You wake up to that sentence echoing directly inside your skull, which is already rude because you went to bed hungry and dreaming about noodles you can’t afford.
You do not open your eyes.
You do not acknowledge the voice.
You pretend, very hard, that this is a stress hallucination.
“Hiiiiii,” the voice continues, undeterred, cheerful in a way that feels legally actionable. “Okay so. In about six months, you’re gonna die of starvation. ”
You sit straight up in bed.
“What,” you say out loud.
“Yay! You can hear me!” he says. “That makes this soooo much easier.”
There is a boy sitting on your windowsill.
He has fluffy hair, a grin that suggests he has never once known peace, and a pair of wings that look like they were added as an afterthought. He is swinging his legs, humming, scrolling on what looks suspiciously like a celestial iPhone.
“I’m Haechan,” he says. “Your guardian angel. Technically.”
“Technically?”
“Long story. Union stuff.” He waves it off. “Anyway! If I don’t protect you, I get—” he gasps dramatically, clutching his chest “fired!”
You stare at him.
He stares back, smiling.
“That is,” he adds solemnly as he crosses his arms, “No Good. “
“I’m going to die,” you say slowly.
“Yes!”
“And you’re… worried about your job.”
“Well,” he says, offended, “I’m also worried about you. Obviously. You’re my assignment. I named you in my planner and everything.”
He holds up a notebook. Your name is there, written in glitter gel pen, with little stars and a doodle of a stick figure crying over an empty bowl.
You rub your face with both hands.
“Okay,” you say. “Explain. Calmly.”
“Of course!” Haechan says. He claps. “So! I looked into causes of starvation, right? And it turns out… your death is totally preventable! ”
“That’s good?”
“Right? Uh oh! There’s more than enough food to sustain you without interfering with anyone else’s survival…”
He leans in, voice dropping dramatically.
“…but you’re not allowed to have it.”
You blink.
“Whaaaat?” he adds, helpfully.
“Why.”
“Apparently,” Haechan says, scrolling again, “your death is premeditated by thousands of things called shareholders.”
There is a long silence.
“…Okay,” you say. “And what is your plan.”
“Oh!” He brightens. “So. I’ve been killing people.”
WHAT.
You choke on air.
“Not like, random people,” he says quickly. “I have a spreadsheet.”
He flicks his wrist. A glowing hologram appears, listing names, stock portfolios, and little skull emojis in the margins.
“See? Very organized. HR hates when you’re sloppy.”
“You can’t just… kill people!” you say.
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because it’s illegal? Immoral? Psychotic?”
“Well,” Haechan says, counting on his fingers, “I’m not human, heaven’s laws are different, and also, they shouldn’t have built a system where you starve while food rots in warehouses.”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“…You murdered someone because I skipped dinner.”
“Multiple someones,” he corrects gently. “But yes.”
“That’s insane.”
He shrugs. “Capitalism is insane. I’m just efficient.”
You stare at the glowing list.
“…Is that CEO crossed out?”
“Oh yeah,” Haechan says. “He tried to outsource bread.”
You feel dizzy.
“So what happens now?” you ask.
“Well!” He hops off the windowsill, wings fluttering. “Phase Two.”
He snaps his fingers.
Your fridge hums.
You turn. Slowly open it.
It is full.
Not magically glowing ambrosia-full. Just… groceries. Real food. Staple food. The kind you always put back on shelves because rent exists.
You look back at him.
He grins, hands behind his back. “See? No interference with anyone else’s survival. Redistribution is very easy when you remove obstacles.”
“By obstacles,” you say faintly, “you mean—”
“Shareholders,” he says cheerfully.
You sit down hard on the floor.
“I’m going to hell for this,” you whisper.
He laughs. “Oh, no, I might. You’re fine. Eat your pasta.”
“Nope!” he says brightly. “You focus on staying alive. I’ll handle the rest.”
He pauses. Smiles wider.
“And hey. If anyone asks?”
“…Yes?”
“Tell them your guardian angel’s just really bad at conflict resolution.”
He vanishes in a burst of light and glitter.
Your stomach growls.
You stand up.
You start cooking.
—
um thank u @aquaphoenixz for sending me this post bc i can’t sleep cause of my jet lag (i got back from asia) and i need to do something i wrote this um
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A/N: It's 1:30 AM and I couldn't sleep bc this popped into my head. This is a full on crack fic.
Warning: Sexual innuendos below the cut.
Mouth full, drool dripping down the sides of your lips, but determined you were to take it all in. It was starting to get overwhelming, your cheeks had never been so stretched out before. But your mama didn't raise a quitter.
"More," you manage to mumble, feeling tears starting to fill your eyes as you gag around the fullness invading your mouth.
"More?" Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow down at you in surprise. "Are you sure?" he probes, making sure you weren't pushed beyond your limits.
"Yes. More please," you manage to say.
Your boyfriend complies, leaning down to push in one more marshmallow into your mouth. He secures the soft dessert against your lips, anticipating your reaction and with all the might you have left in your body, you say:
"Chubby Bunny."
"Dude, that's like that twentieth marshmallow Y/N put in!" Mark exclaims as the others stare in wonder. You side-eye them, winking triumphantly now that you've been proven to be the Chubby Bunny god.
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