Then you let him.

“Closer,” Felix called out from behind the camera, his voice too excited for someone who wasn’t the one being photographed.

Hyunjin leaned in. The warmth of his body pressing against yours was subtle, but undeniable. His shoulder brushed yours, and his fingers tightened slightly around yours, the pressure faint but there, like they were slowly learning the shape of a lie.

The flash went off with a soft, almost imperceptible pop.

Your post had no caption, just the image: a moment frozen in time, his head tilted toward yours, a look that felt too natural to fake. His read:

 Guess i’m a husband now 🤷‍♂️ #prayforme

You didn’t laugh.

Instead, you stared at the photo, watched the way his expression held that strange, half-amused warmth, the way your hand fit in his like it belonged there. And as you studied it, something twisted deep inside of you. We don’t look fake.

And that thought terrified you more than anything.

Friday was rehearsal.

The ceremony was set to take place in a small, ivy-draped church in Paddington. A quiet favor, called in from someone who owed you more than one. Simple. Minimal. Legal. No grand gestures. No friends or family. Just the two of you, and a reverend who’d once thanked you for helping his daughter land her first gallery internship.

You spent the entire day at your desk, rehearsing lines like an actor preparing for their last audition. Where did you meet? When did you fall in love? What’s something he does that annoys you? The usual questions. The ones that would help make the story feel real.

You asked the last one out loud, mostly to break the silence. “What’s something he does that annoys you?”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. “He leaves paintbrushes in the sink.”

“I do not.”

You looked up from your notebook to find him standing in the doorway, sipping his third iced long black of the week. He raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze playful but steady.

“You do,” you insisted.

“Name three times.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You want them chronologically or alphabetically?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he sauntered into the room, sinking into the chair across from you.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice softer now, less teasing, more genuine.

You stared at your notebook, the words on the page blurring into the background. “I don’t know what I am.”

There was a long pause, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke again. “This isn’t forever.”

You looked up at him, your chest tightening in a way you hadn’t anticipated. The words hit harder than you expected.

“We’re not doomed to this,” he said, his tone softer now, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“I know,” you said quietly, your heart beating a little faster.

“We’re not... us,” he added, his gaze searching yours for something that wasn’t there.

You nodded, your throat tightening.

“I know.”

But something in the air shifted. There was a sharp, aching sting in the quiet between you, something that made it feel more real than you were ready for. Because maybe, just maybe, part of you wanted it to be real. Wanted it to be something uncalculated, something unearned, something that wasn’t just your job, your duty, your obligation.

And that thought, no matter how much you tried to dismiss it, stayed with you, lingering like an unsolved puzzle.

Later that night, it rained.

You stood outside the gallery, the sky falling sideways. You’d forgotten your umbrella.

Hyunjin appeared beside you, silent, and handed you his.

“You’ll get soaked,” you said.

He shrugged. “Been through worse.”

You didn’t thank him. Just tightened your grip and stared ahead.

He lingered for a beat too long.

Then stepped into the storm.

His silhouette blurred and vanished down the street.

And you stood there, holding the umbrella he’d left behind, watching the sky come undone.

For the first time since this all began, you wondered if you'd made a mistake—not because of the risk. Not even because of the lie.

But because somewhere along the way, the rules were already starting to blur.

And Saturday was almost here.

_______________________________

The chapel was small, quiet, with ivy trailing down its stone walls like the delicate strokes of old poetry. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and something warm, something sunlit, like wood drying after a storm.

“Look happier, you’re getting married,” Felix said, snapping him out of his thoughts. His voice was light, teasing, but with that ever-present note of concern.

“I’m happy,” he replied, offering a small smile. It was enough to satisfy Felix, who turned back to snapping photos of the chapel with a soft hum of approval.

This was it. He repeated the words in his head, though they felt heavy…too heavy. He was getting married. No, he was getting into a fake marriage with his boss. For two years. The more he thought about it, the more it made his legs feel like they were losing feeling, as though the ground had turned to liquid beneath him.

His eyes scanned the room. Where was she? She was late.

She was never late.

Maybe the nerves had gotten to her too, he thought, trying to ease the discomfort creeping in. No. She was the infamous, cold-hearted director of the gallery, Ms. Y/N. If anyone had control over their nerves, it was her. Or so he’d thought. The thought of her waiting outside made him feel more unsettled.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, beginning to scroll through his contacts, but just as he was about to tap a name, a sudden flash of white caught his eye. He turned quickly, watching her run in through the church door. She was barefoot, her heels in one hand, her dress, a mid-sized, satin white gown, flowing behind her in the way only a dress meant for a wedding could. She was breathless, her cheeks flushed with a mix of exhaustion and embarrassment.

She doubled over, trying to catch her breath, and he couldn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on her.

This woman. His boss. The woman who, in every moment of their professional life together, had always held an air of unshakable control. But now? Now she was human. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful he hadn’t expected to see, not like this. Sure, he had seen her in elegant gowns at gallery openings and charity events, but this? This was different. This was their wedding. Her wedding, to him.

And for some reason, it made his heart ache, a familiar ache that had been building over the last week, each passing day making it harder to ignore.

He snapped out of his thoughts, shaking his head for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

She straightened up, looking at him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m late. My car broke down, I had to take the subway as I couldn't find a taxi on time” she rambled. 

“It’s alright” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “The official is here, and Felix is here. We’re just waiting for the ceremony to begin.”

She nodded and moved to sit next to him, quickly slipping her heels back on with an effort that seemed to take her mind off her racing heart.

A beat passed.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice a little softer now, more genuine.

He wasn’t. Not even close. But he couldn’t tell her that.

“Sure” he lied.

She studied him quietly, her eyes dropping to his hands.

“You’re trembling.”

He quickly pulled his hands behind his back, trying to mask it. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re spiraling,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze didn’t waver, and he could see that she wasn’t concerned in the way a friend might be. This was her usual, calm, detached way of handling things, but there was something steady about it now. Something grounding.

“Don’t pass out. That’s a lot of paperwork,” she added with a small smile, her words light but full of the practical concern that only she could offer.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and met her eyes again. Something in her expression softened. She wasn’t as unreadable as usual. Calm, yes. But not distant. Like if he fell, she’d be there to catch him. Sure, she’d probably roll her eyes while doing it, but she'd catch him.

She was close now, and the warmth between them felt almost like a secret, like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.

“It’s not too late,” she said, her voice quieter now. “We can run. Stage a mugging. Pretend we were abducted by aliens.”

He blinked, caught off guard by her words. “You think aliens would take us both?”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “You, definitely. Me? Maybe if they’re into tortured artists.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t tortured.”

She paused for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said I wasn’t dramatic. Different thing.”

His lips twitched at the familiar banter. She always knew how to make him laugh, even when the circumstances didn’t call for it.

She offered him her arm.

Without thinking, he took it.

She didn’t walk down the aisle in the way most brides did. It wasn’t necessary. There were only flashes of people and cameras, this wasn’t a traditional wedding, after all. The reverend gave them both a small, understanding smile, as if he knew this wasn’t a romantic union, but he was still part of the charade.

The vows were brief. Legal. No passion. She recited her words like she was reading from a script, and he did the same.

His hand shook when he took hers, and he saw that hers trembled too.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t part of the contract, but neither was the sudden wedding to his twenty-five-year-old assistant, a woman who once called a $400,000 sculpture “the rock with depression.” No, the kiss was just another checkbox. A formality, like the rings, the signatures, or this entire absurd arrangement.

He leaned in, watching her.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither of them did.

It was supposed to be brief. A quick peck to seal the deal.

But it wasn’t.

The moment stretched, lingering longer than either of them had expected. His hand settled lightly at her waist, not possessive, but steady. Anchoring. He could feel her tremble too, just like he had.

They didn’t pull away immediately. Something shifted between them in that brief, unspoken space.

And for just a second, everything else blurred.

The click of the camera. The reverend’s final words. All of it faded.

Because for a moment, neither of them was pretending.

And in that moment, he couldn’t decide if it terrified him more than it thrilled him.

_______________________________

After the ceremony ended, after the legalities, the signature, and that kiss they hadn’t rehearsed, they both stood outside the chapel, saying goodbye to an overly emotional Felix. He’d hugged them both a little too tight, dabbed at his eyes like this was the ending of a romance drama, and promised to send over the photos “once they were filtered and flawless.”

Then he was gone, the sound of his cheerful humming disappearing down the block. And just like that, the two of them were alone again. No crowd. No champagne. No reception or rice thrown in the air. Just silence, a cool Sydney evening, and the faint sound of distant traffic.

They walked side by side down the quiet street, their footsteps echoing slightly off the old stone sidewalk. It wasn’t what newlyweds usually did after a wedding. There was no shared car, no honeymoon suite. No whispered plans or shy laughter. Just two people headed toward separate cabs and separate homes like colleagues ending a long workday.

But they weren’t just colleagues anymore. Not legally.

“Good job today,” they both said at the exact same time, the words overlapping.

He let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “This is it.”

“This is the start,” she replied, but her voice was softer, almost unsure.

He glanced sideways. There it was, that furrow between her brows, the tightness around her mouth. She was worried. Probably about the immigration interview tomorrow. She’d been calm at the chapel, composed in front of the reverend, but now that it was just the two of them, that armor had slipped. Slightly.

He should say something. Be the steady one for once.

“The interview will go well tomorrow,” he said after a beat, his voice low and certain. “If you’re worried.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead at the empty road, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally, a nod. “Let’s hope so” she said, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable and heavy at the same time.

Her cab arrived first. A silver sedan pulling up with a soft rumble of the engine. She turned to him, her expression unreadable again, something caught between fatigue and something else he couldn’t quite place.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, voice quiet.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow, wifey,” he replied, trying for levity. It came out a little more tender than teasing.

“Thanks, hubby,” she said, too tired to roll her eyes but playing along anyway. Her smile lingered for a second longer this time.

He watched her gather the hem of her gown, lifting it carefully off the sidewalk to avoid the edges of the street grime. She slid into the cab with a soft thud, her body folding in like she’d been running on adrenaline all day and it had finally worn off. Through the glass, she looked at him again. No words, just a wave. Small. Hesitant.

He waved back, hand raised halfway. She closed the door.

The cab pulled away slowly, tail lights disappearing down the road, and suddenly the street felt much emptier than before.

He stood there for a while longer than he meant to, staring after her even when she was gone. Then he reached into his pocket for his phone, checked the time, and let out a sigh.

Married. He was married.

And tomorrow, they’d have to convince a government officer that this was real. He just hoped it wouldn’t be harder to fake now that something inside him didn’t feel fake at all.

With one last glance down the street, he turned and walked toward his own cab, the eucalyptus-scented air still clinging to his clothes like memory.

_______________________________

The waiting room was beige. Aggressively beige.

You sat side by side on cracked leather chairs while a digital clock ticked far too loud and a fluorescent light flickered overhead like it was interrogating you before the interview even began.

A tall officer with a clipboard appeared at the doorway.

“Y/N L/N and Hyunjin Hwang?”

You both stood.

He led you down a corridor into a small, windowless room.

Inside were two officers: one older woman with sharp eyes and a presence that filled the room, and a younger man who looked a little lost in her shadow. No smiles from either. It was clear who was in charge.

Just clipped greetings and the sound of a tape recorder clicking on.

“This interview is being recorded,” the woman said. “You’ve applied for a Partner Visa Subclass 820, with Hyunjin Hwang as your sponsor.”

You nodded.

A door opened again.

“Mrs. L/N & Mr. Hwang.”

Another officer, different suit, same fog-colored tone, led you down a second hallway into a sterile room with a table, two chairs, and a camera mounted to the ceiling.

No ceremony. No comfort.

Just two pens. Two files. And one giant lie.

_______________________________

The lead officer had the kind of face that gave away nothing.

Not cruelty. Not curiosity. Just… silence.

“We’ll be recording this conversation,” she said. “Answer honestly. Any deliberate omissions or contradictions will impact the results of your application.”

Hyunjin nodded beside you. His leg was still bouncing. You wanted to reach for it. Steady him. Steady yourself. You didn’t.

“Let’s begin.”

She opened a folder. “Where did you meet?”

“At work,” you said.

“Solstice Arts Gallery,” Hyunjin added. “She was my boss.”

“She still is,” you muttered.

“Cute,” the officer deadpanned. “And when did the romantic relationship begin?”

You hesitated. “Around… September?”

“August,” Hyunjin said at the same time.

You flinched.

She made a mark on her form.

You forced a laugh. “He’s better with dates.”

“She’s better with moods,” Hyunjin shot back.

The officer didn’t react.

_______________________________

The questions came faster than expected.

Your first trip together. What side of the bed you sleep on. Who does the dishes. The name of Hyunjin’s shampoo. Your favorite type of flower.

“Lilies,” he said. “She hates roses. Thinks they’re cliché.”

You looked at him. “...That’s actually correct.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered.

“Her middle name?” the officer asked.

“Elise” Hyunjin answered without missing a beat.

You blinked. “You remembered that?”

“I forget things. Not you.”

It sounded too soft. Too close. Like it came from the wrong place in his chest.

You turned back to the officer.

Then her tone changed.

“Miss L/N, your visa renewal request was filed three days before the marriage application.”

You froze.

“Yes,” you said. “My work visa was expiring. I needed a new path to stay.”

“And this marriage,” she said slowly, “appeared, very suddenly…just in time.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It wasn’t planned that way.”

She gave you a long, unreadable look. “You’ve lived in Sydney for nearly five years, yet have no local emergency contacts, no immediate family, and minimal social records outside of your workplace.”

You swallowed.

“My parents passed away a long time ago. I moved here after uni.”

“No roommates? No personal references outside the gallery?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

“And the wedding, organized in five days, without family or friends present. Minimal guest list. No reception.”

“It was… private.”

She clicked her pen. “Convenient.”

They split you up halfway through.

Hyunjin was taken to another room. You stayed behind.

Your chair felt smaller without him beside you.

“How long has he lived with you?” she asked.

You scrambled. “Two weeks. No…ten days.”

“What color are his bedsheets?”

You blinked. “Dark green?”

“Wrong,” she said. “He said navy.”

You swallowed.

“What’s the name of his mother?”

You paused. “He… doesn’t talk about her much.”

She stared at you. “He gave us her name. And number.”

You closed your eyes.

_______________________________

Meanwhile, in the next room, Hyunjin was unraveling.

He looked calm, back straight, voice steady, but his mind kept replaying every time he almost reached for your hand. Every time he almost kissed you like it meant something.

He hated how close the truth felt. Like a lit match near dry paper.

“What does she do when she’s stressed?” the officer asked.

“She makes tea,” he said. “But never drinks it.”

“What’s her worst habit?”

“She stays too late at work. Tries to fix everything herself. Thinks that if she lets go for even a second, the world will fall apart.”

The officer scribbled something.

“How many siblings does she have?”

He looked up.

“She doesn’t.”

_______________________________

They brought you back into the same room after an hour that felt like a week.

You sat. Didn't speak.

The officer closed her folder with a sharp clap.

“Your answers were inconsistent.”

Your spine stiffened.

“You contradicted yourselves on multiple domestic details. Anniversary dates. Sleeping arrangements. Family.”

You felt Hyunjin shift beside you.

“There are red flags in your timeline. The speed of the marriage. The lack of documented history. The proximity to your visa expiration.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“It doesn’t feel natural.”

“It was complicated,” you said quietly. “But it’s real.”

“Is it?”

You couldn’t answer that.

“At this time,” she said, “we are not convinced this is a legitimate relationship.”

The words landed like ice water.

“But,” she added, “this isn’t a final decision.”

You looked up, hopeful. Too hopeful.

“You’ll be placed under a six-month observation period. Home checks. Surprise visits. Digital audits. We’ll also be contacting your employers, coworkers, and known family members.”

Hyunjin went still.

You barely heard her say, “You may go.”

You walked out on autopilot.

_______________________________

The café was too quiet.

Not in a peaceful way, just empty enough for the air to feel tense. Artificial. Like the silence was watching them too. Like it had taken a seat at their table.

Hyunjin sat across from her, elbows resting on the cool laminate, tie loosened, collar tugged open like he couldn’t breathe right. His blazer was somewhere behind him, probably slipping off the back of the chair, but he didn’t bother turning around to check.

He kept folding a sugar packet between his fingers. Crease, flip, crease. Again and again.

The paper had softened from the heat of his hands. It was pointless, a stupid nervous habit. But it gave him something to focus on. Something that wasn’t the hollow look in her eyes or the buzz of dread still crawling under his skin.

She hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Not about the way the immigration officer’s stare had lingered too long.

Not about the failed answers. Not about the holes in the story.

Not about the final words delivered like a verdict: “You’ll be monitored for six months.”

He didn’t need to look up to know she was still gripping her coffee cup like it might save her.

Like if she let it go, the whole thing would collapse. Her hands were probably burning, but she held it tighter anyway.

Hyunjin broke first. His voice was low, almost apologetic. “It could’ve gone a lot worse.”

She let out a sound—somewhere between a breath and a laugh. Bitter. Detached. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yeah. Well. I tanked it anyway.”

He looked up at her then.

Her head was tilted slightly downward, lashes casting soft shadows beneath her eyes. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers were trembling.

He hated that. Hated that she was the one shaking, that she was the one shouldering all the blame. Like she hadn’t saved his job. Like he hadn’t looked her in the eye and agreed to this mess.

He was the one who’d said yes. He could’ve walked away. He should’ve.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She blinked like she wasn’t expecting it. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this.”

Her eyes finally found his. Still tired. Still defensive. But softer, for just a second.

“Hyunjin,” she said, voice thin. “I dragged you into this.”

He gave a small shrug, voice quieter this time. “Yeah. But I let you.”

The words hung there, suspended between them like the rest of the conversation they weren’t having.

She turned her head, gaze drifting to the window beside them. Outside, a woman in a blazer was laughing into her phone. A couple crossed the street, fingers intertwined, sipping iced drinks like they had all the time in the world.

She looked tired. Not physically, though the dark smudges under her eyes said otherwise. No, this was something deeper. That bone-deep weariness people carry when they’ve been surviving too long.

“We’re gonna have to live together now,” she murmured.

He nodded slowly, still watching the empty chair next to her instead of her face. “That’s one side of it.”

The other sides whispered at the edge of his thoughts—the rules, the check-ins, the pretending. Smiling in front of strangers. Memorizing a script. Lying to his family. Acting like he was in love with her, when sometimes—quietly, secretly—he wondered if maybe it wasn’t all an act anymore.

She shifted again, one foot curling under the chair like she wanted to disappear into it.

He hated that she looked like she wanted to vanish.

And even more, he hated that he didn’t know how to make this easier for her.

The silence came back, pulled a chair up to their table again.

Outside, the world kept spinning. People walked by with their coffees, their to-do lists, their simple lives.

But for them, something had shifted. No reset. No do-over.

They were in it now.

Too deep.

Six months.

And it already felt like forever.

──────────────

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