#Which makes it 22 years old and counting

[pasiphile]

I have a day off tomorrow which I sorta intend to spend on writing, possibly some short things just to get back in the saddle rather than risk getting overwhelmed by my Big Boys, so...

Anyone have a ficlet prompt?

Fandoms I'm willing to write for include but are not limited to: Discworld, The Untamed, Attack on Titan, Ace Attorney, The Locked Tomb, Doctor Who, Merlin, Black Sails, Sherlock, buffy the vampire slayer, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Good Omens (strictly the book, not the TV series)

No promises, given that my writing skills have been in hibernation for almost a full year, but yknow. Send me a fandom, pairing or character and prompt and things may happen.

#But pasi you may say #Are you writing sherlock fic in the year of our lord 2023 #Why yes i am #Listen the oldest fandom on there is btvs #Which I got into at the tender age of 11 #Which makes it 22 years old and counting #I accrue fandoms like a ship does barnacles #They cling and get a little weathered but don't let go #Anyway as said that list is not exhaustive so feel free to try any fandom you want #I'm writing stuff! #Well I certainly hope so anyway

[whatsnewalycat]

RUTHLESS

Stepdad Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 5.1k+

Warnings: DDDNE, literally just a fucked up stepdad/mom's bf fantasy, could read "mom" as tess but I don't name her or assign physical features to her or reader, post-outbreak, reader is def over 18 but not by much so yeah age gap, NON-CONSENSUAL, power imbalance, unethical d/s dynamic, slapping, spanking, punishment, orgasm delay/denial, humiliation, degradation, face fucking, anal sex, little to no aftercare

A/N: Category is "That old man would fucking never... but if he did..." Please be mindful of the warnings and don't read if it might trigger you. Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

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Within the secluded world of your big noise-canceling headphones, you scan through silence on the CB radio, pausing for a few seconds on each channel before moving on to the next. 

Channel 11: Nothing. 

Channel 12: Zilch. 

Channel 13: Nada. 

When you turn the dial to channel 14, though, you pick up chatter and start transcribing. 

Channel 14 7/17/22 19:56

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew? Over. 

Got enough for the kids? Over. 

And leftovers. Over. 

I’ll be at Margie’s around supper time. Over and out. 

The air goes silent.

After a minute goes by with no follow up transmissions, you glance at the clock. 7:58. Almost time for check-in. 

You tune the radio to channel 32 and review your transcription. 

Many people speak in code, encrypting their messages in seemingly benign conversations. To the untrained ear, they’re normal exchanges, people making small talk about jobs and rations and kids. Goodnight calls and check-ins that use predictable inquiries to convey messages. 

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew?

Most of it you can translate from memory. The drug traffickers that use channel 14 have frequented the same lingo for years. Likely because of the high turnover rate of personnel. There’s less confusion that way. Confusion in communication raises more alarm bells for eavesdroppers than using the same code words across the board. 

You flip through your cipher for channel 14, searching for budaydas, but find nothing. Scrunching your nose up, you say the word out loud, “Budaydas. Buh-day-das.” 

Carrots, onions, budaydas in a stew. 

“Oh,” you nod in understanding, then jot down your translation, muttering under your breath, “Fucking Boston accents.” 

(Someone) picked up tranquilizers, benzos (budaydas = potatoes), and opioids. The caller wants to meet up and trade as previously agreed. 

The rest of it is easy enough to interpret without the use of a cipher. You probably don’t need to write down the translation, but do it in case your mom or Joel need to reference the notes at a later date. 

There’s enough to distribute product across their network of dealers in Boston QZ, plus more to stockpile. They’ll meet at their hub in Area 1, Margaret St, at midnight. 

You exhale through slack lips, glancing at the clock as it ticks over to 8:00, then pick up the microphone and hold down the speak button. 

“Radio check.” 

A few seconds go by before you hear a familiar gruff voice crackle over the radio waves into your ears, “Loud and clear. Over.”

Your nostrils flare when you hear him. Joel Miller. The bane of your existence. Your de facto stepfather, only because you don’t really remember life without him by your mom’s side. 

This isn’t to say he’s a father figure to you by any means. The two of you never shared the kind of heartwarming paternal bonding moments you read about in books. That would require warmth and vulnerability, which he distinctly lacks. 

Once, when you were maybe 11 or 12, you made the mistake of calling him Dad. The way he looked at you made you feel like dirt. Fire burning behind his dark eyes, he corrected you with one stern syllable that taught you your place: “Joel.” 

You sit up straighter and take a moment to gather yourself before responding. 

“Did you get your message from Uncle Paul? Over.”

“I did. Over.” 

“How’s the weather in Kansas City? Over.” 

“Cloudy. Over.” 

Fuck. 

You swallow around nothing, then clear your throat and ask, “And Grandma, how’s she? Over.���

“Fine, just busy is all.”

You exhale a sigh of relief that melts the tension between your shoulders. Joel continues. 

“Anything new with you? Over.” 

Tapping your fingers on your notes, you answer, “Rumor has it the market is gonna be busy tomorrow. Harvesting time, I guess. Other than that, same old same old. What about you? Staying out of trouble? Over.”

It feels strange, having a casual conversation with him like this. Even if it’s just a data exchange dressed up as a casual conversation. 

There’s a long pause, then he says, “Fine, yeah. Well. See you soon. Over ‘n’ out.” 

Stiff as a board. Cold as ice. Joel Miller, everyone. Round of applause. 

You snort, rolling your eyes as you unplug the headphones and toss them on the table. It takes a moment for you to re-acclimate to your surroundings. 

The dingy two-bedroom apartment is quiet and still. Outside, the setting sun casts the world in a dark golden haze. A FEDRA patrol vehicle roars down the street, broadcasting the curfew alert from a loudspeaker. Faint shouting from a few units down momentarily piques your curiosity before you decide it’s none of your business. 

You stand from the chair and reach your hands above your head, lungs expanding in a powerful yawn, then take a lap around the apartment to stretch your legs. 

Something catches your eye when you walk by the entry. A note slipped under the doorframe. On the outer fold, your name is written in a familiar scrawl. 

Your heart skips a beat. 

You pick it up and unfold the paper, revealing an invitation. 

I miss you. Come over when you’re done surfing the airwaves. XO, Bert. 

Warmth trickles down between your thighs. A smile spreads across your face. You glance up at the door, then to the CB radio and scanner on the desk. 

Indecision churns in your belly. 

You are explicitly forbidden from leaving the apartment while your mom and Joel are out on runs. A safety precaution you’ve protested dozens of times to no avail. They expect you to stay put and warn them if you notice any signs of potential danger. In return, you receive a cut of the profit and a roof over your head. Security, in short. Which is more than most could say. 

That being said… You break this rule from time to time, when the circumstances allow. 

Like when the Fireflies and FEDRA have been quiet for weeks and there are no smoke signals in sight. Like when you’re five nights into a seven day seclusion and think you might die of boredom if you don’t get the fuck out of here. Like when your boyfriend slips a note under the door and asks you to come over. 

You look down at the paper in your hands, re-reading the words I miss you. 

Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? 

—

Just before midnight, you wander down the hallway to your unit, jelly knees wobbling with each step. As you absentmindedly trace your tingling lips, still puffy from kissing, you unlock the door and push it open, then frown. 

The lights are on. 

They were off when you left, you’re sure of it. When you step further into the apartment, your foot catches on something. A backpack. This faint buzzing starts behind your ears as you blink at it, wishing it would go away.

Motherfu—

“Where the fuck have you been?” 

Your stomach plummets to the floor when you hear his voice. A thick knot of panic tightens around your windpipe as you look up to find Joel standing just a few paces away in the living room. 

He stares you down, dark eyes glowing with fury, and questions you again, “Where were you?” 

“N-nowhere.” 

The blatant lie sits sour on your tongue. His lips purse, so you fumble out another, “I went for a walk.” 

“A walk,” he repeats, tone disbelieving, “You went on a walk after curfew wearing that?” 

You look down at your clothing. A short skirt and tank top. Your throat bobs in a guilty gulp, then you meet his eyes again and nod. 

“And when did you leave on this ‘walk?’”

Your mind whirs as you try to come up with an answer. It feels like a trap. You try to calculate an answer that will provide minimal blowback. 

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago?” 

“Try again.” 

The electricity humming through you takes on a red, frustrated edge, and you snip, “I don’t fucking know, dude. It was a while ago, I wasn’t paying attention. Where’s my mom?” 

“Your mom sent me here to make sure you were alive,” he says pointedly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you, “We’ve been tryin’a reach you for three hours. I got here an hour ago. That’s a helluva lot longer than twenty minutes, ain’t it?” 

Shrinking into yourself, you search his face. Jaw set, eyes boring into yours. Waves of anger roll off him as he approaches, and you remember all those rumors you heard about him on the radio. The fear you heard in grown men’s voices when they recounted run-ins with that bitch and her guard dog. 

You remember what Bert said about him: He’s fucking ruthless.

“You aren’t supposed to leave the apartment when we’re outside the QZ.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why did you?” 

Your heart thuds against your ribcage. 

Joel has never directed this kind of outright anger towards you. Sternness, sure. Contempt, maybe. But this is different. You’re in fucking trouble. 

There has to be a way out of this conversation.

You drop your gaze to the floor and ask, “Is my mom ok? Did something happen to her?”

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Righteous indignation straightens your spine and wills you to meet his eyes again, “I’m not saying shit until you tell me what happened to her.” 

“She sprained her ankle, but she’s fine. She’s safe,” he tells you, then takes another step forward, “Why did you leave?” 

You respond by rolling your eyes. 

“Answer the question.” 

With an irritated sigh, you search his face, then tell him, “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. Isolated for days or weeks at a time. I fucking hate it. It’s so lonely and boring, I feel like I’m losing my mind—”

“Oh, cry me a goddamn river.” 

You scowl at him, staring him down, “Fuck you.” 

“Watch your fucking mouth, you disrespectful little shit.” 

Red flashes through your field of vision, hot and angry and defiant. You gather the moisture in your mouth on your tongue and spit at him. It splats on his cheek. 

His face twists up with fury for one second before he charges, closing the distance between you. The impact pushes your back to the door with a thud. 

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your cheeks. His eyes are hot coals, burning into you. The muscles in his jaw twitch, nostrils flaring, breath shaky. 

When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, “You don’t know what it’s like out there.” 

“No, because you won’t let me fucking leave—”

“You should be fucking grateful, you know that? Being here is a fucking cake walk. Your mom ‘n’ I have seen things, done things—horrible things you couldn’t even imagine,” he husks, searching your face, grip tightening so hard it makes you whine. “We keep you safe, and all we ask is that you stay put and keep a lookout for us when we’re gone.” 

Even if you wanted to respond, you can’t. The vice grip he has on your face renders your mouth immobile. 

All you can do is stare back at him, studying his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Full lips pinched thin as he glowers at you. 

You notice how close his broad body is to yours. The heat radiating off his tightly-wound muscles onto your skin. His ragged breath scatters across your face and wafts into your open mouth. You taste the bootleg whiskey on his breath and your pulse jumps. 

Warmth drips down your spine and pools at the center of you, a horrifying sensation that makes you squirm.

“Were you with your little boyfriend? Hmm?” he asks, eyes darting around your face, trailing down to your body for a moment before returning, “That boy downstairs? Figure you musta been, on account of how you’re dressed.” 

You don’t say anything. You can’t. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not really a question. 

“Abandoning your post to go out and get fucked, is that it?” 

A whimper slips from your throat as heat swells beneath your skin. 

He wouldn’t be treating you like this if your mom was here. He wouldn’t say these things or be this close to you. Knowing this, you understand that whatever is happening right now is wrong. 

You also understand that you like it. 

You hate that you like it, and hate him for making you like it, but you like it all the same. 

Letting go of your face, he demands, “Answer me.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Before you even realize what’s happening, you feel a sharp, hot sting on your cheek and yelp.

He fucking slapped you. 

“Wrong answer.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you retort, bringing your hand to the welt forming on your cheek, “I’m gonna tell her.” 

“Yeah? You gonna tell her I found you sneaking in at midnight, too? That you compromised our safety to go out ‘n’ get dicked down?” 

You harden your gaze on him, lips pressing together with disdain. 

“She wouldn’t like that, would she?” he asks, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “She’d probably kick you out on your ass.” 

“She wouldn’t. You guys need me.” 

“And you need us,” he counters, searching your face, “So what do we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? Hmm?” 

A dozen inappropriate images flash through your head, each more lurid than the last. An electric, tingling feeling shoots out from the base of your spine and works through your extremities. 

You swallow hard and shake your head, “I won’t do it again.” 

“If I don’t punish you, you will. You’re fucking disrespectful. Selfish. You need discipline.” 

Again, a flash of frustration taints the world red. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scoff, “Just because you’re fucking my mom doesn’t mean you’re my dad. I am an adult and you are not the boss of me.” 

He sighs and takes a step back, planting his hands on his hips. His gaze drifts around the empty apartment, jaw gnashing back and forth for a moment before he returns to twist the deadbolt closed and grab your arm. 

“What the f—” you swat at him and dig your heels into the floor, but it does nothing as he drags you by his steel grip, pulling you stumbling along behind him into the living room. 

He sits on the couch and forces you to lay over his bent knees, one big hand securing your wrists behind your back while the other flattens against the swell of your ass cheek. As soon his touch leaves, it returns, a sharp snap tingling across your skin. 

Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos throbbing through you. 

“You’re right, you’re an adult. And I’m not your dad,” he asserts, lifting his hand. Your whole body clenches in anticipation. “But as long as you live here, I am the fucking boss of you,” he slaps your ass again, “Do you understand me?” 

It surprises you when you hear yourself sob, “I’m sorry—”

He does it again and again, hissing, “Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now, aren’t you?” 

Each firm slap he lays down is firm, unflinching. Ruthless. 

It overwhelms your senses and becomes the only thing you feel. The universe world narrows down to just his palm on your skin. The reliable and exquisite pain ringing through you. Smack. Smack. Smack. 

Every time he draws his hand back, you don’t think you can handle it again. But you do. 

Soon, you start to crave the impact. His skin on your skin. You can’t feel the start or end of it. It’s just him and you. Pain and pleasure. Sobs and moans, all blended together. 

Far away, you hear him chide you for not wearing underwear beneath your skirt. Then he asks, “Are you fucking enjoying this?” 

Too ashamed to admit it, all you do is whimper in response.

Smack. 

He sucks in breath through his teeth, then grabs the meat of your ass and rumbles, “You do, don’t you?” 

When his grasp on your wrists releases, you pull your elbows beneath you and look over your shoulder at him, watching as he spreads your cheeks apart and stares down between your legs. You’re probably shiny and wet with the evidence of your desire. 

His lips form an ‘o’ when he kneads you back together and spreads you apart again. The motion teases all your hungry nerves and makes you moan. It feels so fucking good. 

You realize then that he’s grown stiff against your belly, hard cock leaving no mistake. 

“You fucking like it, too, don’t you?” you ask him, your voice breathy and amused, “I can feel how turned on you are.” 

Slipping a hand between your bodies, you press against his strained zipper. His cock jumps at the contact, and he groans, dragging his fingers through your slick lips. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you nod in approval. He works your clit in steady, firm circles while you smooth your hand along the big bulge in his pants, letting out a string of whines at the bubbling pleasure inside you. 

You lose yourselves here, both of you squirming and panting and petting the other. So wrapped up with how fucking good it feels that you forget to feel ashamed. 

When he smacks your ass now, you croak through clenched teeth, “Fuck yes.”

He likes that you like it. You can tell by the way he groans and throbs beneath you. This knowledge inspires your pulse to pound and your muscles to tense. 

“Joel,“ you whimper, opening your eyes to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, “I’m gonna fucking come, don’t stop—”

“Did I give you permission to do that?” he asks, slowing his touch to a torturous rhythm, “Did I say you could come?” 

You shake your head and whine, “Please, Joel, please—”

“Are you sorry for what you did?” 

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you gonna do it again?”

“No no no, I won’t, I promise, I’ll be a good girl—”

He groans, tossing his head back as you frantically rub at the bulge in his pants. Your palm chafes against the stiff denim, but you don’t stop. You would do this for eternity if it meant he’d let you find your release. 

“Oh yeah, you’ll be a good fucking girl for me?” he asks, touching you just soft and slow enough to twist your nerves ragged, but keep your orgasm out of reach. 

“I will, I promise. Please, Joel,” you whisper, holding his gaze as your face gets all hot, “Please make me come, please please—”

“Show me you mean it.” 

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. While he takes off his jeans, you scramble off his lap and kneel between his spread knees. His eyes stay glued to yours as you slide your hands up his thighs. 

Batting your lashes at him, you wrap your lips around his swollen cock. He fills your mouth. He feels smooth but hard against your tongue. He tastes salty and heady and when you inhale the musk of him, you moan around his girth. 

Nodding, he anchors his grip behind your head and bucks his hips, forcing his dick down your throat. When you gag, he doesn’t let up, but thrusts into the sensation, grunting, “Fuck. Yes,” before letting you pull off, gasping for air.

You wrap your hands around him, all shiny and slick with drool, and pump his length for a moment while you catch your breath, then take him in your mouth again. 

This time, you sit up taller. You relish the stretch of your lips as you bob up and down. Savor the tug of his fingers curled tight in your hair. Memorize the sound of his huffs and grunts as he fucks your face. The wet squelching gurgle of his cock squeezing down your windpipe. 

“Look at me,” he orders, so you do. 

He’s all blurred from your watering eyes, but you can make out the dark irises and stay locked onto them while relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him easier. When you make an enthusiastic humming noise, he groans. It’s wanton and lusty and lights a fire in your belly. 

Joel has never treated you this hard or soft. His regard for you has always been callous. Closed-off. Indifferent. With your assistance on the radio, he treated you like a tool for survival. Before that, or even in-between smuggling runs, he treated you like some kind of a household pet he had little regard for. Your mom’s responsibility, never his. 

For years and years, you ached for more. 

When you were younger, you used to sit up nights and wonder if he’d ever consider you his daughter. He wouldn’t, though. He won’t. 

But this is something. 

Distinctly, you want to please him. Be the best he ever had. You want to sink your claws into his brain and leave your mark for years to come. You want him to look at you after this and feel a flicker of desire and self-loathing. You want him to think of you when he fucks your mom. You want him to hate how you made him feel. 

When you pull off him and start to work his soaked length with your hands, you pant, “Does that feel good? Am I doing a good job sucking your cock?” 

“It’s good,” he nods, lets out a groan that pinches his eyes shut, then meets your gaze again, “So fucking good, Jesus Christ. Is this what you were out doing tonight? Sucking cock?” 

“Not tonight.” 

“But he fucked you, didn’t he? That boy?” 

You nod, stroking him slower. His eyelids flutter. 

“Did he fuck your pussy or your ass?” 

The question sends a jolt through your middle. You recall the sex you had with Bert. Barely an hour has gone by since he pulled out of your cunt to shoot his load on the mattress, but it feels like a lifetime ago. 

“My pussy,” you answer, then gather a thick, hot wad of saliva on your tongue and spit on his cock. You spread it with a slow churning motion, watching Joel’s face twist up with pleasure. 

“Were you bein’ smart about it at least?” he asks, studying you, “We don’t need you getting knocked up.” 

“He pulled out,” you shrug. 

He grunts in acknowledgment, then sits up and pulls on your arm to join him on the couch, “C’mere.” 

You follow his guidance, lying back on the cushions as he strips off his shirt. 

The only times you’ve seen him shirtless were accidental and slightly embarrassing for both of you. But now, you notice how his smooth chest glows in the dim light. Now, when you drink in the sight of his big arms and broad shoulders, heat bubbles up your spine.

While you pull your tank top off over your head, he tugs your skirt down your thighs, asking, “You ever taken it up the ass?” 

You shake your head. 

His eyebrows jump a little like he’s surprised. A sadistic kind of smirk plays across his lips as he pushes your knees up to your chest, then spreads you apart, the head of him nudging at your backdoor. 

He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t ask if you want it this way, or if you want him to be the first. He doesn’t even warn you about the initial shock and pain you experience when he rocks his hips forward and breaches the tight hole. 

You yelp and try to lurch away from the sharp pain, but he grabs you and holds you there. 

Sitting up on your elbows, you cry, “That fucking hurts, Joel.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt a little, would it?” he murmurs, disinterested, watching your asshole stretch to accommodate the head of his cock. 

The sensation is overwhelming. Like being stabbed or split open. At first, you hate it. You sputter and gasp and shake your head as he pushes himself in further and further. 

Then he pauses the invasion, releasing his steel grip on you to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze, “Just relax.”

His eyes burn into yours, making your pulse jump. You bear witness to his heaving chest and parted lips and feel him twitch inside you. Sparks sizzle across your body, but you still scowl at him. 

“It hurts, I don’t like it.“ 

“It’ll get better, you just gotta relax,” he coaches.

“Why can’t we just have normal sex?”

He grunts, thinks about it for a moment, then tells you, “First off, this is not normal sex,” he points between your chest and his, “This will not be a normal thing, you understand?” 

It stings a little, if you’re being honest. But you nod, “I understand.” 

Nodding, he licks his lips. He throbs inside you, hips jerking a little in reaction. This time, the friction feels good enough to make you whimper. 

“Second, we don’t need another mouth to feed around here,” he says, searching your face, “We’re stretched thin enough as is. You know what I mean?”

“But if you—”

“Pulling out can still stick. This way’s tried and true, trust me.” 

“Trust you,” you scoff under your breath and roll your eyes. 

“What’s that?” 

You meet his hardened gaze, feeling emboldened enough to ask, “Do you fuck my mom in the ass?” 

“That’s none of your business,” he warns. 

“So, what, you can interrogate me about my sex life, but I can’t do the same?” 

“That’s right,” he barks, “Know why?” 

In response, you glare at him. 

He takes this moment of bitter silence to drag his knuckles up your slick, swollen lips. The light touch branches out beneath your skin and makes your heart pound. You gasp a little, but try to hide it. He clocks it immediately. 

“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, almost as an aside, smoothing the pad of his thumb in soft circles on your clit. Pleasure churns beneath the touch, hot and hungry for more. When you whimper, Joel’s eyes go wild for a second, then he says, “I am the fucking boss of you, understand?” 

You swallow a moan as he arches forward and starts to roll his hips. It feels better now. Good. Fucking amazing, almost. Electric and gooey. He fills you so completely with each thrust, you wonder how you can even breathe. 

“So if I tell you to be home, that’s where you’ll be. If I ask you where you’ve been, who you were with, what you were doing—you tell me the truth. Understand?” 

Nodding, you gasp, “I understand.” 

“You don’t get to ask me about your mom. You don’t tell your mom. You don’t sneak out to go get fucked by some boy who doesn’t even know what to do with you—”

“Holy shit, Joel I’m gonna—” you gasp at the pressure building at the base of your spine, spreading thick and hot and delicious across your body. 

“And you don’t come without my fucking permission. Understand?” 

“I understand I understand,” you cry, literal tears burning behind your eyes at the ache of trying to keep the ecstasy at bay, “Please can I come, please please please—”

“Are you sorry?” 

“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again—”

“That’s right, you’ll never fucking do it again. Why’s that?”

“You’re the boss,” you beg, your voice so raw and pleading it sounds foreign. He pounds into you now, a wet slap that echoes off the apartment walls. It takes all your concentration to keep your pleasure contained, to not spill over the edges, but you hear yourself babble somewhere far away. 

“You’re the fucking boss. I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t disobey you again I’ll be a good girl I’ll do anything just please give me permission to come daddy please please please—”

When he moans, loud and depraved, it just about breaks you, but you manage to keep your resolve long enough for him to pant, “Go ahead, let it go.” 

With a choked sob, you untether your pleasure and allow it to expand, growing hot and wide and unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Every muscle in your body tenses up as the sensation swallows you whole, then spits you back up, sending wave after wave across your body.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he grunts, taking his hand from your clit to hold your knees down and fuck your ass hard and fast and ruthless.

It surprises you when heat starts stretching out from the middle of you again. Your heart starts to race as the feeling grows. 

“Ffffuuuuck,” you whimper, “That feels so fucking good—”

“I told you, didn’t I?” 

“You did you did holy shit,” you meet his eyes and nod frantically, “I love it I love it—please can you come in my ass?” 

“Is that what you want? Want me to come in your tight little asshole?” 

A feral noise escapes you, and you sob, “Yes—”

“Do you wanna come too?”

“Yes—oh my god, yes, please please please daddy—”

“Come with me, baby.”

You let the feeling overtake you again, gasping out, “thank you thank you thank you,” as it takes you strong and fast. Pleasure pulses through your body, causing you to convulse and strain against Joel’s grip spreading you open. He releases a moan from his belly and gives you a hard, deep thrust that he holds for a shuddering moment. After emptying himself inside you, he pulls out, falling back to his seat on the couch. 

Chest heaving, you prop yourself up on your elbows and study him. He pinches his eyes shut and catches his breath before meeting your gaze again. 

His expression goes soft long enough for something dangerous to flicker between you. 

Then he turns away and starts getting dressed. 

“Get yourself together, I’m gonna go get your mom.” 

As you sit up, you fold your legs into your body and watch him button his shirt. 

“Joel—”

He looks at you, searching your face expectantly, but your brain goes static and you’re not even sure what you were going to say. 

“This stays between us, understand?” 

His tone is firm but gentle. You swallow hard and nod, “I understand.” 

Nodding, he glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes. He rises to his feet to leave, but before he does, he leans down to press a kiss into your forehead. 

��Good girl.” 

[ NEXT PART ]

#joel miller #joel the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #x reader #whatsnewalycat writes #ruthless joel miller

[thot4ellie]

oh sweetheart

pairing: boxer! ellie williams x f reader au

word count: 1.9k

rating: 18+

warnings: boxer!ellie, drinking, smoking, cursing, creepy guy but ellie comes to ur defense!! ellie has lots of tattoos, fighting, threats, idk if im missing anything (no character description or anything specific)

summary: you didn't expect to meet her on this night out.

authors notes: hi friends! this is my first time writing and posting on here hopefully you enjoy, please reblog, like or follow! lets be mutuals :) anyways feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated! ellie williams has me on my hands and knees!!! i hope you enjoy! i like the idea of making this a series if it works out and ppl like it, so pls let m know!! thank you :)

PART 1 | part 2

series masterlist <3

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

loud. everything is loud. the smell of sweat and blood stains the air around you. the sounds of people cheering and shouting towards the center of the large room. the lights are buzzing above you as you are walking into the entrance of the shitty run down gym your brother, jesse, and his girlfriend, dina, ended up dragging you to tonight.

you didn't mind coming along with him but this wasn't what you expected to be doing tonight. after a long shitty week of unpacking your new apartment, you kinda just wanted to end up a hole in the wall bar and drink your stress away but he had other plans. which including watching grown men beat the shit of each other for their cut at the end of the night.

it was intimidating, walking through the crowds of people you didn't know until you finally make it to where his friends were waiting for you guys. they were sitting at a table with a clear shot of the fight which was surprising since the whole place seemed to have more people in it then it could fit. you make your way awkwardly to the empty seats saying a gentle "hello guys" to your brothers friends who you didn't knowl. you sat next to dina as jesse made his way to the bar with your drink orders.

after you graduated highschool, you moved to new york and spend 4 years there working in a small cafe you lived above but now at the start of the summer, still not sure what you should be doing with your life. now you're 22 and you've moved to the city of jackson to be closer to your older brother and his girlfriend. you were excited to start fresh in a place where no one knew you yet, you were ready to leave your old life and those toxic things in the past. but you wondered if it was even possible.

you spend the next hour talking with dina and catching up on the things that have happened since you moved, "have you started looking for jobs yet?" she asked as you both sipped on the second drink of the night that jesse went and brought back a bit ago. you've only met a couple times in person since they started dating about 2 years ago but you loved her, she was making this night a lot better. "not much luck yet, i don't know what to do, luckily i have some time to figure something out." you responded. she went to say something but then the loud speakers around the room started blaring music and the countdown to the match that was about to start.

jesse tapped dinas shoulder to go watch with the rest of them. dinas eyes met yours and asked, "are you coming up?" you started getting nervous as the people started getting louder and crowding towards the center ring and told her that you'll stay here and watch. they both nodded and said they'd be back when it was over.

you took this opportunity to finally go get some fresh air since the crowd isn't all over anymore and it was a straight shot to the door you came in, you walked over to the side of the building, definitely feeling the drinks you had, you let your back rest against the concrete wall, finally cooling you down on this hot summer night. there's people standing outside talking but they payed no attention to you. you stayed against the wall as you pull out the cigarette pack from the pocket of your thin dark green jacket and the lighter out of your back pocket in your jean shorts. you cursed yourself for not buying more but its a bad habit and you know it. you pulled one out and put it in your lips as you brought the lighter up and took a drag, finally letting the anxiety go as you stared off into the sky.

"excuse me miss, you shouldn't be out here alone, a beautiful girl like you," a man with a rough voice said but you didn't move to look, suddenly wishing you never left your apartment to begin with, "hello i'm talking to you, its not nice to ignore people, ya know," he slurred his words as he spoke. you turned your head as you went to tell him to leave you alone but instead, he was standing in front of you before you knew it you dropped your smoke and now he's practically cornered you.

he was so close you could smell the alcohol on his breathe as he spoke again, "now are you gonna talk to-" you leaned away from him as he was interrupted by the sound of a door opening a few feet away, he looked towards it but then turned back to you just as quick, almost touching you as he went to speak again but he was beat to it.

"get off her." you didn't even realize the door had opened until you heard her.

the man looked back towards the door to the figure in the light, he squinted and when he got a good look, he suddenly backed off and put his hands up. "hey hey i wasn't doing nothin- it was nothing!" he shouted back to whoever was next to the still open door, light shining into the alley.

the door slams and the light fades as the figure walks closer towards you and your eyes meet the deep green eyes of the person who just saved you as she turned to the man who was just cornering you against the wall.

"it doesn't look like nothing, i mean, really? you're fucking joking right?" she questioned him as she looked him right in the eyes.

"i said it was nothing- she was flirting with me and-" he was cut off as she laughed loudly. "yeah you're full of shit, get the fuck out of here and don't let me see you again or you'll regret it." she said as she stepped closer towards him, almost at the same height, he looked scared of her. "okay, okay- fuck 'm leaving!" he slurred one last time as he turned around and headed the opposite way of the run down gym.

you stood there as the interaction happened, not sure what to do or say yet, you were silent as he walked off, and those green eyes met yours again and you saw her lips moving as she was speaking but you caught nothing she said. "hey, you okay there?" she asked you as she went to stand in front of you, looking you up and down, checking if you're psychically okay while she gave you a second to process before she asked you again.

"hey sweetheart, you okay?" she asked and grabbed your arm, not in a way that the man would have but like she was actually making sure you were okay, and this time you finally heard her.

"h- yes im okay, just- fuck- yes thank you." you said finally getting a good look at her now that she's up close and touching you. her eyes were greener than you thought, her short auburn hair with some pulled back into a bun, the big moth tattoo wrapped around her right forearm that was still holding onto yours, other tattoos littered her arms and some poking out under her t-shirt she was wearing. she was so close to you and it sent butterflies through your body. now is not the time, you thought to yourself.

"are you sure- 'm sorry that happened, fuck him." she said roughly, not towards you but him.

"its okay, thank- thank you for helping me" you said gently to the girl who was still looking into your eyes. you had been so focused on hers that you didn't even see the tiny scars, small healing cuts and the bruises that were fading until you looked over her face again.

"yeah of course, are you here alone?" she asked you curiously still holding on to you, you weren't even phased by it. you told her you were here with your brother and she nodded her head towards the door, "lets get you back to him before anything else happens sweetheart" she said as she guided you to the door, hand on your back, as you swallowed and went first.

suddenly all the sounds that you had not realized you had been blocking begin again, smells of the sweaty bodies surround you again and you felt too hot, either because of her or the summer heat trapped in here. once you made it inside, she moved her hand off the small of your back and told her to go find your brother and to get home safe. when she walked away, you realized you didn't even know her name.

you saw dina, sitting along with a few of jesses friends and made your way over to her. the match must've ended while you were outside. you walked through the gym to sit back down, moving carefully to avoid touching anyone. once you made it to the table, dina wondered where you had ran off too. "oh just went out to get some fresh air," you said back to her smiling, not wanting her to worry. she told you jesse went to get more drinks and after the encounter outside, you needed it.

jesse came back a few moments later, holding a round of shots for you three. "here you ladies go," he spoke with a happy look on his face. you smiled slightly back and took the glass as dina laughed at him. you took the shot, trying to forget what happened outside with the man but not what happened with her. you wondered if you would see her again. is she here to watch? could she work at the bar? is she here with friends too? your thoughts were interrupted by an announcement over the speaks that the final match was gonna start soon.

dina and jesse were telling you, "its the last one tonight and the last ones are always the best so lets go!" you would rather sit and order another drink, but what if something else happened cause you were alone? so reluctantly you got up with them and got closer to the middle ring, you heard the loud speakers announcing the boxers as they entered the ring. you weren't even paying attention, nothing could stop your mind racing with thoughts about the girl outside.

you shake yourself out of the trance when dina reaches over to you to touch your hands that were shaking but you didn't even realize, you look to her and give her smile that she returns, then she looks back to the ring and you turn your head to follow her eyes to the center. and your breathe caught.

thats her.

thats the girl who saved you outside.

the girl with her hands wrapped in tape and the mouthguard in.

the girl who wondered if she'd ever see you again either, not that you knew that, but she hoped it wasn't the last time.

you wondered what she thought as you both stared back at each other. you heard the coach start the countdown. you just watched her.

...5

...4

...3

...2

as the buzzer started, she smiled directly at you then turned to throw the first punch.

#ellie williams smut #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x reader #pedro pascal #ellie williams #the last of us #tlou2 #tlog #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #joel and ellie #ellie williams fic #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams series #joel tlou #thot4elleific

[bunnyhugs77]

Daddy Daycare

Pairing: Technician! Jungkook x Teacher's Assistant! Reader

Word Count: 7k

Part: 1, 2, 3

Series Content: daycare au, suggestive themes, love at first sight? dilf jk, mentions of antidepressants, mint jk and blonde jk, jk cant sleep, sexual themes, he's so whipped, toxic ex, minor baby mama drama, gold diggers, mentions of death, complicated family history, cute kid cameos, reader can't drive, jk is good with his hands, mentions of abusive relationships, so much fluff.

Other Series Content: soft dom! jk, muscle kink, pussy puts his ass to sleep, unprotected sex (just don't), oral sex (f! and m! receiving), brief choking, minor breeding kink, hickeys, brief dom! reader, reader makes him wait, intimate cuddling, praise.

"Ready for a new year, Y/n?"

Your nose was filled with the smell of fresh paint and scotch tape as you and your co-worker Vanessa who goes by Ms. Powell when the class is swarming with bright and bustling four-year-old's.

The loud sound of ripping tape rang through your ears as you pasted the pieces onto the back of the welcome sign. The sun was hardly out as the two of you arranged to arrive at your new classroom bright and early at 5 am to finish off the decorations for the classroom.

"I can't believe the summer is finished already." You say with a rejuvenated smile. "I can only imagine how fast the time flies when you're travelling Europe." She reminds you of your two-week-long travels across the south of Europe.

Standing to your feet for what feels like the first time ever after hours of crouching and kneeling to finish up the decorations. "I think that's the last of it," with a puff of air and a pair of hands on your hips you smile to yourself, satisfied with the lively environment the two of you managed to create.

"I think we're ready," Vanessa says, cracking open a fresh whiteboard marker to sign your names on the board in a warm welcome.

With a quick glance down to your watch. "-and just in time too,".

The sun had peaked over the horizon no more than thirty minutes ago which means that theatrical parents would be rolling in any minute now to send off their kids to what could possibly be their first day away from them.

You both took the last few minutes to run down the hall and get changed, making sure you both looked ready to take on 22 pre-schoolers. Although you weren't the head teacher, you still had just as much of a responsibility as Vanessa did and it wasn't always easy.

The scar on your upper arm which was victim to the shark-like teeth of an ambitious little boy last year can attest to that.

You smiled warmly to some parents who passed by you in the halls on your way back to the classroom. Some familiar faces, some new, although based on the direction they were walking, they weren't any kids in your class.

By the time you returned to yours, there were already two parents bidding their farewells with their energetic offspring who were already reaching for the crayons you'd left on each table.

You slowly made your way to the front with Vanessa as the two of you prepared to introduce yourselves to the large crowd of parents and students that situated themselves around the room.

The energy was high, you could practically feel some of the anxiety and excitement from the crowd.

"Hello everyone!" Vanessa starts, clasping her hands together, "On behalf of Sunshine Circles Daycare, we want to give you all a warm welcome to our class."

Vanessa introduces herself professionally before briefly gesturing to you, cueing your smile, "And this is Ms. Hill, she will be assisting both me and the students around the classroom. I wouldn't be able to do this without her." You nod along, preparing yourself to speak.

"Yes, so if ever Ms. Powell is unavailable, don't be afraid to share any questions or concerns with me that you have about the class or your child." Out of sight, somewhere in the crowd a pair shuffled through the large group of bodies and made their way to the front.

"We're looking forward to-" You paused, your eyes meeting the eyes of the man who just emerged from the crowd while holding the small hand of who you presumed was his son, he looked a little younger than the rest of the parents, and significantly buffer if you must add.

You could see peaks of his soft blue hair sticking out from underneath his black beanie that matched his black wife beater. He flashes you a coy smile, so innocent and handsome to the point he'd made you forget your train of thought and completely forget what you were in the middle of saying.

"I think what Ms. Hill was about to say was that we're looking forward to having a wonderful year full of learning and fun." Vanessa fills in your blanks and all you could utter was a small 'mhm!'.

With that said, the parents that'd been here since the very beginning had naturally begun to take their leave, not without a tight hug and reassuring kiss to their child's forehead of course.

"Sorry we're late," You turn around, and it's as if the air was sucked out of your lungs. The man was even more stunning up close, but that was something you vowed you would never acknowledge again. He's the guardian of one of your students, it would be unprofessional.

"That's no problem at all, life happens," you chirp, almost too happily. "Isn't that the truth, Ryan here couldn't seem to find his favourite shoes and refused to wear anything but." The man smiles, and wow, even his smile was attractive.

If you thought his smile was contagious you just couldn't stop yourself from beaming when you finally looked down to meet Ryan's big grin. "Look! It's lightning McQueen!" He shouts, stomping his feet at one hundred miles a minute, the base of his sneakers flashing red and white as he does so.

"Your shoes are awesome! I wish mine could do that." You return his big energy with a bit of a softer tone, oblivious to the way the man is watching you intently. All of a sudden Ryan was hopping up and down, tugging on his dad's arm, "Can I colour?!" He points to the table full of markers and blank papers.

"Well, you're going to have to ask Ms. Hill first, okay buddy?" The man looks at you with a damn near glow in his gaze, "Of course it's okay. Use as many colours as you'd like." Before you could even finish your sentence, Ryan was long gone, only the flashes of his sneakers were proof that he hadn't teleported.

"Have you been teaching here long?" He asks, prompting you to shake your head. "This is actually only my second year teaching here," subconsciously his plump bottom lip found itself victim between his teeth. "Ah," he sighs.

There was a brief pause in your conversation. As if it were planned, both of your gazes dropped down to analyze the other's left hand, looking for any signs of that metallic band wrapped around the ring finger.

Seems like you were both in the clear, for now.

Your conversation resumed as if the ring inspection never even happened and soon the both of you were finally making introductions. "The kids call me Ms. Hill, but you're more than welcome to call me Y/n." That lip ring was taunting you as it sat so comfortably in his plush pink lips that stretched into a soft smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Y/n, I'm Jungkook."

~~

"Goddamn it." You mutter. Giving the projector another hard hit in the back as it flickered and failed to turn on. It had been giving you a hard time all week.

You're at least grateful it let you have a successful first week of the year but now it was acting up more than ever. Kids would be coming any minute and Vanessa was stuck in traffic, so you would somehow need to find a way to fix this and supervise all before--

"Good morning Ms. Hill," Never mind you think, giving the projector one last frustrated tap. Disregarding it as if it never happened and focusing on Jungkook and Ryan who just walked in.

Ryan shouts a cheery good morning of his own before getting his hands on the toy car he's grown fond of over the last week. Unspokenly declaring it as his own.

"I couldn't help but notice.. and hear your frustrations with the projector from down the hall. Something wrong?" He takes two confident strides towards the equipment with you trailing along.

"Yeah, it's been breaking down all week. I was hoping to show the kids a video today, but it seems I may have to improvise." He didn't respond with anything more than his warm smile as he laid his hand down on the top of the projector giving it a once over.

His brows furrow ever so slightly before he lets out a little laugh.

"What's so funny?" your arms cross instinctively, eyes never leaving his lean frame as he practically struts over to the outlet and properly plugs in the cord, the graphics now displaying perfectly on the screen.

"In all of my years working in tech, that may have been one of the hardest cases to solve." He teases and you subconsciously let your tongue poke the inside of your cheek, failing to hide an embarrassed smile.

You waved to the parents who were dropping off more students, "If you ever have any more technical issues, I'd be happy to help." He reaches into his back pocket and places one of his business cards in your hand. "I will, thank you."

You shook off whatever the hell it was that was bubbling in your stomach, and reminded yourself things were strictly professional and he was only offering to be nice, nothing more.

-

The weeks were flying by without you realizing it until Thanksgiving was mere weeks around the corner. Which meant today was show and tell. Vanessa instructed everyone to sit on the carpet in a big circle.

Yesterday you reminded parents to help their child to find something they loved at home so they could bring it to show and tell.

"Thanksgiving is a special day of the year where we-" Vanessa was in the middle of explaining from where she sat crisscrossed on the carpet in the circle while you picked up the abandoned crayons and papers on the desk.

"Eat lots of food," cute giggles filled the room from Carly's outburst. "Yes, that's right. We eat lots of food on Thanksgiving and it's a day to be grateful for everything you have. Can anyone tell me what it means to be grateful for something?"

The class had never been so quiet, full of scrunched brows and blank stares. "It means to be happy with what you have. How many of you have toys at home?" Almost all hands shot up at once, you were afraid someone would lose an eye.

"Do you like your toys,? The room filled with lots of loud and affirmative responses, "To be grateful for something like your toys means showing them extra love and saying thank you to your parents who bought them."

By the time you'd finished cleaning up and joined the circle, they were about halfway through the circle for show and tell, everyone getting a chance to say what they brought and why they loved it along with passing it around the circle.

"Thank you for sharing Ms. Cuddlepuff with us Riley."

"Ryan, what did you bring?" He practically lights up when his turn finally comes around. He introduced his favourite blue race car, and described it as fast and shiny, even holding it while he spun the wheels for us.

"What an amazing car! Do you want to pass it around?" He shakes his head. You tried to be gentle understanding why he wouldn't want to share, "Don't you want your friends to be able to see your amazing car too?" He shakes his head, hugging his toy close to his chest and scooting further back, removing himself from the circle.

"Ryan-" Vanessa tries to reason but he starts to yell, "I don't want to share! It's mine!" He stomps his feet, the lights on his shoes flashing red, a similar shade to his furious expression.

You looked over to Vanessa, the both of you deciding you weren't going to fight him on it.

"Okay Jamie, what did you bring today?" He shakes his head as if he is mimicking Ryan's behaviour. "I don't want to share either."

Oh boy.

Finding a way to get the rest of the class to share their objects had taken all of your willpower and the rest of the day, right until parents were walking in, ready for pick up.

"Hey," You smile as you watched Jungkook walk in wearing his typical white collared shirt with the top button open giving you only the slightest peak of the silver chain beneath that sat atop his honey-kissed skin--

"Daddy!" Ryan squeaked, running off to grab his coat and shoes.

"How was he today?" You tried to hide your regret but he noticed it, no matter how fast it flashed across your features. "What is it?" His voice was soft, welcoming any feedback.

"He had a bit of a hard time sharing during the show and tell. He didn't want his classmates to touch his car, which I understand but we try to encourage the students to be kind and share." Your heart was pounding, you always hated these kinds of talks.

You felt that it was just criticism, but in reality, it was just one rainy in comparison to one hundred sunny ones. Jungkook exhaled heavily. "I don't know what is with him and this car, he won't even let me hold it."

As if on cue, Ryan comes running back to his father with his jacket on and car in hand. His dad ruffles his hair playfully while the boy wraps his arms around his father's legs.

"I'm sorry about what happened. We're working on it, I promise." Nothing but sincerity rolled off his tongue as he looked down at the child who clung to his jeans.

"Come on buddy, let's go. Say bye to Ms. Hill."

"Bye, Ms. Hill!" He waves back to you before walking out the door.

As the clock rolled closer the 4:30, all the kids had gone home and it was just you and Vanessa going through the schedules for tomorrow.

"So how long are you gonna keep flirting with Ryan's dad." maybe you'd put on too much lotion earlier, it was pure coincidence that your pencil had immediately fallen from your hand.

She laughs as if something were hilarious. "I am so not flirting with him." She rolls her eyes, "Oh please, I have never seen you spend nearly half as much time talking to the other parents as much as you talk to him. Not to mention the hearts in your eyes."

You let your head fall into your hands out of sheer embarrassment, "I don't know what to do!" You almost shriek into your sweaty palms.

"A word of advice, save yourself the trouble and don't get involved. I don't believe that he's married but that doesn't mean there are no strings attached either. Believe me, I've been there, things can get messy and it's just not something you want."

Vanessa was bout seven years older than you, somewhere around 32 so you always took her advice to heart. "But didn't you end up marrying them, and then have two children?" She goes silent. "Yeah, well life is unpredictable."

You groan, letting your body fall back onto the carpet.

-

"Attention passengers, This is your driver speaking. I regret to inform you that we are currently experiencing a mechanical issue, and the bus has broken down. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause."

Your head rolled back and hit the wall behind you. This is fantastic. It was supposed to be a great day today. It's Friday today. Specifically the last day before your three-day long weekend before the long weekend with Thanksgiving falling on the Monday.

You checked the time, 7:45. You should be there in 10 minutes, and honestly, you considered getting off the bus and walking but there were about 4 inches of freshly fallen snow from last night covering the city and it was far too cold to embark on such a journey at this time of day.

You wouldn't be there until 9 at the earliest.

Meanwhile,

"Have a great day Ryno. Daddy loves you." Jungkook places a quick peck on Ryan's forehead watching him join his friends. He couldn't help himself from scanning the class for you, wondering where you were.

In the meantime he approached Vanessa, handing her a small gift box. "I know Ryan has such a big personality, so here's a little something to help you get through the day." He smiles, "Happy Thanksgiving."

She was shocked to be receiving a gift for Thanksgiving, she usually only expected them around the holidays. It was a $50 gift card to her favourite coffee shop, she has their signature cup of coffee on her desk every morning. "Thank you, Mr. Jeon, this is incredibly thoughtful, and Ryan is such a delight to teach."

"I also have something for Ms. Hill, but I haven't seen her. Is she away today?" Vanessa's brows scrunched, realizing that you would usually be there by now. Her phone begins to ring, "Oh- This is her calling now." Jungkook didn't know whether to stay and listen but he couldn't bring himself to walk away.

"Your bus broke down? Where?"

"East of Park Avenue? That's 30 minutes away." Jungkook's brain was doing summersaults around a mental map he was programming in his head trying to locate where you were based on the information he was hearing.

The conversation continued for a minute more until it ended with Vanessa reminding you to 'stay warm'. "God, that's terrible. It's freezing outside." Jungkook frets and Vanessa manages to contain her thoughts from expressing themselves on her face, suppressing the smirk and opting for a head nod instead.

No less than 5 minutes had passed when Jungkook found himself behind the wheel driving towards your location. The minutes passed like seconds when he spotted the bus sitting on the side of the road.

Parking right behind it, he stepped out of the car and walked along the sides of it trying to spot you, but you saw him first. At first, you couldn't believe it but once you saw that ring tucked into his bottom lip, all doubts were gone.

You grabbed your bag and stepped off the bus, meeting him there at the steps. Looking down at him as the snow gently fell on his beanie, neither of you spoke. Your eyes seemed to be doing all the talking.

"Er-hem." Someone cleared their throat behind you, letting you know that they also wanted to get off and you were blocking the way. Apologizing you stepped off and to the side.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard about what had happened and I couldn't stand there and do nothing. It's freezing out here." You could hardly look at him, he was just too cute, his nose and cheeks were beginning to turn a little rosy from the cold breeze that swept the snow across the sky.

"You came all this way just to give me a ride?" There were puffs of condensation with every breath and he nodded slowly, a little afraid he was coming off as a creep. "Y-yeah, I hope that's alright with you."

"That's perfectly fine with me, let's go before I lose feeling in my fingers for good." he snickers as you practically run towards the car that he'd unlocked.

You were so relieved to be sitting in a warm car with heated seats.

It was no time before Jungkook pulled out and began the careful drive back to the daycare.

The silence was comfortable and it gave you time to focus on regaining feelings in your limbs.

"I never knew that you took the bus," Jungkook starts, turning your face away from the flurries that fall outside the window and landing on the side of his face as he feigns concentration on the road.

"It's my only option since I don't drive," Jungkook's jaw fell open. He tried to catch it in time but it was too late, "Yeah yeah I know. I'm 25 and I don't drive." He takes advantage of the red light to face you, "There's no shame in that. I didn't mean to come off as judgy I was just surprised."

"No, I know. I'm not mad, I'm actually used to it. " The silence resumes, "Is there a reason why you don't drive?" He immediately regretted asking, he felt like he was prying and didn't want to make you uncomfortable. You were already in his car for god's sake.

"You don't have to-"

"I was 19." 

Never mind, he thinks. You seemed more than ready to share.

"I was coming home from school, I had just finished my first exam of many, the roads were dark and I was tired. I thought I saw something run across the street but I told myself I was seeing things. Suddenly there was a thud. My car rocked over and over again, so finally, I stopped. I got out and I was terrified to see the trail of blood that ran behind my wheel. There was a black cat that got caught on my tires and kept getting dragged and rolled around for 20 yards."

Jungkook's hand had somehow found its way cupped over his mouth throughout your story, nothing could have prepared him for a story like that.

"I'm a monster. I know. I've never driven since that day. It's best for the world If I simply don't drive." Now resuming his driving, he took one hand off the wheel to place on your shoulder. "Don't talk like that. You're not a monster. It's not your fault. It's not like you did it on purpose. I'm sure the cat forgives you."

You shake your head, "It doesn't change what I did."

Somehow the conversation had taken a brighter turn to the long weekend. "What are your plans for the weekend?" You ask him as he turns into the parking lot of the daycare.

"Same as always, Ryan and I will probably watch movies, cook and do some crafts." Your heart warmed at the engaged weekend he had ahead of him. "That sounds so sweet. I'm sure you guys have loads of fun." He nods, "How about you?"

You laugh sadly, "My parents decided to ditch the cold weather this year and headed to Florida a few weeks ago, so I'll be thankful for wool socks and gossip girl." he laughs.

"You know, It'd be a shame to spend the holidays on your own. You're more than welcome to join our festivities." you looked out the window, not in disinterest but so that he couldn't see the way your cheeks tinted pink.

He parks, "No I wouldn't want to impose on-"

"I insist. You wouldn't be doing anything of the sort. it would be nice to have you." You smile. "Okay, I'll be there,"

The hours flew by faster than you could even realize. Practically startled to see a parent walking into the classroom ready to pick up their child, and just like that, the day was over.

There were no more than a handful of kids left, but no more than the usual 5 or 6 whose parents had signed them up for aftercare due to their schedules, including Ryan who you just watched offer his crayons to his classmate Lia.

Vanessa was quick to acknowledge his kindness and gave him a sticker, you would have loved to have been part of the moment but unfortunately, you were just pulled into the hall by another teacher being asked to supervise another class while she used the bathroom.

By the time you returned, you saw Jungkook and Ryan packing up the last of their things getting ready to go, but he seemed almost relieved to see you.

"I never got the chance to give this to you earlier this morning," He hands you a small bag. You were stunned at what was inside. "In the spirit of thanksgiving, I wanted to show you my gratitude." He smiles.

You pry the bag open delicately moving over the tissue paper to see a hardcover novel. You knew the cover anywhere. "I've been trying to get my hands on this book for months! It's been sold out everywhere how did you get it?"

A sly grin slowly works its way across his features but he doesn't say. "How did you even know I wanted this?" You were trying your best to resist the urge to hug him. "I'd only seen you with the previous book laying on your desk wide open a dozen times, and all the sticky notes you'd have sticking out. It was a lucky guess that you were a fan of the series."

Stunned to silence, you let your smile speak for itself. "I love it. Thank you so much." His hand raises to his chest as a sign of relief but it is actually him trying to calm his racing heart. He was afraid you wouldn't like it; but what was there not to like?

How couldn't you like it?

-

Why couldn't you find anything you liked? Nearly half your closet was on your bed, quickly falling to the floor over time as you searched high and low for something to wear. This would be the first time Jungkook would see you outside of your workloads so you wanted to look good, but not too good of course.

You didn't want to seem like you were trying too hard. Being effortlessly flawless was the look you were trying to go for but you fear you've passed that point as you started to break a sweat a few minutes ago.

Unsure of how much time has passed, feeling stuck in the endless fashion time warp continuum. The pit in your stomach suddenly grew three times larger once you'd realized you had no more than 30 minutes to get ready if you wanted to catch your bus.

Begrudgingly, you finally picked something to wear. A minimalistic brown crew neck with your black Lulu leggings and beige wool socks that would match perfectly with your Uggs. You wanted to look cute but still put together, so you decided to slick your hair up into a neat bun.

Scrambling to grab your bag and your house keys before you paced your way down the street to the bus stop.

Watching the apartment buildings slowly become more narrow and shorter as you saw more and more modern condos. Only 20 minutes had passed on your commute until it was time to begin your 7-minute walk to your destination.

With one last sneak peek into your bag to make sure the desserts you'd brought were still in order and weren't dishevelled at some point during your journey.

Looking back up to the door, ringing the bell and waiting no more than 10 seconds before an over-eager Ryan swung the door open, out of sight but not out of earshot, you could still hear Jungkook's sweet voice scolding his son.

"Ryan, what did I tell you about opening the door?" Finally, he comes into sight from around a bend inside revealing an entirely new Jungkook.

He looked, good. Better than good. He looked hot.

Wearing an army green Essentials hoodie paired with beige cargos and a silver chain that hung around his neck.

Oh, and his hair was blonde.

Surprised that your eyes hadn't fallen out of their sockets at the sight of his freshly bleached locks with his naturally dark roots. God, he was so fine.

"Hey! Come in, come in. " He steps to the side and Ryan is gently nudged over by his dad's leg to make room for you and your things as you step inside.

Your senses are immediately welcomed by the scent of mahogany, carefully chosen as it mingles with the comforting aromas of a Thanksgiving feast in the making.

"Hi, Ms. Hill!" Ryan shouts, loud enough for you to hear from 50 feet away. He was just the cutest, "Hi, Ryan!"

Jungkook smiled, "I'm glad you could make it," instinctively reaching out to take the bag from your hands so you could focus on taking off your shoes and jacket. "I brought this for you guys." You say, prompting Jungkook to peek into the bad, grinning at the sight of the mini chocolate cupcakes.

"I can't guarantee these will make it to tomorrow."

Once your boots were off and sat neatly near the door, Jungkook offered to take your jacket from you, entrusting Ryan with the duty of holding the bag with the desserts and sending him off to place them somewhere in the kitchen.

"Your hair." You finally say, giving your neck a minor strain as you look up to the man as he leads you further into the house. Everything was styled so neatly.

The colour palette consists of soft whites and beige with a splash of greens and turquoise. The fireplace was lit, emanating a gentle warmth throughout the open concept. It gave the living room a cozy feel along with the brown fleece throw blanket that was placed carefully over his sectional couch.

"Yeah, I got pretty sick of the blue, I thought it was time for a change." With a mind of their own, his hands run through his hair before he gives it a shake. "Do you like it?" He knew the answer, you're sure he did.

It's like a demi-god asking if they were attractive, the answer was obvious. "It would be a lie if I said I didn't." You leaned onto the kitchen island, your line of sight landing on the four-year-old who busied himself with the pile of crayons and paper on the carpet.

You hated how easily the two of you fell into natural conversation almost forgetting that it was Thanksgiving if it weren't for the sudden waft of a delicious meal in the making hitting your nose. "Something smells delicious." Your nose twitched cutely as you sniffed; your curious brown eyes watching Jungkook as he rounded the island closer to you to check on the food in the oven.

"Hmmm... It'll be about another hour or so, I hope that's alright?" You'd decided to finally plant yourself down somewhere, inwardly unable to decide where since there were so many options, the big comfy couch, the table or the barstool chair that you finally decided to go with.

"In the meantime, do you want anything to drink? I have water, champagne, white wine, red wine, apple cider, coffee, milk- oh! and Apple juice." you can't help but giggle into your hand as he lists off what seems to be a never-ending list of beverages.

"Apple juice is fine, thanks." Or at least you thought it was the safe choice until you heard a loud objection bubble out of Ryan's throat. His voice was absolutely enraged. "No! That's mine!" His little steps quicken over to your feet, reaching for the juice box from your hand.

"Ryan. What did I tell you about sharing?" He doesn't listen, his face becoming more and more frustrated the longer he goes without your (his) juice box in his hands. His small hands reach out for you.

One could blame it on your background of teaching when you had an idea. Reaching for the child-sized cup on the counter as you popped open the juice box.

"Is it okay if we share it? You can have some and I can have some." He still didn't seem entirely convinced but he calmed down a little watching you squeeze half of the box into his cup before handing it down to him.

Holding the cup securely with his two hands he looks down into the cup with an inquisitive look, as if questioning your motives behind your generosity. "What do you say to Ms. Hill for being so nice and sharing?" He looks up at you, with no emotion on his face for an uncomforting amount of time, scanning you.

"Thank you, Ms. Hill!" He beams with a big smile and scuttles back to his drawing station, but Jungkook can't risk the little adventurer ruining his carpet and orders him to drink it in the kitchen. At least that way any spills can be wiped away from the tile.

Jungkook couldn't get over how patient you were, but he supposed it to be expected. You worked with dozens of kids every day for a living. You must be a saint. He's sure he would've lost it.

Jungkook groans, letting his head fall onto his arms as he leans onto the counter with a long sigh, one that lifts a bit of exhaustion from within him. "Everything alright?"

He nods, "'Jus' never thought being a single father would be this difficult. Every day it's eat sleep work repeat, on top of being a dad to a child who just can't seem to share with others, and it makes me wonder if it's my fault."

Maybe it was the hazy scented candles getting to your brain, the toasty fireplace nearby giving you warm fuzzies or maybe the apple juice had a little kick to it but you took a leap of boldness to place your hand on his shoulder.

Watching his eyes trail from your short manicured nails to your big brown eyes that looked at him with the utmost sincerity. Like a pool chocolate kindness. "He's a great kid, Jungkook. Every child goes through a rebellious stage at some point, it's practically inevitable. I've seen this over a thousand times, it doesn't take away from how special he is, just look at him."

The two of you observe the preschooler as he hums the tune to an incomprehensible song with his tongue slightly poking out as he coloured his papers passionately. "Thank you, Y/n." Your head whips around at the warm contact of his hand on yours, it didn't feel alarming at all, it was nice if anything.

-

"Wow. I don't think I could eat another bite, that may just be the best meal I've ever had." You groan, a limp hand on your stomach as you lean back in your chair, sitting across from Ryan whose placemat was covered in various foods and sauces that he was told to stop playing with half through dinner.

Jungkook grins from ear to ear, "Thanks, it's nice to hear." You sigh, "No seriously, where did you learn to cook like that? And more importantly, when can you teach me?" His head falls back as he laughs right from his chest. You couldn't help but think how much you were enjoying yourself.

"Funny you should say that," Jungkook picks up the empty plates from the table, putting them in the sink before walking out of view briefly leaving you with Ryan who stared at you with a grin.

"Where did your dad go?" His smile grew even wider if possible before bringing his gravy-covered index finger to his lips making a 'shush' noise. No more than 5 seconds passed before Jungkook returned with a pumpkin about the size of your head.

"Who wants to make pumpkin pie?" You laugh, unable to take him seriously.

-

"No I can't Jungkook- NO!" You shout, afraid you'd collapse from the lack of oxygen that was reaching your lungs from so much laughter as Jungkook was currently holding your hand trying to get you to scoop out some of the pumpkin seeds.

"You can do it, Ms. Hill!" Ryan cheers you on as your fingers make contact with the guts against your will. They were slimy, and soft, and triggered your sensory issues in every way imaginable. You gagged while Ryan laughed until his face was red.

Scooping out the last of them and placing them into the bag that Jungkook would dump into the compost later.

The three of you popped the pumpkin pie into the oven together and transitioned into your next set of activities. Soon the three of you made your own custom turkeys out of construction paper and googly eyes.

Which led you to now. The three of you snuggled up under the big brown blanket that was once just decoration but now provided warmth along with the crackling fireplace.

Now halfway into the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving movie, you looked into your side where Ryan had nestled himself comfortably, soft snores leaving his mouth with each breath.

"He's just the cutest." You say, moving one of his hairs out of his face, watching him while Jungkook watched you. Nothing is more appealing to him than watching you care for Ryan. "When did you know you wanted to start working with kids?" Jungkook asks, prompting you to think endlessly but you couldn't come to a conclusion.

"I don't know honestly. Maybe it's because I grew up in a pretty big family. Even though my immediate family is just me and my parents I was always the unspoken babysitter at family events, watching over all my younger cousins all the time."

"Well if no one has told you, let me be the first to say you're amazing." You turn to him, it was long past sunset, leaving the living room with a darker ambiance than when you'd first arrived but the warm glow of the flames on the side of Jungkook's face paired with that look in his eyes tempting you.

He leaned in ever so slightly but you looked towards the boy that was stirring uncomfortably in his sleep as if you were bothering him. With his still closed he flipped around to lay his head on the couch cushions instead.

It was impossible to contain your soft giggles at his sass even when he was sleeping. "You want something to drink?" Jungkook offers, "Please." you chuckle, unravelling yourself from the tangle of blankets and following him to the kitchen.

He poured you both a glass of wine, resuming your previous conversation from where you stood in the corner of the kitchen against the counter near the oven that radiated a glorious smell of pumpkin spice and cinnamon.

The tension could be cut with a knife. The way the two of you were looking at each other, practically stripping the other down with your eyes. Before you knew it, Jungkook was leaning into you and this time you definitely could blame it on the wine.

Placing your glass down on the counter behind you without thought and pulling his face to yours before finally pressing your lips against his own. Putting your heart into it before he pulled away, looking minorly dishevelled and flustered, "I-I was just reaching for my phone," He points weakly, his joints feeling as though they could fail him any second.

Your head rotates in horror to see his phone was in fact behind you and buzzing-- "Oh my god--" You held your red face in utter embarrassment, turning to walk away from him in shame but Jungkook would never allow that. Instantly grabbing you by the arm and pulling you back into him.

Your hips pressed flush against each other as he initiated a deep kiss, the kind you see at the end of a romance movie, nothing but passion and pent-up feelings. Feelings that he's held for you since the day he saw you.

He backed you up into the counter, your hands scrambling to brace yourself on his firm chest and he groaned softly into your mouth causing your knees to go weak. The kiss lasted longer than you thought you could hold your breath for, never wanting it to end.

"Wow-" you puff out a breath of air after the best kiss of your life. "A great cook and an even better kisser-- What can't you do?" For the first time, Jungkook's cheeks tint a rosy shade of pink but there's no time to respond as he hears Ryan complain.

"Daddy, I'm tired." You see his little head pop up from behind the couch with a bedhead of hair as he rubs his eye. "Yeah? You wanna get ready for bed little man? Come on let's go." Jungkook urges, turning to you with apologetic eyes, "I'll be right back, keep an eye on the pie for me?" You smile and nod.

Watching him disappear down the hall almost in a trace. A trance that was interrupted by the ceaseless buzzing of his phone. Buzz after Buzz after Buzz.

You shouldn't.

But the buzzing wouldn't stop.

What if it was an emergency?

You peeked at the screen.

Hana

-Where are you?

-I can't stop thinking about our night together.

-Pick up, I want to talk to you.

-When will I see you again? :(

Your stomach twisted, and you were certain it wasn't because of the wine. The oven timer goes off. How comedic. You shake it off, using the oven mitts to place the pie on the stove but ultimately deciding you wouldn't be able to stay any longer.

You didn't want to be the other woman, or the 'main' woman for that matter. You wanted nothing to do with someone who was possibly seeing two people at once.

Quietly you grabbed your things and made your way towards the door. Slipping into your Uggs and slinging your side bag over your shoulder when Jungkook sees you about to leave.

"Wait, Y/n. Where are you going? What's wrong?" Nothing but concern and confusion was written all over his face.

"I had a really great time tonight, Jungkook, Thank you. But I should really get going." Already twisting the door open and stepping through it, letting the frosty air nip at your cheeks and sweep by Jungkook's feet.

"it's dark and it's freezing outside, let me give you a ride." You object, "It's fine, it's only a 15-minute bus. I'll be fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Like a whirlwind, you spun his world around and by the time he blinked you were gone.

Thanks for Reading!!

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[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta) #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

[azsazz]

Midnight Muse (Epilogue)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,783

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Part 18] [Part 19] [Part 20] [Part 21] [Part 22] [Part 23] [Part 24] [Part 25] [Masterlist]

Notes: The end of an era 😭😭 Holy smokes I'm so happy and also sad I cannot believe it's over.

_________________________________________

**Seven Months Later**

“Azriel,” you sing-song, bursting in through the open front door to their house. 

At the end of the spring semester Azriel’s father had bought 3rd Street apartments, and none of you had renewed your leases. His father hadn’t even tried to convince him to stay, but that didn’t matter to Azriel. The only thing that any of the five of you seemed to care about was that you’d no longer be living next to each other come summer.

Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian had found a house to rent on the outskirts of campus. Of course, the place is gorgeous, a modern number that looks like it costs more than Rhysand is making it out to be. He’d been adamant about the three of them staying together, no matter what, and he’d tried to convince you and Feyre to move into another apartment nearby, but it wasn’t the right fit for either of you. 

You wanted something more homey than the new building, something walkable since you nor Feyre have cars. You already miss your old apartment dearly, saddened by what Azriel’s father is going to make it into. Sure, the elevator was a death trap that stuck, and sure, the walls were thinner than paper, but it was home, where you’d found love with your grumpy next door neighbor, though you’re sure in Azriel’s version of the story you were the grumpy one. 

The five of you had spent your last night at the building together, drinking and eating your heart content in waffles and ice cream from Rita’s. It was the perfect last night to end your time in the building, but also the semester. You passed your Drawing 101 final with flying colors, the half swan portrait you drew was something you’d never thought you’d be able to finish. Now, it’s one of your most treasured artworks. 

You’d chosen the swan because of their representation of the awakening of the power of self and self-esteem. When you’d started the semester you’d been unsure of your ability in the creative world, but after hearing the stories of so many around you, Azriel’s included, it awakened your inner artist, and your work only grows more confident by the day.

You’d also chosen to morph yourself with the swan because of their grace. Grace in dealing with others; Azriel’s gnarly attitude, Cassian’s cheekiness, Rhysand’s cockiness, Lucien’s snark, and Feyre’s hidden relationship, which didn’t last long, but still hurt your friendship.

You’ve come a long way since then, and are now in love with the neighbor that had been a thorn in your side for months. Azriel is as sweet as ever now, though he still distracts you from your work these days, but it’s no longer with rowdy music.

You turn towards the living room where you hear Azriel calling your name. You come to a screeching half at the sight of him and Cassian, chests bare as they carry a couch between them, moving further into the room. 

Your eyes zero in on Azriel, his tan chest glistening with effort. It’s move in day for them and they’ve been carrying boxes from 3rd Street apartments all morning. He looks godly in the light spilling in through the large glass windows overlooking the yard. The parties at this place are going to be insane this year, of that you know. It’s all Cassian has talked about since they’d signed the lease, commenting how their housewarming party is going to rival that of Project X. 

“Hey, princess,” Azriel winks at your wandering eyes and you can only beam. So what if he’s caught you admiring his chiseled torso? He’s all yours and you can stare if you please. Although, the sudden dampness between your legs has you shifting on your feet, Azriel’s smirk widening. 

“Can you two stop eye-fucking for one minute?” Cassian groans dramatically, acting like he’s struggling under the weight of the couch. You and Azriel both roll your eyes at the same time, which makes you burst into giggles. “This thing is fucking heavy.” 

“All right, let’s put it over here,” Azriel directs, guiding them a few more feet into the room. They place it in front of the giant TV Rhysand splurged one, and you know movie nights are going to be great in here. It’ll be just like you’re at a movie theater, without all of the extra bodies. 

You and Azriel still have yet to break in the couch, often choosing the privacy of his bedroom (as much as the thin walls give you) over the common rooms he shares with his roommates.

Speaking of, there’s a thump coming from upstairs and the sound of Feyre’s laughter drifting down the staircase. So maybe this new house isn’t that much more private than your old apartment.

As soon as he puts his end of the couch down you’re flinging yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. Azriel laughs and swings you around before planting your feet back on the ground and leaning over to kiss you silly. 

The flooding warmth throughout your body only intensifies as he steps closer, pressing his body into yours and rolling his hips a little, allowing you to feel his interested cock in his pants. 

“Hi,” you grin when you part.

Azriel’s gold eyes glitter with amusement. “Hi, princess. How is your morning?” 

Your hands snake down his chest, brushing over his nipples as you go. You don’t miss his reaction to your touch and it makes you giddy all over again. Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his pants, your smile turns sultry, watching his eyes darken. “Much better now.” 

“Is that so?” Azriel quirks an eyebrow. He looks like he’s two seconds away from dragging you upstairs to his new room and breaking it in. You wouldn’t mind that one bit. “Do I want to know why you’re this cheery this early in the morning?”

“You already know,” you beam, rolling onto the tips of your toes to kiss him on the nose. When you try to pull away Azriel growls, tightening his grip on you. 

“You can’t say that and not want me to fuck you, princess,” he says roughly, leaning down to whisper in your ear. His breath is hot across the shell and you shudder in his arms, eyelashes fluttering at his words. You have to swallow back the moan threatening to escape.

You startle at the sound of a loud crash, turning to see Cassian all but glaring at the two of you, having just dropped a box of books to the ground purposefully. 

“I thought we were supposed to be moving,” Cassian tosses over his shoulder and yells up the stairs, “I can’t have both roommates fucking already. There’s still so much shit to move!”

“I’m coming,” Rhysand yells back and you crinkle your nose.

“Ew.” 

It makes Cassian crack, a smile twitching at his lips. He has his hands on his hips and is still staring at you and Azriel in a false stern manner. “I knew I made a good decision to befriend you, (Y/N).”

“More like forced yourself into my life,” you grumble playfully, following him out to his Bronco, stuffed full with boxes.

“Just for that, I’m giving you a heavy box,” he teases right back, but he wasn’t kidding because your breath is nearly knocked from your chest when he hands you one. It’s falsely labeled ‘Az’s room’ on it because it feels like there’s a pile of bricks in it. 

Azriel glares at his roommate as he rids you of the heavy box. You give him a smile in thanks, sneakily sliding out a box labeled ‘couch pillows’ instead. It takes you back to the day that you and Feyre moved into your last apartment, how the living room box had been the last one you’d brought inside before your very first—and terrible—run in with Azriel.

The smile you wander inside with is a nostalgic one.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

“Are you ready?” 

“Yes!”

“Then why are you acting like I’ve already put the needle to your skin?” Azriel argues, sitting back in his chair.

You’re laid up on the table, shirt pulled up to your neck, waiting for Azriel to put the tattoo gun to your skin. You keep squirming, not quite comfortable on the cold table top, but it’s the best he can do while he’s still waiting to hear back about his apprenticeship he interviewed for last week. It’s been a few long, grueling days, and you thought you’d distract him by finally allowing him to give you your first tattoo. It had taken you months to decide, and Azriel hadn’t pushed you once about the matter, no matter how badly he’d wanted to put ink on your skin.

Now, the sound of the gun is making you rethink your decision.

You sigh loudly and Azriel shuts the gun off, placing it on the table. He rips the gloves from his hands and helps you sit up, guiding your shirt back into place.

“Maybe we should wait,” he suggests softly, though you can see the hurt in his eyes.

It’s not that you don’t trust him. No, you trust Azriel with your life. It’s that you’re overthinking the design you’d thought you wanted so badly. 

“I want one,” you huff, sadly, “But I don’t think this is the one.”

Azriel soothes his hands up your thighs. “That’s okay, princess. There’s no rush. You don’t even have to get one, if you don’t want to.” 

“I do,” you whine in frustration. You had it planned for weeks, this idea, and now…you just can’t go through with it. It doesn’t feel right. 

You slide off of the table into Azriel’s lap, resting your head against his chest as he holds you tight. You let the soothing beat of his heart calm you down, the running of his hands up and down your back a relaxing gesture. It makes your heart swell, with the amount of love that you have for him. 

Azriel brushes some hair away from your face when you pull back. He’s studying you with those intense golden eyes you’ve come to adore. You can read everything in those eyes; his annoyance, his happiness, his anger, his lust, even his feelings for you, but right now, you’re not all too confident in what he’s thinking.

“I want to show you something,” he murmurs softly and you frown.

“Okay,” you answer tentatively, but his hand is sure in yours as he laces your fingers together after helping you off his lap. 

He guides you up the stairs and into his room.

“Azriel,” you tease, “I already know this room too well,” you say, alluding to his first night in the house where he fucked you over every surface in his room. It was pure bliss, one of the best nights you’ve shared.

Azriel puffs a breathy laugh and guides you to sit on the edge of his bed. You follow his instructions with obedience, covering your eyes when he tells you.

He waves a hand in front of your face to make sure you’re not looking. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Um,” your lips turn into the cutest pout when you think. “Two?”

He’s holding up none but he grumbles. “I was thinking two.” 

You bounce giddily on the edge of his bed and his cock twitches as he thinks of you bouncing on his cock just like that. 

“Easy, princess.” 

You stop your bouncing but not your grinning.

Azriel strides over to his closet, pulling out the canvas he’s been working on, when you aren’t around, of course. Well, he only dares pull it out around you when you’re fast asleep in his bed. It’s consumed him day and night, and finally, his masterpiece is finished.

“What is it?” you ask giddily, unable to rein in your excitement or the butterflies in your stomach.

You hear Azriel’s laughter as he moves closer. “If I told you, that would defeat the whole purpose of me asking you to close your eyes, princess,” he tuts and you swear you can hear him rolling his eyes. “But you can open them now, Miss Impatient.”

“That’s my middle name—” your words stick to your throat as you stare at the canvas he’s holding in front of you. 

You’re in awe, struck by the lines so confidently drawn. You’re transported back to the night of his exhibition, when he’d shown you the blackest parts of his soul, put on canvas. 

Similarly to the centerpiece of the show, the charcoal drawing he has in front of you are two hands intertwined. His, with his rough scars, clutching tightly to a flawless hand, a feminine hand. 

Your hand. 

Azriel shifts nervously on his feet. All you’re doing is staring, open-mouthed, and he’d normally take that as a good sign, but when tears well your eyes his heart pinches in his chest.

“It’s,” you choke, pressing a hand to your aching heart. “It’s so beautiful, Azriel.”

He breathes out a sigh of relief, only managing to move the canvas out of the way when you launch yourself into his arms, sobbing into his chest. He leans it against the edge of his bed and tucks you tightly into his arms, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. 

“Shhh, princess. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

“I’m crying because it’s perfect,” you pull away and he’s wiping softly at your cheeks. Your eyes are red-rimmed and he hates that but he loves the way it makes your eyes pop. He studies them for a little longer, committing it to memory, something to sketch for later. “You’re perfect. And I—I love you.” 

His attention snaps onto your words, holding onto them like they could slip away like a shadow. You haven’t said that before, neither have you. And he’s been wanting to say it for so long now, was going to so many times but it never felt like the right moment. 

And it’s now that he realizes that there was never going to be a better moment than any of the times his lips formed the words, only for nothing to come out. He should’ve said it when he felt it because he knows you don’t care about the moment being this perfect thing, for fucks sake you’re crying in his arms right now and you’re telling him that you love him for the first time. 

He is such an idiot sometimes.

“I love you too, princess,” he admits in a rasp, throat thick with the words. He’s never felt something this strongly for someone before. He wants to be around you all of the time, wants to hold you and touch you and taste you. You consume him, mind, body, and soul.

You’re there, tattooed on his fucking soul, inked in the love he hadn’t known he was missing until you met. The darkness that consumed him was a starless sky, a void waiting to be filled. You. You are the moon and the stars lighting him up, brightening his days.

He fucking loves you. So, so much.

“Yeah?” you ask, your soft crying turns to happy tears, ones he can’t help but to kiss as they roll down their cheeks. “You love me?” 

“I love you, (Y/N),” Azriel says, “I think maybe I always have.” 

“That’s so not true,” you laugh wetly, trying to swat at his chest. Azriel catches your hand in his and kisses your palm, golden eyes gleaming.

“Okay,” he concedes with a grin, “Maybe not always, but for a long time now.” 

You shake your head fondly. Your eyes dart away from him in your sudden nervousness. “Az?” 

“Yeah, princess?” 

You look at the picture once more, admiring it. It’s utterly perfect, just like him. 

Pointing at it, you say, “That. I want that as my first tattoo.”

Azriel stares, shocked. “Are you sure? You know I’ll give you any tattoo that you want, but I need you to be one hundred percent positive. I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I won’t,” you shake your head in disagreement and the softness in his eyes makes your heart swell. He looks like he can’t believe you’re real and you’re his. You’ll make him believe it and more. Later, you want to hear him say those three magical words while he’s pinning you to his sheets. Now, you want a tattoo. “This has to be the tattoo, Az. It’s us. I want us.”

He kisses you firmly on the mouth. Desperate.

“I want us too.” 

“Then let’s do this thing, Az. I’m ready.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

MM Taglist Part 1: @justvibbinghere @nickishadow139 @going-through-shit @honeycries @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @ssmay123 @haivenhoule @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @bloodicka @acourtofbatboydreams @hannzoaks @judig92 @ilikefictionalmen @harrystylesfan2686 @dr4g0ngirl @helensophie @isa1b2h3 @viatorem-maris

#midnight muse #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #tattoo artist!azriel #artist!azriel #art school au #acotar au

[literaryavenger]

Happy Birthday

Summary: It's your birthday and the only person who doesn't seem to be excited about it is you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death. Angst. Fluff. Language probably. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: This story was completely self-indulgent, but I hope someone out there likes it!

Masterlist

You’ve always been very reluctant to celebrate your birthday.

You haven’t had a birthday party since you were 12. The following year your mom died a couple of days before and neither you nor your family were in the mood to celebrate anything.

It wasn’t by any means unexpected, she had been sick for a few years, but it still hit you hard.

You were the youngest and were far too young when she first got sick to really understand everything going on.

You were 8 and all you really remember is watching your mom get more and more sick until eventually there was nothing more the doctors could do.

Her death hit you hard and you closed yourself off, never talking about it or even crying after the day of her funeral. To this day you’ve still never cried, in front of others or even by yourself.

You started exercising to channel all your energy, refusing to do anything more like the therapy your family suggested. 

When you were 15 you discovered SHIELD and decided you wanted to help others, so you signed up for the SHIELD Academy, working your hardest and pushing yourself to your very limit.

You ended up being not only the youngest cadet ever, but the youngest to actually graduate and then the youngest recruit at SHIELD at only 16 years old.

Natasha was very impressed when she heard about you and took a liking to you, convincing Fury to make you part of her team during her missions and teaching you everything she knows.

That’s how you ended up in the Avengers Initiative, not that you felt you didn’t deserve it since you know how hard you worked and everything you gave up to work towards this achievement. 

The team themselves were initially skeptical since you were barely 18 during the battle of New York, but they were quickly proven wrong when they saw how well you handled yourself against the Chitauri. 

You were devastated when SHIELD fell, but carried on as an Avenger, battling Ultron and then moving to the Compound with the team.

You met the actual Bucky for the first time when you were 22, during the whole Civil War thing with Baron Zemo. Like Natasha, you were on Tony’s team, fighting mostly Pietro, but the conflict eventually ended. 

It took Tony some time to get over the whole “Bucky killing his parents while brainwashed” thing, but, as he likes to say, he can’t call himself a genius without admitting that Bucky didn’t have much of a choice. 

Thanks to Tony’s help Shuri was able to find a solution to Bucky’s brainwashing faster than she would’ve alone, meaning Bucky didn’t have to go back into cryo and was pretty quickly cleared to join the team, about a year after the airport battle in Leipzig.

You were warmly accepted by everybody and, the more the team grew the more you felt at home with these people.

And now you wish you could burn down the whole compound because, somehow, Tony convinced you to have a birthday party for the first time in 13 years because, in his words, 'you only turn 25 once'.

Good news is you managed to make him limit the guest list to the team and other people close to you like Maria Hill and Fury. Bad news is you’re still gonna be the center of attention, which you hate.

You couldn’t stop Tony from making everyone dress up for the party, and you couldn’t stop the team from getting you gifts even though you insisted all you wanted was everyone together and to have fun with them since for the longest time nobody ever even knew when your birthday was. 

What you didn’t realize was that the only person more worried than you about your gifts was Bucky.

Since he joined the team the two of you have gotten close, starting with his first training with the team where he very loudly told Steve about his disbelief that someone as young and small as you could actually be an asset to the team.

You quickly put him in his place by taking him down after less than two minutes of sparring, taking full advantage of his underestimating you because he “didn’t want to hurt a pretty little thing like you.”

Admittedly he was impressed and wasn’t shy about letting you know that, while the rest of the team snickered at his initial shock when you pinned him down.

You became friends after that, not as close as you’d like but friends nonetheless.

If you were honest with yourself you’ve been harboring a little crush on the supersoldier, but he’s never shown any interest so you resigned yourself to just being his friend.

Something that you did come to treasure, though, is your and Bucky’s late night talks.

It started with you walking in on him in the kitchen on a late night where you couldn’t sleep, nothing new to you, but the two of you barely talked other than acknowledging each other.

You took a bottle of water and left.

A couple of days later you ran into him again and you stood there in silence while you made yourself a cup of tea and then left for your room.

A few days later again he was just sitting there and said nothing as you made your tea, except this time you put a cup in front of him and silently took a seat next to him at the counter.

Two nights later when you arrived at the kitchen he was already there with a cup of tea in front of him and one in front of the seat next to him.

You didn’t want to assume it was for you, but you took a chance when you noticed it was the cup you always used, a blue mug with Stitch on it that says “Let’s get weird”. Your favorite in fact.

You hesitantly sat down next to him and, without you having to ask or without even looking at you, he told you that the nights you stay up late because you can’t sleep you tend to be more quiet during the team dinners and while you hang out afterwards.

You didn’t say anything in return and just sat there, trying not to overthink how much he seemed to watch you.

But the more nights you spent like that, the more you two talked and you gathered quickly that Bucky is a very observant person, nothing more.

You loved the time you spent together after dark where you’d talk about everything and anything, but come morning it was almost as if it never happened, which you came to accept.

It weirdly made the nights you spent talking even more special, which was almost every night.

But back to the present, you’re currently getting ready with Natasha and Wanda, who know much more than you about hair and makeup and are always happy to help you out with getting ready for Stark parties. 

You put on the black cocktail dress with rhinestones all over the corset and a slit down the left side, then the three of you make your way to the party room and you take a deep breath before entering.

Everyone is already there, all dressed up in fancy clothes as they all shout “Happy Birthday”.

You laugh and say hi to everybody while they all take turns hugging you, there’s not too many people but everyone important to you is there.

Even Laura and Clint’s kids are there, which you consider a second family at this point, since Laura always did treat you like a daughter.

You hate to admit that it's a nice party.

Knowing you, everyone makes an effort to not put you too much at the center of attention and you just go around talking to your friends like every other party.

Eventually time comes for the cake and, the moment you kind of dreaded, opening the gifts.

Since it's the first birthday you allowed the team to celebrate everyone decided to go all in for your gifts, which you picked up on from the very first gift you open.

Pietro got you a first edition of “The Picture Of Dorian Gray” which is your all time favorite book, Wanda and Maria got you a leather jacket and an amazing pair of boots that you knew were expensive because you were all out shopping together when you came across them.

Steve got you a gold heart-shaped locker with a picture of the team inside it, Natasha got you a charm bracelet with a little charm to represent everyone on the team, and Sam got you a cute necklace with your birth stone on it.

When you open Fury’s gift you start laughing since it's a gun, a SIG SAUER P226 to be precise, which is very Fury.

“It was my first gun when I joined SHIELD.” He says with a smile and you smile back, knowing how much thought he put into this gift.

You open Clint’s gift next, a bow and arrow that he already taught you how to use, and Laura got you a pair of diamond earrings.

Your heart melts when you open Lila, Cooper and Nathaniel’s gifts, respectively a friendship bracelet, an Avengers action figure of yourself and a Stitch plushie.

The three of them hug you tightly as you say thank you and now you only have two gifts left, Tony’s and Bucky’s, and they’re both little boxes. 

You open Tony’s next, thinking it’s some fancy necklace or earring but you frown when you see a car key.

“Is this the key to your car?” you ask Tony, knowing full well you’re holding the key to an Audi R8 Spyder, the car Tony’s let you borrow so many times you’re now wondering if he’s gifting you his spare set of keys.

“No.” He says casually “It’s the key to your car.”

You’re even more confused and simply stare at him with your mouth gaped, not really processing the information.

“Y-you… You got me a car?!” You almost yell out of shock and everyone else starts laughing at your antics when you start basically jumping up and down and hugging Tony, squealing like a little girl.

“Well, come on, let’s go see it!” Tony says enthusiastically after you’ve calmed down, and you get up, just as enthusiastic, but are stopped by Steve’s voice.

“Wait, wait. You have one gift left.” He says, picking up the small box and giving it to you. “It’s from Bucky.”

You were so pumped up by the car, you almost forgot about it and completely miss the mischievous look Steve gives Bucky and the murderous glare Bucky gives back.

You also miss Bucky starting to protest before you open his gift, but he instantly shuts up when he sees your face falling the second you open it.

It’s a small necklace with a blue rose in it, it really looks like something you’d give a little girl more than a 25 year old woman.

You look at it for a minute, running your finger on it before you raise your head and look at Bucky.

The whole room goes silent as they all watch you worriedly, everyone noticing immediately that tears are streaming down your face.

Nobody understands what’s happening and nobody knows how to react or what to do, it’s like they’re all frozen by the sight of you being vulnerable for the first time ever. 

Meanwhile Bucky’s heart is beating so loud he’s sure everyone around him can hear it, and he feels himself starting to panic at the thought of having ruined your birthday with that stupid gift.

Everybody else got you expensive gifts and all he did was get you a small, cheap necklace that reminded him of a story you briefly talked about once on one of your late night talks about a necklace you had as a kid.

He saw it at the mall while looking for a gift for you, remembering the sweet smile you had on your face when you mentioned it and the fleeting sad look he thought he saw when you told him you lost it when you were 12.

He was really proud of himself for that gift, but the more he saw the other gifts you got the more he regretted his choice, especially after Tony gave you a fucking car.

And now you were crying, not saying anything while just looking at him.

He doesn’t know what to expect from you at the moment, nobody does, he thinks you might yell, throw his gift back at him, tell him how much you hate it and him.

But you surprise everyone by throwing your arms around Bucky’s neck, hugging him tightly while crying into his shoulder.

You honestly forgot telling Bucky about that story and certainly didn’t expect him to remember it, especially since you always got the feeling that he didn’t care about your talks as much as you.

You just assumed that come morning he deleted everything you told him to make room for more important things, and you didn’t blame him.

But he didn’t.

What you didn’t tell him about the necklace is that your mom gave it to you because blue roses were her favorite, you had that necklace since you were born but you somehow lost it the day of her funeral.

That day you lost the two most important things in your life and cried yourself to sleep, and that was the last time you allowed yourself to be weak and cry.

Until today.

Bucky hesitantly wraps his arms around you, rubbing your back hoping to get you to calm down. He looks around at the rest of the team, panicking a little and not knowing what to do.

Everyone else is as clueless as he is, never having seen you in such a state before.

Bucky starts apologizing, his heart breaking at the sight of you crying, and he feels horrible that it’s because of him.

You shake your head quickly and pull away a little to look at him, wanting to reassure him you’re not sad or angry but incredibly happy, but words refuse to come. You take a deep breath to calm yourself and finally manage to speak.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” It’s quiet, but it’s something, and it’s enough to make Bucky let out a breath of relief at knowing you don’t hate him or his gift.

He brings you back in for another tight hug, almost forgetting about everyone else in the room as you hug him back without hesitation.

You’re honestly not even embarrassed at crying, all you care about at the moment is Bucky, his arms around you while he lets you bury your face in his neck, like you’ve been wanting to do for years now.

“Happy birthday, doll.” He whispers in your ear and, for the first time in 13 years, you really feel like it is.

#bucky barnes #avengers x reader #bucky barnes x you #sam wilson #steve rogers #clint barton #tony stark #natasha romanoff #avengers x platonic!reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #marvel fanfiction #wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #nick fury #maria hill #laura barton #nathaniel barton #lila barton #cooper barton

[opencommunion]

since zionists want to act obtuse about why we're criticizing a superbowl ad, here's an explanation from before the ad even aired. it was openly designed to act as pro-genocide propaganda. fighting antisemitism is a worthy goal but that's not what's happening here:

"The New England Patriots’ 81-year-old owner, Robert Kraft, writes seven-digit checks to the right-wing Israeli lobbying machine AIPAC, but his personal, political, and financial ties to Israel run deeper than the occasional donation. The multibillionaire married his late wife, Myra, in Israel in 1963 when Kraft, then 22, was older than the nation itself. Together they set up numerous business, athletic, and charitable ties to Israel, a record of which is proudly proclaimed on the Kraft company website. In particular, the Kraft Group boasts of its 'Touchdown in Israel' program, where NFL players are given free, highly organized vacations to see 'the holy land' and come back to spread the word about 'the only democracy in the Middle East.' (Not every NFL player has chosen to take part.) Kraft also attends fundraisers for the Israel Defense Forces, currently—and in open view of the world—committing war crimes in Gaza."

Now, as Israel wages war against the civilians of Gaza—more than 25,000 Palestinian have been killed with at least 10,000 of them children—Kraft is again flexing his financial and political muscles in order to defend the indefensible. His Foundation to Combat Antisemitism (FCAS) will be spending an estimated $7 million to buy a Super Bowl ad titled 'Stop Jewish Hate' that will be seen by well over 100 million people. Under Kraft’s direction, the ad’s goal is to create a propaganda campaign to counter the reports and images from Gaza that young people are consuming on social media. 

... The content of the Super Bowl ad is not yet known, but FCAS has afforded Kraft the opportunity to make the rounds on cable news saying things like, 'It’s horrible to me that a group like Hamas can be respected and people in the United States of America can be carrying flags or supporting them.'

This is Kraft enacting the mission of FCAS: fostering disinformation. He is far from subtle: A Palestinian flag becomes a 'Hamas flag,' and people like the hundreds of thousands who took to the streets of Washington, D.C., last month to call for a cease-fire and end the violence are expressions of the 'rise in antisemitism.' Without a sense of irony or the horrors happening on the ground in Gaza, Kraft says he is giving $100 million of his own money to FCAS, because 'hate leads to violence.'

Let’s be clear: What Kraft is doing politically and what he will be using the Super Bowl as a platform to do is dangerous. He appears to think any criticism of Israel is inherently antisemitic. For Kraft, it is Jews like myself, rabbis, and Holocaust survivors calling for a cease-fire and a Free Palestine that are part of the problem. Kraft seems to think that opposition to Israel, the IDF, and the AIPAC agenda is antisemitism.

... Right-wing Christian nationalists, with their belief in a Jewish state existing alongside their conviction that Jews are going to Hell, are welcome in Netanyahu’s Israel and Kraft’s coalition. Left-wing anti-Zionist Jews are not. The greatest foghorn of this evangelical right-wing 'love Israel, hate Jews' perspective is, of course, Donald Trump. Kraft, while speaking of being troubled by events like the Charlottesville Nazi march and the right-wing massacre at the Tree of Life synagogue, counts Donald Trump as a close friend and even donated $1 million to his presidential inauguration.

No one who provides cover for the most powerful, public antisemite in the history of US politics should ever be taken seriously on how to best fight antisemitism. No one who funds AIPAC and the IDF and opposes a cease-fire amid the carnage should be allowed a commercial platform at the Super Bowl. But given that the big game is always an orgy of militarism, blind patriotism, and big budget commercials that lie through their teeth, perhaps that ad could not be more appropriate. We can do better than Kraft’s perspective on how to fight antisemitism. Morally, we don’t have a choice."

#zionism

[futureman]

his favorite girl, part i

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel agrees to teach you how to play guitar for a college course, but you can't keep your eyes off him long enough to learn. he really likes that.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, guitar teacher!joel, no outbreak, big age gap (reader’s 22, joel’s 56), slow-burn, sexual tension, finger kink, slight dubcon, touching, smut for later chapters, some fluff, mostly angst

word count: 3.3k

a/n: my first chaptered fic! dedicated to joel's fingers! i've been playing guitar a lot more lately so...yeah 🥲 thinking this'll probably be 3 or 4 chapters? as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated! hope y'all enjoyy

Don’t stare at his fingers. Don’t stare at his fingers. He’s doing you a huge favor by teaching you to play guitar in the first place. The least you can do is pay attention and stop staring at his fingers. 

But it’s a lost cause, and you know it, because you’d have no hope of learning without staring at his fingers. 

Even so, you’re convinced he’ll somehow know that’s not the real reason you’re watching them so intently. The way they hop gracefully from fret to fret, strings biting into his well-earned calluses, producing the most beautiful chords that ring out perfectly with every strum. 

It’s a wonder any of that is even possible for him. You don’t mean to knock his talent—he obviously honed his craft through decades of fine-tuning and dedicated practice—but his fingers are just so thick.

With your clumsy, beginner’s touch, you’re constantly fumbling with the strings, unable to press down hard enough or keep your other fingers out of the way for them to vibrate the way they need to. They just sort of…fizzle.

But there’s a finesse to how he plays. It also helps that his guitar is a lot bigger than yours. It's a totally innocuous thought, but it still warms your cheeks a little. A big guitar for a big man. Broad and tall, with those thick, thick fingers—

“Hey, you still with me?” 

You’re not sure when he stopped playing, but you really hope it was right before he said something. Otherwise, he definitely knows exactly what you were thinking about, and that would be humiliating. 

Not a great start to your first guitar lesson, but how were you supposed to know your teacher was going to look like that? When your music theory professor recommended him, he conveniently left that part out, which, whatever, makes sense. But it still would’ve been helpful to know ahead of time.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Has a ton of experience and takes on very few students, so you should consider yourself lucky. That’s all of the information you were given before you stepped into his house this afternoon, and were greeted by possibly the hottest man you’ve ever seen. He was supposed to be your ticket to an A on your senior thesis. But you’re totally flubbing it.

“Y-yeah, sorry, just got a little distracted,” you laugh awkwardly, wishing you had said anything else but that. You couldn't be any more obvious if you tried. “Won’t happen again, promise.” 

He’s kind enough to pretend you’re not a filthy liar and taps the neck of his guitar to redirect your focus. “S’alright. We’ll just take it from the top. You remember the fingerin' for the first chord?”

You gape at him dumbly for a second. He’s kidding, right? You might as well leave now if he’s going to keep saying fingering with that devastating Southern drawl of his. 

“Um, yeah, I think so,” you sputter, lying for the second time in a row. You're struggling to recall anything from your lesson but, god, you can only remember his fingers, not their placement. With no confidence whatsoever, you press your fingertips down firmly on the three strings you think he showed you. “Here, right?” 

He quirks a brow. “You askin’ me or tellin’ me?” 

Ah, so he’s that kind of teacher. The 'learn the hard way', 'fail on your own until you succeed' type. Well, he’s about to learn that you’re not that kind of student.

“…Telling?” Your voice lilts with even less confidence. He chuckles, nodding at your finger placement.

“Let’s hear it, then,” he says expectantly, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. You can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but you’re about to find out. You strum slowly, and the sound reverberates around the room. 

Wrong. 

His smile widens just a fraction as you grimace, quickly wrapping your hand around the neck of the guitar to stop the horrible noises still playing from it. You look over at him, wincing, but he doesn’t seem frustrated. If anything, he seems patient.

“Not quite,” he shakes his head, moving his instrument out of his lap so he can shift closer to where you’re sitting further down the couch. The cushion dips with his weight, and you tip into him slightly, but he remains completely unfazed. “Lemme show you again—and pay attention this time, alright?”

You start to nod apologetically, but then he throws an arm behind you on the back of the couch, and all hope of retaining whatever he’s about to teach you goes out the window. Instead of showing you on his own guitar, he gestures for you to hold yours up, gently arranging your fingers on the frets.

His fingertips whisper against yours like he’s hesitant to touch you, softly tugging them into place before pressing down, showing you the right amount of pressure to apply. 

They feel just as warm and rough as you’d imagined, dwarfing yours by a long shot, and the realization makes your fingers accidentally twitch out of place. Your eyes dart up to gauge his reaction and lock with his, deep and brown, and very amused. 

“Doin’ alright there?” he teases, and now you know he’s on to you. You try to play it off, blaming it on your inexperience.

“Just haven't gotten used to using those muscles yet," you mumble, moving your hand away from his to flex your fingers. "Not sure I've ever had to stretch them like that before."

 "'m sure ya have. Probably just didn't realize it at the time. That kinda muscle soreness comes from prolonged repetition—repeatin' an action over 'n over," he explains in that syrupy-sweet accent, completely unaware of how his words are affecting you. "Bet ya use those fingers for a lot'a different things every day, just nothin' long or strenuous enough to leave you achin'."

You bite your lip to keep from reacting. He has to know what he's doing right now. How he sounds. This conversation is starting to veer into dangerous territory, but the weird thing about it is that he genuinely doesn't seem to realize that everything he's saying has a double meaning. To you, at least. You knew all this fingering talk was going to get you into trouble. 

"Uhh, yeah," you agree, side-stepping that line of thought to bring yourself back to the lesson, but it's getting harder to stay focused. "I guess I just thought playing would mostly be memorization, but there's a lot of physicality to it, too, huh?" 

"Yeah, s'pose that's true," he muses, looking down at the calluses on his own hand. This time you refuse to take the bait, your breathing already too shallow, heart nearly pounding out of your chest with how close he's sitting. But he’s still completely calm and collected. "Your hand hurtin' a lot right now?"

You shrug, inspecting your reddening fingertips. "Kinda, yeah."

"It's like that in the beginnin’," he says kindly. "But the more ya play, the tougher the skin gets, and ya won't feel it as much." 

He surprises you by taking your hand again, massaging the tender skin between his thumb and index fingers. God, that feels so much better already. The heat of his fingertips seeps into yours, soothing the painful indents left by the unforgiving strings, and you let out a breathy sigh of relief. 

You feel his entire body tense palpably next to you. It might be your imagination or just wishful thinking, but you swear you can feel his warmth radiating into your side, somehow even closer than before. Your brain’s starting to fizzle more than the sound of your shitty guitar playing, and the room feels a little hotter. Hazier, like a daydream.

"That feel good?" he murmurs, lips practically brushing the shell of your ear.

Definitely closer.

“Y-yeah, feels nice…really nice,” you stutter, voice lowering almost to a whisper as if you were sharing a secret. “The, um—the rest of my hand is a little sore, too. Is that normal?”

You can feel him grinning at your obvious attempt to get him to keep touching you, and he gives in easily. Surprisingly so, and it's becoming clearer that he's as into whatever's happening right now as you are. You’re not sure what happened to the unfazed man from before, but you’ll happily welcome this change in demeanor.

“Yeah, s’normal,” he trails down to your palm, engulfing your hand with his own. “Don’t worry, I'll take care of ya.”

Your eyes flutter closed as his thigh presses into yours, and the arm behind you lowers around your shoulders, his hand skimming the side of your neck. Shit, what is going on? You’re pretty sure guitar lessons don’t usually go like this, but you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it. Not when he feels this good.

Everywhere his skin touches yours feels electric, sending jolts up your spine, and making you forget where you are and what you were doing in the first place. He ducks down to press his lips to your bare shoulder, and your mind goes completely blank. 

All that's left is...sensation. Something dragging roughly across your skin, then soft—a little chapped—and wet. Sharp. You're abruptly aware of him sucking a hard bruise at the crook of your neck, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you're unable to stop the whimper that escapes your lips. It's soft and inappropriate. A single, hushed syllable.

"Joel."

He lets out a pained groan that rumbles from deep within his chest, and the hand around yours tenses. That boundless patience he had earlier feels like it's about to run out, and the thought makes your blood run hot. 

God, how is he real? How is this real? You just met this man—this much, much older man—less than an hour ago, and, yet, this is probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. He continues to mouth up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw.

"What else hurts? Tell me, 'n I'll make it better," he mutters humidly, urgently against your skin. 

You want to tell him where it hurts the most. That unbearable ache between your legs, the burning in your belly that you didn't even realize he was stoking. But you're so wound up, all you can manage is a frustrated sob.

"Use your words, beautiful. C'mon, lemme hear 'em," he says as if you're his instrument, meant to produce dulcet tones and resonate at his hand.

"It—fuck...it—here," you drag the hand clutching yours down, next to where the body of your guitar rests on your thigh. Where you've already soaked through the thin fabric of your pants. "Joel...need you to make it better."

The gentle vibrato of your voice, the way it shakes tumultuously around his name, and even more so when he cups your heat. His lips return to your throat to feel it, to taste it as you moan for him. And those fingers. You knew they’d feel good, and they’re so close to where you need them. Just a little bit more—but there’s still too many layers between you and his rough touch. 

“M-more…need more, just—,” you whine, and he mirrors the sound back at you raggedly.

“‘Course, beautiful. Told you I’d take care of ya, didn’t I? 

You're too far gone to even notice yourself desperately grinding into the palm of his hand, or the fingers at your cheek turning your face toward his. 

Or your guitar quickly slipping out of your lap, more and more with each swivel of your hips. It hits the carpet with a hollow clang and, suddenly, the spell is broken. Then, it all comes crashing back. 

He’s saying your name, but he sounds...different. Less breathy, less needy, and more like your patient, collected guitar teacher. Joel Miller. 56 years old, remember? Way too old for you, for your body to be reacting to him like this, and the man whose help you still desperately need to help complete your thesis.

Your eyes snap open and you realize with abject horror that you’ve been daydreaming this entire time. You can’t even imagine how long he’s been trying to get your attention while you’ve just been sitting here, fantasizing about his hands on you. 

Not even ten minutes ago, you promised you wouldn’t get distracted, but you did. Again. And so much worse this time.

By his furrowed brow and the way he won’t even look at you, you must have accidentally said something out loud, too. Something totally inappropriate that you really shouldn’t have. But then, his hand twitches and your blood turns to ice. 

That—fuck, that's not where it was before you zoned out. It was still on yours, arranging your fingers on the frets for the chord he was teaching you. He…he was asking about your hand, if it hurt, and then—

As if you’ve been burned, you quickly release his hand from where you’re clutching it between your legs—not just in your daydream, but in horrifying actuality. You’re screwed. 

Not only is he probably going to kick you out of his house and refuse to be your teacher anymore, but he’ll likely tell your professor. And he’d have every right to. There’s no way you’ll be able to get anyone else to teach you after this.

The reason you’re here, everything you’ve worked so hard for, flashes before your eyes, catching fire and turning to ash. Your love for music, your degree—in the span of a single guitar lesson, you destroyed all of it.

And what would he think? Your father, your inspiration for choosing this path. He’d be so disappointed in you, though maybe not as much as you are right now. 

All of this for what? The attractive, middle-aged guitar teacher you’ve known for less than an hour? He doesn’t even want you and, even if he did, that’s not what you came here for. Stupid, stupid. 

You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t bear to look at him, to say anything at all. Instead, you lean down to retrieve your guitar from where it still lies face down on the floor, and slowly stand up. 

“I, uh…,” you croak out, fighting the urge to cry and look like even more of an idiot. You shake your head, unable to finish your sentence, and start to walk away, but then something miraculous happens.

Joel’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you from leaving. You turn back to him, eyebrows raised in shock, dropping your gaze to where his skin is touching yours. He doesn't let go. 

“Look—,” he starts, and you wince. It’s never a good sign when someone starts a sentence like that. If all he’s trying to do is let you down easy, he shouldn’t have stopped you. He’s just shaming you even further. “—‘m not too sure what just happened here, but if you just—if ya sit back down, we can talk about it or…just keep goin’ with the lesson…”

You didn’t see that one coming. 

“You want me to stay?” you ask dubiously. “Why?”

You search his eyes for the answers to all of the things you’re not understanding, but come up with nothing. He’s sitting on the couch watching you, still holding your hand like nothing’s wrong. Acting like none of this is a big deal, as if you didn’t basically just shove his hand down your pants without his consent.

“Still got a lot to teach ya. We didn’t even get through the first line of music,” he chuckles, his voice filled with such kindness. So much more than you deserve. 

“Yeah, and that’s my fault. I—,” you pause, still trying to gather your thoughts, “—I crossed a line…made you uncomfortable. You really don’t have to do this.”

He sighs, rubbing his thumb soothingly into your wrist, and the gesture makes you shiver. Somehow it’s calming, even as the gears continue to turn in your head. You still can’t seem to grasp any of this or shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with this picture. 

“Well, isn’t this supposed to be a favor for some big, important grade? Don’t ya need this to pass your class?”

He’s not wrong. Without his help, you’re basically fucked for the rest of the semester.

“Yeah, I...actually really do,” you answer hesitantly.

Hope blooms in your chest. Maybe your thesis isn’t totally lost. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll even be able to focus on your lessons.

“I think we can keep this professional. Don’t you?” he implores, brows raised.

He’s right again. That’s the only way this is going to work, but it’s still a reminder that he’s not interested in you in the slightest. You’re not sure why that feels so bad.

“Totally,” you breathe out, but your expression must betray your words because he rushes to reassure you.

“It’s not that I—look, I mean…you’re a beautiful girl ‘n all, but…,” he trails off, and…what?

Beautiful. He can’t have just said that out of the blue. Beautiful, of all the words he could’ve used to describe you right then. This man is driving you crazy—and he won’t stop.

“Can’t help feelin’ like maybe I gave ya the wrong impression. I took advantage of ya,” he looks away, pained, like this was all his fault. You have no idea how he came to that conclusion, but he’s got it all wrong.

“What—no. No, if anything, I took advantage of you. You were just trying to be a good teacher,” you shake your head furiously. “Look, I did this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t pull away, now, did I?” 

His eyes meet yours again, darker than before, and you know for a fact you’re not making it up this time. The setting sun is casting shadows around his living room, across his 80s-style leather couch and carpet, illuminating every one of his handsome features. 

And, yet, his eyes are black, endless voids that threaten to consume you. Whatever power he has over you feels dangerous. You knew you couldn’t have imagined it all. 

But it's gone as quickly as it came. He clears his throat, dropping your wrist as if he finally came to his senses. Your patient, unaffected guitar teacher is back.

“I, uh, think maybe that about wraps it up for today,” he says with finality, standing up. “It's already eight, anyhow. You should head on home.”

Gently plucking the guitar from your hands, he zips it up in its case and gives it back to you. You nod, feeling grateful, but cautious...and also extremely curious. His hand finds the small of your back, leading you to the front door, and you try your best not to react as his fingers urge you forward. 

You know you’ll be thinking about them later tonight, even though you really shouldn’t. About them finishing what you started earlier, taking care of you like you still want him to. Part of you hopes he’ll be thinking about yours, too. 

His hand drops and he turns to you with a small smile, leaning on his arm against the doorframe. 

"But, uh, same time tomorrow? And maybe put in a little practice time before then—stretch out those fingers so you're ready to play."

“Sure,” you reply breathily. “Same time tomorrow.”

thanks for reading! part ii coming soon 🥰

(p.s. how are we feeling about finger sucking...okay bye)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller

[skzhua]

if i leave, which i must do

MASTERLIST

pairing: han jisung x female!reader

genre: fluff, angst, isekai, portal universe, strangers-to-lovers.

word count: 29,083

warnings: swearing, car accident, mentions of death, mentions of sex, suggestive. (proofread-ish)

summary: a movie night by yourself turned out to be an unexplainable experience as you got stuck in the film you were watching. it was a true nightmare until you found jisung to help you.

a/n: one of my favourites ever! it took me so long to finish it but i can't be any prouder. i really hope you enjoy it!

Being sick was one of the things you hated the most, and there wasn't much you hated. Having a cold meant having to cough every five minutes to clear your throat or blowing your nose all the time to the point it got red from how irritated it was. One perk, however, was that you could use it as an excuse to skip work. Getting to stay at home to do nothing was everything your lazy nature would dream of. Plus, your love for movies and cinema came handy when all you could do was watch films all day.

So when you began to feel your throat getting dryer and your nose building up snot, you couldn't be any happier. The office you worked at had given you very strict deadlines and you'd been working your ass off for weeks to meet their expectations. By taking the next day off, it would give you a very much needed break since all of your documents would be given to someone else to finish them. 22 years old was too young to be doing this much, you thought. But you needed the money so you had to settle for that, only temporarily.

First thing you did when you got home that day was to open all the windows of your apartment, not considering your poor rabbit in her playpen who didn't ask for any cool air. It might not have helped much in making sure you would stay sick the next day but you gave yourself credits for trying nonetheless.

Afterwards, you hurried yourself to get changed into your pyjamas you loved so much and order food since you had no energy to cook. Once your order arrived, it didn't take you long to get settled on the couch to get ready for a movie night on your own. Before doing anything, you still made sure you had everything — meaning your food, water, your blankets, cutlery for your meal, etc. — and then grabbed your remote to turn the television on. As you browsed through Netflix's selection of recommended films for you, you realized how the movies on there became repetitive and you had seen most of them. Still, you continued to scroll in hopes something would be eye-catching enough to you. But none seemed good enough. Annoying, your food was getting colder by the minute.

You were about to move onto another streaming platform until you read a synopsis that grabbed your curiosity. It followed the journey of a struggling artist in his early 20s who can't seem to find the inspiration for his music, all while having to face his personal issues called becoming an adult. This was not the type of movies you would usually go for which made you wonder why it even caught your eye. The duration was an hour and fifty minutes and that was also not what you'd go for on a daily basis. Besides that, heavy subjects as these ones felt a bit much for a Wednesday night. However, you weren't going to work the morning after so fuck it. Happy with your choice, you grabbed your plate and brought it closer to you to dig into it and clicked on the play button.

The opening scene showed a young boy — not much older than seven if you had to guess — playing in a playground with a few friends. Some credits appeared on screen as the mellow score played in the background. As the children continued to laugh loudly, a woman's voice could be heard calling out a "Han Jisung". The boy turned around to see his mother walk up to him as she informed him that it was time to head back home. The boy shook his head violently, insisting on staying longer to play. The woman repeated herself but unlike what she would've liked, her son refused to budge and headed to the swings he was playing close to, holding tightly onto one of the poles. Sighing heavily, she asked him again but he did not move. Poor woman, she was obviously exhausted and wanted to go home to take a nap.

"You and me, girl," you commented in-between bites.

Growing impatient, Jisung's mother approached him and reached her hand out to him. Stubborn, he shouted he wanted to stay, and ran all the way to the other side of the street to get away from her reach. As any mother would do, she ran after him while telling him to slow down as he was much faster than her. He still ignored her demands. Sadly, she was not quick enough to catch up with him and, just as she was crossing the road, a pickup truck collided with her body right before Jisung's eyes. It took him a moment to process everything, he was left speechless. Mouth wide open, he stared at the figure of his mother on the ground in horror. He fell onto his knees, his legs too weak to support his body as he was still in disbelief of what just occurred.

You paused it.

Releasing an exhale you didn't know you were holding back, you stared at the screen in shock. You were barely ten minutes in and you could not believe this had to be how the film began. Setting your plate on the coffee table, you walked to your rabbit's playpen and picked her up, bringing her close to your chest. You jumped right back into your blankets and made sure both you and the animal were comfortable.

"Fifi, I won't be able to finish this if I don't have you with me," you said to your bunny in a child-ish voice.

The screen was still frozen while you debated whether you really wanted to continue it or not. In the end, you gathered all the courage you had and clicked on play, giving Fifi scratches to release your stress.

The next scene was a time skip to Jisung's 23rd birthday. When you thought he was all alone as he was staring longingly at a picture of him and his mother, one of his friends barged in his room as he shouted a "happy birthday". He responded with a smile and set the picture back on his desk before the both of them walked out to their dining room. There were only two other men with him who seemed to be living with him. The place wasn't that big but it was functional which is what mattered really. Jisung's other friend placed a cake in front of him as they sang the birthday song to him, all of them exchanging wide smiles. You learned that he is the youngest since his friends kept on teasing him for being a year closer to their own ages.

"Have we gotten any calls?" he asked after blowing on the candles.

From their reaction, they didn't receive any sort of call that they were expecting. This didn't make Jisung lose his joyful spirit and he went ahead with cutting pieces of cake for the three of them.

"Great, now I'm craving cake," you grumbled to yourself. "Should I get a cake? No, it's too late and the grocery stores must be closed."

The scene switched to an anxious Jisung in his room who kept on rewriting on a piece of paper while tugging on his hair, eyebrows furrowed as to show his focus on the task at hand. He bopped his head up and down and began to hum a melody. Unsatisfied, he shook his head and noted something down on his phone. Multiple shots of him doing the same couple of actions — rewriting, erasing, humming a beat, throwing a paper away, getting distracted by something he saw on his phone —played one after the other. It was like he was stuck in a loop and the more it went, the more he was getting discouraged. Finally determining he wouldn't get any work done that night, he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.

The following shot was now set outside where the night was slowly settling, sunset on display. As a melodic score played in the background, Jisung walked down a small street as he kept on kicking on a tiny rock he found on the ground. Taking in the fresh air, he suddenly stopped and took notice of his whereabouts after having walked a decent distance. The camera panned out to a playground, the same one where his mother was hit.

You felt movement on your thighs and frowned, only to remember you had brought your bunny out of the comfort of her home. Since the movie didn't seem to be getting into anything as traumatic as the first scene, you stood up to get her back to her playpen. However, with having the screen as your only source of light in the room, you tripped onto the plastic bag that was used to wrap your takeout. You felt yourself fall onwards and let out a yell in panic. Your bunny was quick enough to get away from your grasp and hide underneath your couch. As for you, you kept on falling and closed your eyes shut in waiting of your head hitting something. Only, everything went black.

You didn't know what happened but one thing was for sure. You did not hit your head.

Everything was blurry when you finally opened your eyes after gaining a bit of consciousness. You tried to see better around you but a sudden eerie ringing was suddenly bursting through your ears, making it impossible for you to concentrate on something else. You shut your eyes closed again from how painful the ringing was and put your hands on your ears in attempt to diffuse some of it.

"Miss?" you thought of hearing faintly but nothing was vivid enough for you to be sure. "Miss?" you heard the voice say again, this time a tad bit clearer.

You began to hear again much clearer, allowing you to open your eyes properly. Needless to say you were stunned once your gaze fell upon the man in front of you. He had a concerned look on his face while analyzing your figure, making sure you were not injured in any way.

It couldn't be possible, no.

Looking around for a hint or anything, you realized you were exactly where the character of your movie was standing through your screen only minutes ago. The same character who was now all flesh and bones, standing tall (or short for some people) at 5'7ft in front of your very eyes.

"Miss," he said again. "Are you alright? Do you need help?"

You blinked slowly as you stared at him up and down, almost creepily. You hadn't realized he began to feel uncomfortable until he cleared his throat loudly, bringing your eyes back to his own. With one eyebrow raised, he repeated the question. No luck, you kept silent.

Jisung looked around and noticed the sun was about to get down completely, meaning it would be pitch black in this part of the city. Although he thought of you to be odd, he was humane. Never would he let a young woman — might he add as attractive as you were — on her own this late outside.

"Do you live nearby? I can walk you home," he offered.

Again, you didn't seem to find an answer. Well, how could you even describe that you believed to have gone through your television screen which caused you to travel into the movie's universe? Yourself couldn't believe it to be true. Nonetheless, you couldn't deny the man was very much real and that the cold was very much coming through your clothes.

Your clothes. You weren't in your pyjamas anymore, but rather in a business attire. You held a briefcase that you had no idea what it was for, and you felt an unknown phone in your back pocket. You could feel the blisters on your feet caused by the heels you were wearing and although the blazer was most definitely fashionable, you were freezing. You pondered the possibility of having transferred into a character's body unintentionally.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Jisung asked as he caught onto your oblivion.

The only thing you could do right until finding out what happened to you was say nothing and lead your own investigation on how you got here and how you can return to the comfort of your house with your bunny. Fuck, Fifi! Poor her, she must be so afraid without you around to take care of her.

"Hey," Jisung spoke again in a comforting voice. "You'll be okay, I want to help you. Did you forget where you live?"

How sweet of him, you thought. In your own universe it was hard for you to find caring men, you hit the jackpot when stumbling upon him. Still, you had to remind yourself that this person was technically a fictional character, he didn't represent reality. You made a mental note to yourself to check if this movie was directed or written by a woman when you would get back home.

"Do you know your name, at least?"

Oh, right. Maybe the guy deserved some sort of answer at the very least.

"Y/N."

You were taken aback when his face lit up to show his boxy smile. He had a very pretty smile, it was a reassuring smile.

"Miss Y/N, my name is Han Jisung. Now that I know you can speak, can you answer my questions from earlier, please? I would hate for something dangerous to happen to you and I genuinely want to get you home safely."

You chuckled at his words, feeling uneasy from his display of chivalry. "I-I don't remember a lot."

You had seen this in movies: in situations of travelling to an alternate universe, faking having amnesia was the way to go if you wanted to survive through this. People put their guards down usually instead of being wary of you.

Jisung nodded and looked up for a moment to think of what to do next. "I live nearby if you need a temporary shelter for the night. I have two roommates and the place might not be as tidy as what you must be used to, if you remember. I don't know if you are comfortable with it but I'd be happy to help you gain your memories back."

Seriously, why couldn't people be more like this in your world? Trying to ignore to storm of feelings, thoughts and emotions that was happening in your mind, you shyly agreed to stay at his place. For the night only. You should get back in less than 24 hours, no?

Jisung was right and his apartment was no further than a few blocks away from the playground. The building was rather small and a bit torn down but besides that, it seemed to be just fine for him. As long as the necessities were there, it didn't bother him if the quality was not one of a five-star hotel.

It took you three flights of stairs to get to his place which was so painful to climb up with your heels. You still managed through the pain all the way up to when Jisung opened the door wide to let you in first. To say you were startled when you walked in would be an understatement. Two men — you recognized as his roommates — were walking around the flat with no shirt on while they were preparing themselves what seemed to be like chicken sandwiches. The sight was not what you had anticipated, although this whole situation wasn't either, and you let out a scream without thinking first. The two of them shot their heads up and were obviously confused to see a young woman stand there instead of their younger friend.

"Can we help..?" one of them who had blonde hair asked reluctantly.

"Guys!" Jisung exclaimed from behind you before coming to stand next to you. "This is Y/N. Y/N, these two are my roommates. This is Changbin."

Changbin held his hand up, still lost about what was happening in his own home. "Hey?"

"And that's Chan."

Chan was kind enough to grab a hoodie that was laying on a chair nearby and put it on before shaking your hand. Your heart stopped from the contact with his skin and you seriously wondered what was up with the men of this world.

"Y/N is a bit lost, I think she had a some sort of brain injury when I bumped into her. She was holding her head tightly and she was visibly in pain. I asked her a few questions about herself and the only thing she could remember was her name," Jisung explained to the older guy who listened attentively.

"Amnesia?"

"That's my guess. Until we can help her find who she is, I offered her to stay here."

Chan nodded in approval while Changbin shrugged his shoulders. "As long as I can work on my stuff in peace, I don't mind. She's kind of cute too."

"Changbin," Chan sent him a look, making him mutter a quick apology. He then turned to face you which scared you a little. "I bet you're tired. Or hungry, maybe? Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Do you have green tea?"

He clasped his hands together and headed off back to the kitchen. "On it."

"I'll give you a tour of the place," Jisung informed. "It's not big but it's home. Here is the living room which we do not use that much. I'll sleep there tonight, though, so you can have my bed."

You held your hand up in disagreement. "I'll take the couch, it's alright. I'm lucky enough you're letting me stay."

He pfft at you. "Nonsense, take my bed. I insist." When he got a nod from your part, he moved on to continuing showing around. "This is the bathroom. Not that big but it does what it needs to do. Here's Changbin's room and I recommend you don't knock if the door is closed. Just wait until he's done. And here's Chan's room where he never sleeps, just works."

"Not true," you could hear from the kitchen, making Jisung smile, embarrassed.

"Yeah, uh, we can pretty much hear everything throughout the whole flat. It's not that bad from the rooms to the common areas because we tried to soundproof them as much as we could but yeah."

"Soundproofing for your music, or for other types of activities..?" you implied jokingly.

Damn it, the air in this universe was different, you couldn't even be yourself. Well, you did make a lot of bad jokes, sometimes related to sex, back home. Still, you really had no filter there. Noticeably, both of you were quite surprised from your statement and were a blushing mess for a few seconds before he answered.

"Music, but it is useful for these... things."

He cleared his throat and walked away shyly, and you most certainly thought this was adorable. Containing yourself, you followed his lead to the room at the very end of the hallway. Everything you saw from the movie was still at their exact spot, including the picture of him and his mother. While he was telling you about his room and cleaning it up a bit at the same time, you couldn't hear a thing he was saying. Your eyes stuck on the framed image for longer than they should but there was something in his mother's eye. A shine? A glow? Or something more mellow? You couldn't figure it out but it was enchanting, she was beautiful. It was crazy how much Jisung took after her, their features being so similar and yet so different.

"She's pretty," you spoke before thinking, yet again.

Jisung awkwardly walked to his desk and put the picture face down. "It's my mom," he said, clearing his throat and avoiding your look.

"She raised a very kind son," you added and he mouthed a small "thanks" as he kept his eyes on the floor.

You took the opportunity to get a good insight of his personal space. Even if cleaned a bit, it was a mess but not in a disgusting way. It was a comfort kind of messy, the one that screamed "this place was loved and well lived in". His bed had simple dark blue sheets with a single pillow, his desk and dresser were a matching set, and his bookshelf was filled with figurines, one or two books and many music albums. His entire desk was dedicated to his music, even the background displayed a guitar. It felt homey.

"Someone ordered tea?" Chan said as he came in with a mug. He set it on the desk while you thanked him kindly. "Be careful, it's still boiling hot."

Without adding a word, he left the two of you alone in your awkward silence. While you were still looking around, Jisung was biting his lip down, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt with one hand while the other was still on the picture. Eventually, he seemed to snap out of his discomfort and went to open one of his drawers. From there, he pulled a t-shirt out along with a pair of sweatpants before holding them out to you.

"I'm pretty small so hopefully it'll fit. You can use the shower as long as you need, the shampoo and soap are in the basket. Use any towel, we washed them this morning," he informed to which you nodded. The silence was slowly coming back but, decisively, Jisung wouldn't let this one through. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

"Thank you, Jisung."

He gave you one last smile before vanishing into the other room, leaving you alone to get changed. That was important, yes, but what you'd been dying to find out was what the fuck happened with you. You didn't waste another second to take the phone in your back pocket and turn it on. Obviously, it had a password unknown to you. What did help was the wallpaper: a picture of yourself hugging a bunny that looked identical to Fifi. At least, you knew you were yourself and not some random woman whose body you had to take over.

If this was your face with your bunny, did it mean it would be the same passcode as the one for your own mobile? You had to try at the very least, this phone was most likely your only chance to understand the situation better. You typed the first five digits and waited a second before typing the last one, tension growing in you. You closed your eyes, pressed it, and slowly opened them back. The sigh of disappointment that left your mouth would be indescribable but it was very discouraging. At least, you knew there was another Fifi waiting for her owner to get home in this universe too.

You quickly got changed, finally taking off these uncomfortable heels, and went to freshen up in the shower. Despite the fact the counter was a huge mess, the shower itself was kept pretty clean, more than you had expected for a boys apartment. You didn't wash for long, already exhausted from the day you'd had. After putting Jisung's clothes on, you walked out the bathroom, went to grab your tea, and joined the man who helped you in the living room.

When he got a good look at you, his eyes grew bigger while his plump cheeks flushed a little. The sight of a woman in his clothes was never something he though of ever happening. And yet, here you were. As beautiful as a model, you were in his clothes.

"Can I join you?"

Fuck, even your voice was pretty. He didn't realize it at first –probably because he only focused on helping you out– but you were drop dead gorgeous. All of the sudden, he could feel his hands getting sweatier and his heartbeat getting faster. What was happening to him?

"Sure," he mustered the energy to answer without stuttering. "How are are you feeling?"

"Calmer, but I'm still worried. I have no idea who I am and the background of my phone is myself with my rabbit who must be wondering where its owner went," you answered and pulled the phone out of your pocket to show it to him.

"Cute," he commented, not knowing if this was directed to you, the rabbit, or both. "Did you try getting in?"

You nodded. "The only password I could think of didn't work and I don't want to risk blocking it."

"I have a friend, Felix, he's studying in computer engineering. I can give him a call tomorrow and he could come to unlock it."

Your face lit up instantly. "That would really help, please."

"I'll do that first thing in the morning."

"Thank you."

He looked away and cleared his throat, your presence was making him so nervous. "It's no problem."

You got up and began to inspect the room, a little bit like you did in Jisung's. The couch wasn't aesthetically pleasing to the eye but it did the job and was the perfect amount of squishy. Their television was without a doubt second handed from someone else while the furniture that supported it was freshly new. You liked how they managed to organize everything to be functional without feeling cramped in the place, since it was very small.

"Do you always do this?" Jisung asked after watching you himself.

"What do you mean?" you frowned.

His face warmed up, embarrassed. "I meant, because you keep looking around like an investigator or something like that."

"Jisung, I've just lost all of my memory. I'm just trying to process everything and the very least of things would be to make sure I wasn't welcomed into an unsafe place, not like I think you're dangerous, but you know what I mean."

He nodded while pursing his lips in understanding. He proceeded to mentally flicker his forehead, swearing to himself to shush it around you. He really was trying to come off friendly and helpful but his reserved nature would force him to tell you stupid things like this.

"I'm done with my tea," you announced, showing him the empty mug.

He stared at you for a second until he snapped out of his thoughts, taking the mug and rushing to the sink to wash it. You chuckled at the sight. You were glad it was him whom you had stumbled upon. Although clumsy, he was being the sweetest.

"I guess I'll go to sleep," you said as he was still rinsing your remaining tea.

He raised an eyebrow at you. "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

"Don't worry, I'll call you if anything."

He nodded his head with satisfaction before wishing for you to sleep well. As he watched your frame disappear, he let out a heavy breath. He knew his social anxiety was bad but this was becoming an issue. He headed to the couch and settled himself to doze off. Still, his mind was on you, on how he had interacted with you. Meanwhile, you were staring at the ceiling blankly, wondering if you were even sure if you could get back home. That, and also thinking how it wouldn't be so bad to stay with these welcoming gentlemen.

To sum it all quickly, you didn't sleep much that night, and neither did Jisung.

If you thought you ever had a headache, the one you got when waking up was much worse than anything you'd had experienced. This was mildly due to the events of the previous day, but also to the screaming happening on the other side of the apartment. You felt safer leaving the door open to have easy access to help in case you needed any but this was not a good choice on your part. You had slightly forgotten men could be noisy as hell when it came to living with other men. And this, it was a confirmation you were not in a dream and still in a fictional character's home.

"Chan, give me the fucking eggs!" you heard Changbin shout angrily while the two others were uncontrollably laughing.

You yawned loudly before getting off the bed, rubbing your eyes in the process. Even if your body was telling you to get back into the soft bedsheets and sleep all day, your mind was screaming for you to not miss a moment to find a solution to your, slightly surreal, problem. Thus, you joined the three boys in the kitchen who were all still in their sleeping attires. By that, I mean Chan and Changbin were shirtless again while Jisung was wearing shorts with a tank top that was a bit too tight in your opinion. You unconsciously began to check them out in silence, standing like a poll.

Changbin finally noticed you and waved in a nonchalant way, visibly annoyed by his friends' antics. "Hey."

Jisung's head shot up from his breakfast to you and he didn't lose a second to join your side. "Hey, good morning. How did you sleep? Are you feeling better? Can I make you something to eat?"

His friends exchanging knowing looks didn't go unnoticed by you but you determined it would be better for the younger guy to be spared from such embarrassment and you ignored them. "I slept alright, although I do have a bit of a headache."

"I have Tylenols in the bathroom's cabinet. Do you want one or two?"

"I'll take two if you don't mind."

He hummed before sprinting to the said-bathroom, which left his friends struggling more to contain their cackles. You ignored them still and joined Changbin, whose body was quite distracting to say the least, and scanned the items displayed in front of him.

"What are you eating?"

The man left a frustrated sigh. "Toast and eggs if only Chan wasn't being a dick by hiding them from me."

"I told you I hid nothing, we just don't have eggs!"

"There were three left yesterday when I checked. How would they disappear out of nowhere?"

Jisung came back with two pills and a glass full of water, sheepishly smiling as he approached his friends. "Yeah, uh, I might have eaten them last night."

Both shut their eyes closed, clearly trying to not burst out at him. Meanwhile, you left out a small chuckle and joined him to get your pills.

"Thank you," you smiled at him and you saw his Adam's apple bop.

He returned the smile shyly to then focus back on the important matter of the day. "I didn't know you'd have an egg craving this morning."

Changbin shook his head. "It's not a craving, I need my proteins for my workout today," he huffed out as it this was the most obvious thing.

They continued to bicker for some time. It lasted long enough for Chan to remember you were still there and probably very hungry. He made two portions of his own breakfast, which was a bowl of cereals and fruits, and sat next to you while placing both dishes on the table. You gave him a thankful smile and the two of you savoured the food while Jisung was trying his very best to defend himself.

"You can just go buy some later," he said, rolling his eyes.

"I needed to eat them now, or it would fuck up my very precise diet."

You let out a grunt, and stood straight up. "Gosh, can you two shut up? I get that I'm bursting into your bubble by having slept here but I have a headache and memories to regain so can you please put your quarrel aside for now?"

To that, Chan pursed his lips and clapped quietly, obviously impressed. As for Jisung, he looked right into your eyes, unable to move. Day two and he was still fucking things up around you, great. He muttered an apology, not even loud enough to be heard, and embarrassingly walked back to his spot at the table to finish his breakfast.

"Sorry, Y/N. I guess I did overreact," Changbin admitted even though you could see it was hurting his pride.

The entire flat was silent for a few minutes with only the sounds from munching your food being heard. Eventually, Changbin went to get changed and headed out to what you presumed to be the gym. Chan was the next person to put his dishes in the dishwasher and lock himself in his room. That left a very quiet Jisung alone with you. He was hunching slightly and his eyes were focused on his phone, almost as to distract himself from your presence.

Feeling a bit offended, you called his name out. His doe-like eyes instantly found yours and you had to keep yourself from squealing at how cute he looked.

"Did you contact your friend for my phone?"

His eyes that were already big enough in your opinion got larger and his mouth opened agape. He most definitely had forgotten.

"I'll call him right now, I'm sorry."

He left the app he was scrolling through previously and dialed up a number before putting it on speaker. Nervous, he was nibbling on his lower lip while his legs were jumping up and down. Even with friends, having to call someone was a challenge for him.

"Han?" a deep voice answered the call.

"Hey, am I bothering?" Jisung asked, visibly uneasy.

"Never, what's up?"

"I got this... Uh, how do I say it? I met this girl yesterday-"

"Wait, a girl?" he cut him off with a gasp.

From the reaction of his friend, Jisung rolled his eyes before looking at you apologetically. He should have expected Felix to react this way by the mention of a girl. Jisung was too insecure and nervous to approach one, it was almost a miracle he even had the courage to even speak to you. Well, the context was much different. He was a man of principles and one of them was to always offer a helping hand to someone in need — you in this case.

"Where? How? What happened? Is she cute? Did you ask her out?"

For what seemed to be the hundredth time to him, he blushed and chuckled nervously. "She can hear you..."

There was a pause from the other side of the line for a brief moment. "Oh."

"Yeah, uh... So I was on a stroll around the neighbourhood and saw her having some kind of panic attack. She's calmed down since but she lost her memories. She has a phone but she can't remember her code so I was wondering if you could come by and unlock it for her, please."

"Sure, I'm with Hyunjin right now, though. Is it fine if he comes too?"

"Yeah, no problem. Thank you, I owe you one." He quickly hung up and smiled before looking at you. "Felix is an expert when it comes to technology, you'll see."

"I trust your judgement," you affirmed. "In the meantime, can I ask you a few questions?"

He was a mystery to you. Not only because he was from another universe, but also because of how he has been acting around you. If you had watched the entire movie before teleporting in it, you would've probably understood his being a lot better. However, his shy attitude and the way he acted when you were talking about his mother was something that bugged your brain cells.

"What kind of questions?"

You shrugged. "I know nothing about myself so I can't really tell you about me. But you have been so nice to me, it's only natural I'd like to know more about you."

"Good point," he let out a breathy laugh. "Alright, go ahead."

"Have you always been this introverted?"

With no hesitation, he shook his head no which wasn't the answer you expected. "I used to be outgoing but things got complicated at some point and I- let's say I rather keep to myself."

"But you've been pretty outgoing with me, no?"

He frowned, seemingly not agreeing with you. "Are you kidding? I'm surprised I'm not having a panic attack right now."

"You're doing good," you reassured with a chuckle.

"Thanks," he said with a nervous cough. "I'm trying."

An awkward silence settled between the two of you while you were still figuring out how to bring up the topic of his mother, especially his feelings towards it. The only thing that you could assume was the trauma it must have caused him based on what you saw on screen yourself.

A knock on his front door was all it took to bring your mind back on track, which caused Jisung to physically relax and run to answer whoever was coming. When the door opened, two men were greeted warmly by the young man. One was standing tall and gracious with his long dark locks falling in front of his eyes. He was pretty, you thought. The other was shorter but his voice was deep, so much you were doubting it was actually his voice. The freckles on his face stood out as much as his smile and his blonde hair was another aspect you took notice of. You learned him to be Felix and the moment his eyes fell onto your small figure, he stared at you with bright open eyes, almost as if he had seen a ghost.

"Oh my, Y/N! I swore Mina and I thought you vanished," he said in a worried voice as he sat where Jisung was previously. "Why didn't you answer our calls? Wait, let me guess, you put your phone on Do not disturb again?"

The taller man, who you were informed to be named Hyunjin from Jisung's greeting, rolled his eyes and sat next to him. The move was very smooth, you were doubting if this man was a model or an angel. Both answers would've made sense.

"Let the girl breathe, you're scaring her. Didn't Han say she has amnesia? Gosh, I'd think you're the one with no memories," he huffed, insinuating that Felix was stupid.

You were a bit startled by his rather rude behaviour but when you looked at Felix's reaction, it seemed to be a normal thing between them. As for Jisung, he stood still next to the door and confusion was sprawled all over his face.

"You know her?" he asked.

Felix lifted his eyes up, as if it was the most obvious thing. "She lives with Mina next to our place."

You nodded your head slowly although you were still totally clueless. "Right, Mina..."

"You really forgot? Damn, okay. Well, I know your passcode because you told me so this won't be a problem. I'm very curious, though. Do you know what happened to you?"

Telling them the truth was tempting but, again, who would even believe you? The thing itself was a mystery to you and felt surreal, you doubted they would take you seriously. Even more so if you mention the movie aspect of it.

"No idea," you shrugged which disappointed Felix.

"Alright, I'll help you regain your memories, then," he sighed and held out his hand in your direction. "Give me your phone."

You did as told and, immediately, Felix tapped the password with no problem before giving it back to you. As you browsed through the apps, you realized not much was different from what you had in your actual phone. If anything, this was the spitting image of it. Your first instinct was to go for the photos you had. As expected, many of them were of your bunny but another majority of them were of you with another girl.

"Mina?" you asked Felix, pointing at the girl's face to which he nodded as a confirmation.

"Your roommate and best friend. If I'm correct, you two have been friends for almost your entire life."

You continued to scroll through the pictures attentively. The other you had a much busier life. You seemed to be out in college parties often and other photos showed yourself in classes with many other friends. You were also quite disturbed to see that your parents were the same ones you had in your real life. Was the movie like this or did your unintentional arrival modify it?

One picture grabbed your attention more than others. It was you at a party again but what your focus was on was the boy behind you smiling happily with a bottle of beer in hands.

"Jisung?" you called for him to see and he proceeded to rush to your sides, hovering above your shoulder to see better.

Your breath cut short at the proximity as you could feel his own hit the side of your face. For a second, your mind went foggy and you turned your head around to look at him. His frown showed as much confusion as you had and you noticed his lips to be pinker than you thought.

"Is this me?" he said in a whisper, which reminded you to focus.

"So you knew who I am!" you exclaimed, almost offended he didn't tell you.

"I swear I don't recall seeing you ever," he tried to justify himself.

Felix stole the device from you and looked at the photo as well, Hyunjin leaning closer to do the same. While he couldn't figure out when this was taken as he was in the picture as well, Hyunjin seemed to have recognized the moment instantly.

"This was at Jeongin's."

"Who?" you and Jisung asked at the same time.

You looked at one another and a blush appeared on both of your faces. Hyunjin, however, didn't give a shit about your somewhat cute interaction and went on with explaining.

"Jeongin, a friend of mine. He hosted a party about a year ago with pretty much the whole cohort of freshmen."

"Oh," Felix exclaimed as the memory came back to him. "Yeah, there were people I never talked to again after that. Must have been the case for you two."

"But if I'm friends with you-" you began but were cut right away.

"We're neighbours, not friends. I don't hang out with you much, no offense."

"None taken."

Suddenly, you heard a small gasp coming from behind you. All eyes stopped on Jisung who was covering his mouth with his hand. You cocked your head to the side to incite him to speak but he shook his head and left to run to his room. You glanced at the two remaining men in search of an answer but they shrugged and continued to look through your pictures.

"Ah, look! Your most recent one dates from yesterday," Hyunjin noticed and gave you the phone back.

You scanned the screen and frowned. In the background, you could see a tuft of hair that was too similar to Jisung's for it to not be his. You were wearing the same outfit as the previous day and you were obviously only taking a cute selfie for yourself. This was without a doubt taken just before you appeared. Was this version of you an actual person? Where was she now if you were in her body at this very moment? What if she was in yours? How traumatic for her would that be if she learned she was nothing more than an extra in a Netflix film.

"I wonder where I was going," you decided to say for now, not wanting to look suspicious.

"If I had to guess, back home. You're on an internship in an accounting company this semester, thus the attire."

You were so grateful Felix knew about you enough to give you a better insight of your life. Nonetheless, this was helping you in no way to go back to your universe. You discarded the phone away from you and let your head fall on the table while mumbling a "thank you" to him.

"The school offers free therapy sessions for those in need," Hyunjin suggested, earning a bump of the elbow from his friend. "What? Sorry for trying to help."

"I can take you back to your place for now, Mina might be better than me to help you," Felix offered, ignoring Hyunjin.

"That would be great, yeah," you said gratefully, lifting your head up. "Can you take me now?" He nodded. "Good. You don't mind if I go thank Jisung first?"

"Go ahead."

The door of his room was closed which came as no surprise considering the way he left so abruptly. Still, you knocked softly and waited patiently for him to answer. It took a minute or so but he did open the door, just wide enough for you to see his face. Just when you thought you had seen him at his most embarrassed, here he was, avoiding your gaze.

"Felix is going to get me home."

He nodded quickly before muttering "That's good."

"I came to thank you again for letting me stay. Not many people are as kind as you have been to me."

He cleared his throat. "I told you, it's no problem."

"Still, thank you."

Since you were visibly making more and more uncomfortable, you didn't stay any longer and were quick to head out, not forgetting to at least wave bye to Chan.

You weren't living far from there, only a couple of streets away. On the walk to your dorm, you learned Felix and Hyunjin were living together and that they were both studying in contemporary arts at the same college you were attending. Both knew you to be the nice girl next door while Mina was much louder than you were. Needless to say, you were looking forward to meet this girl.

"You're at the end of the hallway and we're here," Hyunjin informed as he stopped in front of their place. "Let us know if you need anything."

"Thank you, guys, so much."

Felix sent you one of his warm smiles and the two of them disappeared into their home. You stared at the door in the end of the hallway slightly scared. You had no idea what to expect but, here you were. Having not much of a choice, you went ahead and unlocked the door with what Felix told you to be the key to your place before walking in.

The first thing you saw was a wide playpen with a bunny munching onto its food; Fifi. You wondered if she had the same name or not. Just besides it was a couch where a girl was lazily scrolling through her feed. Upon hearing someone coming in, her head turned to see who it was. From her face, you concluded she was relieved to see it was you. Immediately, she jumped off the couch and came to hug you tightly.

"Y/N, what the fuck! I was worried sick, where the hell were you?" she almost screamed into your ear.

Yeah, she was definitely a loud person.

"Hey..." you trailed off, unsure on what to respond.

She let go of the hug, still holding your shoulders, and gave you a skeptical look. She scanned you from up and down which made you self-conscious for a second. It was almost like she was leading her own investigation.

"Why are you so stiff?"

Upon hearing her remark, you tried to relax a little but according to her expression, this did not work. "Uh, you might want to sit down for this one."

Her eyes went wide and she grabbed you to go sit on the couch. "What? Did you meet someone and slept at their place? Did you get kidnapped?"

Gosh, she really was adamant about your whereabouts and getting answers from you. In a way, you couldn't blame her as she had been thinking for almost 24 hours that her best friend had vanished. It didn't mean this didn't overwhelm you nonetheless.

"Kind of?"

"Which one? The kidnapped part or sleeping at someone's place?"

"The second one."

She gasped in surprise. "You slept with one of your co-workers!"

You rolled her eyes at her assumption, growing tired of her already. "Mina, can you let me speak please?" She seemed to get startled by your intervention but she nodded and kept her mouth shut. "Thank you. Okay, so, where do I start? Uh, first of all, I actually don't know you."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you kidding? We've known each other our whole life."

"This is more complicated..."

Then, you proceeded to explain everything to her. Well, the whole amnesia story. She surprisingly sat still and listened throughout your entire monologue, expressing a couple of times her reactions with gasps and hums. When you were done, she was looking up in the air to think. You hoped what you said made enough sense so she wouldn't have any doubts.

"Han Jisung who lives with Chan, no?" she asked and you nodded. "As in Bang Chan?"

You shrugged. "I don't know his last name but I guess it was him."

"Damn, you were with these losers," she exploded in laughter.

If she really was your best friend in this world, you were beginning to question yourself on why you would hang around someone thinking this low of other people. To you, these guys couldn't be any kinder. Besides the fact their apartment was a bit trashy, you couldn't think of a single thing that would make someone call them with such names.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, honey," she started with an exhale. "They've been telling people they will become a successful group but they've been getting nothing more than a few gigs here and there. Not only that but I've heard Han can't even come up on stage."

Your heart dropped. Of course he would have stage fright, he was so insecure just by stepping foot outside of his home. Something else bugged you about her comments. She had a bittersweet tone coming with it, like she had an history with these guys.

"It doesn't make them losers..."

She scoffed. "Wow, amnesia did something to you. If you still had your memories, you would agree with me."

"I just don't understand why you'd say they're losers if they're struggling with their career. Challenges happen to everyone."

"I know but- You know what? I'll tell you after you regain your memories. For now, I'll help you get back into the real world."

If only she meant this as actually going back... If she were to have this attitude while helping you go through this, you were debating to go back to Jisung's place and let them help you instead.

However, after this uncomfortable altercation, she was being nothing but the sweetest. She went through every aspect of your life slowly, from your birth until now, and made sure you were following along. Everything you had to remember about your present self wasn't so complicated; you were an accounting student following an internship and you were a second year college student. You liked your bunny a lot (who you discovered to be named Fifi as well), your best friend was Mina and Seungmin was your favourite co-worker at your internship. As for your personality, you were pretty much the same with the exception of loving to go out and socialize.

Great. You were going to love being here.

A week or so had passed since your arrival and you were starting to panic. There was not a day where you wouldn't get homesick and miss your old life, nor there would be a moment you thought of the potential other you having to live elsewhere. This was still a mystery to you. In the little time you had to do some research about travelling through different dimensions, the only thing you would find were fictional stories or theories from crazy people that were in no way consistent with what you were experiencing.

Besides that, accounting would never be a field of career you would personally choose which made all the lot more difficult. You were lucky to have Seungmin, a bright guy who volunteered to help you adapt upon learning about your issue.

"You're getting better," he commented after reviewing your report.

"Hopefully I'll be as good as I was in no time," you sighed before letting yourself drop on your chair. "Why did I even choose accounting?"

"You'd do it with such ease, it was an obvious choice."

"Yeah, well post-amnesia me hates it."

"And post-amnesia you is done with her shift for today."

You checked the time and realized he was right. You were glad today was ending in the early afternoon, it meant you would have time to stop by at the school's library to go on with your research. Without losing another minute, you sorted your documents on the small desk that you were assigned at and grabbed your belongings.

"See you tomorrow?"

Seungmin shook his head and chuckled. "Tomorrow is Saturday."

You formed an "o" with your mouth, blushing from embarrassment. You were quick to say bye to him and walk out of the building. Luckily, the campus wasn't too far from there. Nonetheless, you had to use the GPS as you weren't used to the neighbourhood yet. You were hoping you would never get used to it, anyway.

Having to wear heels at the company, you got the habit of bringing a pair of sneakers to change into once the day was over. This way, you could walk like a normal person instead of stumbling onto your own feet.

Once you reached the school's library, you were a bit intimidated by the size of it. There were so many rows just filled with bricks of books, each one of them different than the other. How on Earth would you find what you were looking for?

"May I help you?"

Your gaze moved to the front desk where the person calling for you spoke and you jumped at the sight. While the gentleman at the computer was smiling politely at you, a quiet Jisung was seemingly sorting books behind him, doing everything he could to avoid your eyes.

"Hi, do you have some sort of search browser for the books available here?" you asked the young man.

"There's a browser available on every public computer, although I have one with me just here. I can type in the book you're looking for right now."

"Oh, that's very nice but I'm actually not looking for one book in particular."

The man held his hand up to stop you. "Let me guess, magazine issues for a research project because the teacher asked for a paper reference?"

"Uh, no."

Your answer confused him furthermore, causing him to drop his shoulders in exasperation. "You read for fun?"

"Minho," Jisung interrupted the conversation. "You could help her instead of judging."

You were pleased to know he had enough self-esteem in him to speak his mind. The two of you hadn't seen or spoken to each other since you went back home-ish and you had been wondering what he was up to. Him working at the college's library had definitely not been what you thought he'd do to make money. Still, this was only a student job so it made sense. But a library? You didn't see a single actual book in his room.

"Right," Minho cleared his throat. "I apologize, what can I look up for you?"

"I'd rather look it up by myself if you don't mind," you said, a bit embarrassed.

"No problem, the computers are behind the philosophy essays section."

You nodded your head but didn't move the slightest. While this was supposed to be a place every student would go to get their work done, you didn't know your way here. Heck, it was a miracle you even made it to the library considering you visited the campus once in the week you'd been here.

"Go straight ahead and turn left when you see the couches."

You smiled at Jisung as a thank you, although he didn't return it, and followed his directions. Soon enough, you sat down at one of the stations and turned the PC on. The screen flashed the school's logo beautifully before it changed to the log in page.

Of course, you had to get into your student account to have access to this stupid computer. If you had an account, you certainly didn't have a clue about what your infos were. You went into your phone's notes to check if the other you had noted it down at some point. When you stumbled upon a note named Passwords, you thought you held the solution to your problem. However, the note itself was private and needed another code to get in. Even by trying your phone's passcode, it stayed locked.

Decisively, the world was against you for this one. Having no other option, you opted to look for what you were searching for on your own without any catalog. If it had to take until midnight, you'd stay until midnight.

You searched one row, and this one only took forty minutes to get through. This was discouraging but you wouldn't give up just yet. And so, another row was done after another forty minutes. There wasn't a book remotely close to what you needed, it was frustrating. And so, another row, another forty minutes.

"Need something?"

You really had to stop jumping every time something took you by surprise. Your focus was lost when Jisung, who was leaning on the bookshelf, was staring at you with a concerned look.

What you weren't aware of was that he had been watching you since you stepped foot in the library. He couldn't keep his mind off you since you left and seeing you so suddenly made him quite nervous. Seeing that you were as much of a mess as he was when you were looking around for a few hours now, it was good enough to give him courage to make the first move and come up to you.

"Actually, yes. I'd look through the catalog but I don't have a student account."

"Or rather you forgot it," he corrected and you nodded. "What do you need? It's my second year working here, I know the place like the back of my hand."

"No, I really rather look into it on my own."

He sighed but didn't insist any further. "Alright, I'll log you into my account."

You let out a breathy groan, throwing your head back in relief. "You have no idea how you're saving my life right now."

And you meant every word in their literal sense, unbeknownst to him. He led you back to the computers and chose one where he logged into in no time. You wanted to cry out of joy when you saw the welcoming page pop up with the school's tools already opened for the students.

"Thank you so much, I really owe you now."

He scratched the back of his head in uneasiness. "It's nothing."

You shook your head vigorously, refusing his answer. "You're too kind for this world and I want you to know it."

A blush crept on his cheeks and he allowed himself to smile a little. "Alright, then you're welcome."

With a satisfied grin, you sat down and opened the library's browser immediately. You looked into the categories first to see if you could make a more subtle research before jumping right into the actual topic. The section Legends and Myths caught your attention and you clicked on it. A vast selection of books, magazines and essays were offered to you which almost made you want to give up on the spot. But still, nothing online was helping you so this was your last hope.

You spent a lot of time, too much time, scrolling through the catalog. So much, you hadn't realized how dark it was outside until you looked around. There was nobody left, only you. When you checked the time, it was merely 8:00 P.M. which meant you still had about three to four hours to continue. However, the growl coming from your stomach was telling to take a break and get a snack. Were you too stubborn to quit and kept on searching anyway? Yes, you were.

The sound of wheels coming your way, on the other hand, could not let you focus properly. It was weird as you thought everyone had left. That was until you saw Minho and Jisung conversing while the latter was pushing a cart labelled with a paper reading Returned Books. Minho, who wearing his school bag, waved at his colleague before heading out, seemingly having finished his shift for the day.

"Jisung?" you called out once the man was alone.

He was startled to see you still at the same spot as earlier but he came your way, leaving the cart behind him. "What's up?"

"Is there a section about scientific research or something like that?"

"What kind of scientific research?" he perked an eyebrow at you. "Aren't you in accounting?"

"Uh..." you trailed off. This was too suspicious to your liking, you had to do without his help. "Actually, forget it. I wouldn't want to bother you while you still have stuff to do," you justified while gesturing the cart from afar.

Jisung wasn't having any of your bullshit. Sure, you were sweet and all but because you had been there for almost the entirety of his shift, he was growing skeptical of you. Your sudden amnesia was one thing but it had been a week, surely you wouldn't be in a library for hours not getting any actual schoolwork done if you didn't have something to hide. As observant as he was, he noticed all of your quirks. All of them were so similar to his own, meaning you were nervous. He didn't want to accuse you of anything, he genuinely wanted to help. Nonetheless, your behaviour caused him to doubt.

Or maybe was it just an excuse he was making up to get closer to you...

"The cart can wait," he argued.

And maybe having one person knowing about your situation might actually come handy. And if you had to pick someone to be aware of it, it would be Jisung. You weren't close enough with Seungmin and Mina seemed to have a tendency of gossiping and talking too much. Jisung was ideal. Plus, the man was the protagonist of the movie, a movie you weren't close to have finished watching. Having the opportunity to get a full insight into his personality wasn't an opportunity you'd pass on.

"Uh, okay," you started, preparing yourself mentally. "I- Can you promise me to not tell a word about this to anyone?"

His expression changed instantly, coming from a frown to a surprise. "What are you about to confess? A crime or something?"

"No, but it's still a pretty big thing and- Just promise me you won't tell a soul about it and that you won't judge me. And that you'll believe me."

His frown came back but he didn't seem as taken aback. "Uh, sure, yeah. I'll keep it to myself."

"Thanks... Okay, uh, where do I begin?"

"Hey," he said while putting a hand on your shoulder, a move that surprised the both of you. "I promise I won't say a thing, you can trust me."

This seemed to do the trick and you calmed down. "I don't have amnesia, I am perfectly fine in terms of memory. I just- I'm not from here."

"What do you mean?"

You were so fucking thankful he didn't accuse you of lying right away. "Do you know the theory about the universe having multiple copies of itself? Hence, many versions of a person?"

"I've seen it in movies."

"Yeah, except this is pretty fucking real for me right now and I somehow managed to come into a parallel universe in my other self's body."

You decided to spare him from telling him he's a movie's character. This was already a lot of information to process for him, telling him he wasn't real would be crushing him.

For a moment, he didn't respond. The frown never left his face. If anything, it got more defined. The longer he wasn't answering, the more you were getting nervous. Did you fuck it up by telling him (half) the truth?

"I saw one book about it, but I'm not sure if it applies to your situation."

Good, he didn't call you crazy. "Can you show it to me, please?"

He immediately led you to a section that was the furthest away from the entrance. It was a bit sketchy as it visibly wasn't frequented a lot. His eyes scanned a specific shelf while his fingers ran through the books. Eventually, he picked one out that had a hard cover with nothing on it other than the title: The Multiverse and its travelers.

"Here, hopefully it'll do."

You took it from him and read the back of it to figure out if it was fit for you or not. When you saw the phrase "seizures and blackouts tend to occur before the shift itself", you determined it would do the job. This was the closest you had gotten to knowing what happened, you had to read this.

"It's perfect, thank you."

"Great, I can enter it under your student account now," he smiled as he was about to go back to the front desk.

You shook your head immediately, grabbing his forearm to stop him. "I can't rent this. What if the other Y/N or other people see this? They'll have questions."

He sighed but he got your point. "I can put it under my name if it'll make you more comfortable."

"Please."

It didn't take him long to enter everything in the system before he gave the book back to you. You were so grateful he didn't react as bad as you expected. Not just that, he was even willing to give you a hand.

"Now that this is done, can you explain what happened to you to have travelled universes?"

Okay, maybe he wasn't totally chill with your situation, which was totally understandable. Before you could speak, your stomach made, yet, another grumble to tell you that you must eat.

"We can do this over a snack," he suggested.

"Aren't you working right now?"

He shrugged, unfazed. "Nobody's here and I can empty the returned books tomorrow."

In no time at all, he put the cart back behind the desk, clocked out of his shift, locked the doors, and walked you to the nearest convenience store. He insisted on paying for your drink and ramen, saying you must be exhausted from the day. Although you wanted to tell him otherwise, he wasn't wrong.

And that's how you were now sitting on the benches of the school's empty football field with only a couple of lights for you to see around.

"Alright, go ahead with the questions," you breathed out before taking a bite of your noodles.

He let out a chuckle as he watched you slurp. "Which one do I even ask first?"

"Whatever comes to your mind."

"Okay, uh... Where are you from?"

You hummed. "I actually don't know what to call it. Earth, obviously, but it's just another version of this one."

"Is it different here?"

"Not really, it's the same year and all but my other self is living a completely different type of life."

"How come?"

"I don't party that much, nor do I like anything having to do with accounting."

He let out a laugh. "I'd say I'm the same."

"Yeah, staying at home is ten times better."

"I agree," he acquiesced before taking a bite of his own meal. "What happened before you got here?"

You shrugged. "I tripped, thought I hit my head, and here I am."

"That's odd."

"Tell me about it," you said in a scoff. "How was I when you met me, anyway?"

"Do you mean you as in you or your other self?"

You frowned. "I thought you didn't know my other self."

He sighed. "I do know her, I just forgot about her. At the party, we actually hooked up but when she learned Mina had a feud with Chan, she told me to forget this even happened."

This explained many things, especially why Mina had such a dislike to the three men. You also began to wonder how did Jisung get in bed with the other you. Before your mind could go much further with that, you stopped yourself and let out a nervous laugh.

"Well, it worked," you chuckled awkwardly. "But yeah, how was I last week in front of that playground?"

He bit in lips while thinking, one of his habits you thought to be adorable. "From afar, you were walking around normally but then, you just kind of froze and began to have a panic attack or something."

"And you were kind enough to come to my rescue," you saw with a dreamy sigh, making him roll his eyes.

"Make fun of me all you want, you're happy I'm the one who rescued you."

"I am," you affirmed.

The blush on his face didn't go unnoticed by you, which also made your face red. Gosh, he really had to be this stinking cute? You had to muster all of your energy to not pinch his plump cheeks.

"Your name is really Y/N, right?" he asked just to be sure.

"That part is true."

"Okay, good."

Unlike other times, the silence that slowly settled between you two was rather comforting. Maybe it was because you had been mostly honest with him, or maybe because he was managing to get more comfortable around you. Either or both ways, you were content with how sereine it was.

"This is fucked up," he commented.

"I know."

As a new silence took over, Jisung's eyebrows furrowed as he stared into his ramen cup, deep in thoughts. While he was having what was probably a mental debate, you gave yourself permission to stare closely at his physical traits. He was hard to read and complex, which was mainly what made him so fascinating to you in the first place. His character was developed as someone so real and sincere, you were almost disappointed he wasn't actually real. His bead-like soft eyes, his perfect glowing skin, his hair that-

"My mom died," he informed you out of the blue.

Your heartbeat quickened all of the sudden. While you processed what he just said, the image of her death came back to you. "I'm sorry," was all you found the energy to say.

"That playground we were at last week was where she was hit by a car. I was so young, it was painful."

Sadness rushed through your body as you were now getting a full image of his emotions. You never expected him to be transparent with you about it, even less since you didn't know each other so well.

"Why are you telling me this? This seems to be pretty personal."

He smiled sadly. "I think she's the reason why I wanted to help you then. I felt her around me, telling me to save someone else for her."

"That's very sweet," you commented in a soft voice.

"It is," he laughed out. "I miss her a lot."

"I would too if I was you."

Slowly, the night came as you began to hear crickets around you. Deciding this was enough for tonight, the two of you left the school grounds. Jisung was generous once more when he offered to walk you home. He would lie if he said his heart didn't pinch when you refused. Nonetheless, you parted ways and began to walk in opposite directions on the dark streets. You were getting further away from each other when you decided to turn on your heels and run back to him. As he heard you come back, he turned around, watching you until you got face to face with him.

"Can I have your number? Since you're the only person who knows about my struggle," you explained, even if you used it as an excuse to keep contact with him.

"Yeah, sure. We can meet a few times to search for a way back together," he suggested which made you grin.

You might not have found a way home that day, but you found a friend.

Mina was still staring at you with disgust while you were getting ready to go to Jisung's place. Apparently, Changbin and Chan were going to a party that night which left the apartment to himself. This was merely three days after your interaction at the library and you were still somehow stressed out about meeting up with him. The fact Mina was throwing a few comments at you about him didn't help.

"I'm simply trying to understand what you find interesting in him," she groaned.

"He's done a lot for me since the incident, I owe him."

She sighed in despair. "Alright but if he breaks your heart like Chan did to me, don't be surprised!"

You also took the weekend as an opportunity to get to know your roommate and her relationship she had with Chan. It had taken a toll on her emotionally, so much that she had no intention in being polite with whatever — or whoever — that was in relation with him.

"Don't become besties with him or I'll seriously consider cutting you out of my life," she added.

You deadpanned at her. "You wouldn't actually."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not but I wouldn't be happy with it."

With that being said, you left the apartment and made your way to Jisung's place with your bag hanging on your shoulder, full since it contained your belongings plus his clothes you had forgotten to give him back. You were starting to know your way around which you didn't consider as a good sign. This meant you were getting used to this place and it just couldn't be like this.

The moment you knocked on Jisung's front door, it slung open for him to welcome you with a smile. He had seemingly cleaned a little around but it was still messy, as expected.

"So, I looked up some stuff online and I'm surprised you didn't see what was on there. It looks like many people believe to have experienced it," he said before turning his laptop's screen to your direction.

"I did see those and it just sounds like people dreaming of another universe before "travelling". For me, I just tripped."

His shoulders dropped. "I see."

"I appreciate the effort, though," you reassured, feeling a bit bad.

He invited you to get to his room where he could make some more research on his PC while you'd have the bed to read the book comfortably. Before going there, he didn't forget to make some hot beverages for the two of you as you were expecting for this to last a long while.

His bed was as comfortable as you remembered, you had almost missed it. Not that your own bed in this world wasn't nice, it just felt a bit too firm. Jisung's, however, was soft and warm. As you began your reading session, the only thing you could hear was Jisung typing on his keyboard and clicking with his mouse. It wasn't annoying in itself, but it was too distracting for you to focus.

When you realized you had been reading the same sentence for the fifth time, you decided to do something about it. Getting up, you tapped on his shoulder which made him take his headphones off.

"Did you find something?" he immediately questioned but you shook your head.

"Your typing is kind of distracting on its own. Do you have music you can play in the background?"

He blinked a few times before nodding. "I was listening to my own stuff, actually."

Oh, right. Jisung was described as a struggling musician in the synopsis, you had almost forgotten about that. This suddenly made him all the more interesting than the search and he definitely saw it in your eyes. Hesitantly, he disconnected his headset and plugged his speakers in before opening his files. There were so many audiotapes, you were stunned. To think all of this were his creations.

"I don't think I've told you but the guys and I are music majors."

"You didn't tell me but I heard about it, yeah."

"Well, we've been experiencing with sounds and beats to find what fits us. This is all of it, pretty much. We're trying to make an actual career out of it but none of the calls we've made have come back," he said as he let out a heavy breath, one of disappointment. "I'm actually starting to consider giving up on that."

You scoffed. "Nonsense, you're great!"

"How do you know? You've never heard anything by me."

Not exactly. The clips of him in his room struggling to make music in the film had a few samples of his songs playing and you did remember them to be very good. Of course, he would never know this, so you had to lie.

"I haven't but I'm confident you're very talented."

He chuckled, embarrassed. "Now I'm just nervous to show you if you have such high expectations."

"Don't be."

He scrolled through his files for a bit in search of the perfect song to show you first. There were many that were done with the other guys. Still, he felt like he wanted to show something that was 100% him. Something raw that you could relate to. The cursor stopped for an instant on his track Alien. Considering the context, this must have been the fittest one for you. So he clicked on it, letting it play through the speakers.

And just as he thought, this could not have been a better choice. From the first note, you were entirely immersed into the melody, bopping your head along with it. And when he began to sing, damn you were melting. Not only were his lyrics so personal and true, his voice had a melodic effect that made you want to squeal. Seriously, why was he struggling with his career if this was what he was putting out?

When the song ended, the only thing you could do was let out an emotional sigh. "You, guys, have so much talent."

He scratched the side of his arm sheepishly before shaking his head. "That was just me," he corrected.

"All of it?" you asked with admiration.

"All of it, from the sound to the singing and the lyrics."

He wasn't one to brag usually, but if it impressed you and interested you, there was nothing wrong with showing off a little. This information had visibly made you more fascinated by his work and you didn't hesitate to steal his mouse and put the cursor over another track.

You did this for a while, playing one song after the other. You were as amazed as you were by the first one every single time. This eventually made Jisung so shy about his work, he had to force you to stop even if you argued you wanted to listen to more. Forcefully, he kept you away from his computer and put a random playlist on for what you had originally requested, which was ambiance music.

You crossed your arms and pouted. "Is it so bad to want to listen to raw talent?"

"When the artist is right in front of you, yes. Now, get back to work."

You snorted at him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Nevertheless, you still opened the book and continued to read. The first couple of pages weren't telling anything new. It mostly consisted of summing up what was already known of travelling through the multiverse, meaning not much. Although the research this author made was impressive, this had in no way the exact thing you were looking for. And as your reading kept on going, the more discouraged you were growing. There was a point you thought of abandoning the book. However, there were still too many pages left to risk missing something out.

"Got anything?" Jisung finally spoke after about an hour of research.

"Nothing, what about you?"

"Apart from a few people on Reddit talking about their shifting experience in their sleep, nothing."

You scoffed. "Yeah, not relevant to my case."

You closed the book and let out a loud yawn, catching Jisung's attention. "Tired?"

"A little," you shrugged. "Are you?"

"No, but this is getting tiring if I'm being honest," he chuckled and you smiled as to affirm you agreed. "How about we take a break and order some food?"

"No need to ask me twice."

In the time of a heartbeat, he jumped off his chair and ran out of his room, leaving you chuckling at his demeanor. Jisung was cute, you couldn't argue with that. Even more so because he seemed to like food so much, something you could relate to yourself. Before he would come back, you decided to look around some more, although you had analyzed the place quite a lot on your first day here. His room was cleaner, probably because he knew in advance that you'd be coming. For once, his closet was wide open which gave you a good opportunity to check what he wore on the daily basis. While you had only seen him in casual clothing, what you could see through his clothes were great fashion items. A shelf was filled with different kinds of hats and a whole section was dedicated to jackets of all sorts.

"It's always the fictional characters," you muttered to yourself, thinking about how none of the men from your world had this much taste in their choice of wearing.

"Alright," a loud voice said while coming in the room, almost startling you.

Jisung, unlike what you thought he'd do, sat next to you with a few flyers in hands from restaurants around the neighbourhood. Ramen, sushi, BBQ, fried chicken; there were too many, you felt a bit overwhelmed at the options.

"What do you want?" you insisted on him choosing.

"We could go for ramen," he shrugged before composing the number to make his order. "What would you like?"

"Anything, I'm not picky."

He gave you a nod before focusing back on the call as it seemed that someone answered. "Is this Felix?"

Felix? Why the hell was he calling him all of the sudden?

"Hey, man, can I have two of my usual?" Jisung continued to speak. "In thirty? Okay, good... Yeah... I'll tell him... Bye," he ended the call.

"You called Felix?" you asked.

He frowned. "Yeah, obviously, he–" he was about to say until he realized you actually didn't know. "My bad," he coughed out, embarrassed. "He works at the best ramen place near campus so let's say I get a few free stuff when it's his shift."

"Oh, okay," you said with a nod.

An awkward silence settled as you noticed him starting to fiddled with the hem of his shirt, looking at anywhere but you. Although you always found him adorable when he got shy, you weren't going to let this be too uncomfortable for him. He was already helping you a lot, this was the least you could do.

"Do you want to watch something?"

He stopped his fiddling and looked up at you. "Do you think you have the same films and shows where you're from?"

You frowned. "Good question. Show me what you have and I'll tell you if it's the case."

He went to take his laptop and turn it on before sitting back next to you. He shyly gestured for you to get comfortable and lay with your back against the wall. You complied and, soon, he positioned himself next to you. You could see he was a bit nervous but he didn't let it show through too much. He was quick to open his Netflix account, which you thought was nice that the platform was here as well, and he scrolled through the few movies and series that were appearing. From the looks of it and based on his recommendations, he was watching a lot of anime movies and series.

"Yeah, it's very similar to what I have back home," you affirmed. "It's odd, how the hell is it the same?"

Jisung frowned as he also realized how bizarre it was. "Maybe you are in the same world as me?"

You shook your head. "How would you explain this other me having an entire different life than me while having the same name and the same bunny I have? Heck, she has the same parents."

Maybe you really did modify the movie by coming here. For the whole part of you having your own life, at least. As for the content of cinematography, it was logical that a movie would put the same cultural references to make more realistic to the audience. How were you going to explain this to Jisung, though?

"I don't think I have the brain to think about this too much, it's kind of freaking me out," he gulped. "I'm actually just starting to realize how fucked up your thing is..."

Your eyes went wide. "No, please, don't think I'm crazy..." you pleaded.

"I don't know, Y/N, this whole thing is weird as fuck."

"I swear I'm not making this up, I find it as bizarre as you do."

He shook his head. "No, I believe you. It's just, how the fuck?" he trailed off.

You only responded with a faint smile as to show him you weren't understanding this any more than he was. Thankfully, the moment wasn't long and you moved on by suggesting on watching a Ghibli movie. You loved them, he seemed to enjoy them, this was a perfect choice.

As the film was starting, the bell rang and Jisung paused it to go greet the delivery person, which you assumed to be Felix. You were confirmed to be right when the man himself walked in the room behind Jisung with two plastic bags. It took him a moment to take in your presence in his friend's bedroom.

"Damn, I knew this was going to happen after–"

He was interrupted mid-sentence when Jisung put his hand over his mouth. "Yes, this is a great reunion but we're just taking the food and you can be on your way."

"But–" Felix started when he managed to push the hand away, only to get cut off again.

"Felix," he gave him a look. "How much was it?"

Finally understanding he wouldn't get answers tonight, the two proceeded to payment while you watched them, still waiting patiently with the movie on pause. You chuckled upon seeing Jisung's slightly pink cheeks as he crawled back to your side with the food in hands.

"You two, lovebirds, enjoy your date," Felix said in a teasing voice before winking at Jisung.

As the boy left the flat, Jisung couldn't contain his embarrassment any more than this. "I swear to God I will kick his ass next time I see him," you hear him mumble under his breath.

You shrugged. "He has a point, it does look like a date night for a couple."

He cleared his throat. "I suppose it does a little... Anyway, this is what I got. I hope you like sea food."

"Not a favourite," you admitted which caused his shoulders to drop a bit. "I like it, though."

This seemed to cheer him back up and he happily took the bowls out of the bag. Next to his bed was a tray he kept close for occasions like these. Well, not the having-a-girl-over part but rather the watching-films-in-bed part.

"Fancy," you commented once he had everything settled and ready in front of you.

"Only the best for your stay here, miss," he joked and then proceeded to click on play.

You would've lied if you said the ramen wasn't good because this might have been the best meal you've had in years. It felt so perfect being in the comfort of a bed with hot soup while watching one of your favourite movies. Not only that, but there was this cute ass man next to you loving it as much as you were. This was quite a turn of events.

Jisung was a gentleman for taking your dishes out of the room after you were done enjoying the food. This meant that, for the remainder of the film, there was only a slight gap separating the two of you. Your focus no longer on eating, the only thing you could think of was the realization of Jisung's presence.

Needless to say, he was no better than you were. His eyes were still stuck on the screen but he could feel his head move instinctively towards your direction. It was much stronger than his free will, he was gravitating to you. As much as it scared the shit out of him, he was surprised to be loving it so much. You were easy to be around of, he didn't need to waste his social battery on you.

"Are you cold?" he asked as the characters on screen kept quiet for this scene.

You shivered a little, not having understood you were, in fact, cold. "A little."

"I- Do you... want to use the blanket?" he asked with uncertainty as he stared at the bedsheets beneath the both of you.

With a shy nod as a response, he invited you off the mattress so he could actually pull the covers down to allow you to make yourself comfortable. As you sat back down under the blankets, you stared at him in confusion upon noticing he sat still in a very stiff position on the covers of his side.

"This is ridiculous, come under here," you snorted at him but he didn't budge.

"That would be weird, wouldn't it?" he said in a small voice, making him too cute for your own sake.

"It is if you're making it weird. Don't question it, come on."

While your boldness took him aback for a second, he obliged the second after and, carefully, positioned himself in a much more comfortable way. Still, he was trying to draw himself away as far away from your body as possible. Of course, you understood the thought process of his actions but he was so far to the point he had to lean towards you to see the screen better. Even if you were thankful he was being respectful, this was simply ridiculous.

"Jisung," you sighed.

"What?"

Seeing that he wasn't moving a tiny bit, you took it upon yourself and scooted closer to his body, bringing the laptop with you before laying it on both of your legs. His body stiffed at the proximity and you thought of noticing him gulp.

"Is this okay?"

He looked back at you and nodded, his breath now cutting short from how close your faces were. If he had it in him, he would have kissed you right there and then. But sadly, this was not what happened and Jisung concentrated back to the movie.

A routine was set quite rapidly after that night. Every once in a while, Jisung would call you up so you could make some progress in your research — which I can affirm was not advancing as fast as you wanted it to — and also just hang out. Whether you wanted this to happen or not, you were close to him and he became someone dear to you. Two months and a half after your arrival and you were closer to him than anyone else even, you dared to think, anyone back home.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you snorted at Mina as soon as she stepped foot in the office you and Seungmin were working in.

"Tonight is party time, baby," she cheered. "Soohee is hosting the event of the year."

You exchanged glances with Seungmin before looking back at her. "What does that even mean?"

She deadpanned at you. "Soohee, that senior in theater class."

"The girl you told me we should both hate because she got the spot you wanted in that play?"

"So you do listen!"

You rolled your eyes, resulting to Seungmin laughing. You ignored his antics. "What are you implying here, Mina?"

"You're coming."

"I'm not."

"Please!" she pleaded with a pout. "Seungmin can come as well if that can convince you."

He raised his hand in disapproval. "First of all, I am invited already. Second of all, do I have a say in this?"

"No," Mina replied with a cheeky smile. "Come, Y/N, please. I haven't been out with my favourite girl since her incident and I miss getting drunk with her."

"Yeah, you do owe her that," Seungmin agreed to which you answered with a glare.

"No one asked for your opinion."

"But it is greatly appreciated," she said with a wink.

Looking back and forth at the both of them, you let out a huge groan, dropping your arms on your sides. "Fine, you win. I guess it will help with getting my mind off work and all."

She squealed before rushing to you to engulf your body in a tight hug. It was obvious you were going to regret it but did you really have a choice at this point?

"I'm done in an hour, I can continue working on your file if you want to leave in advance to get ready," Seungmin offered much to your dismay.

Mina's eyes glowed at his suggestion. "You're an angel, thank you so much."

"Nonsense!" you exclaimed. "I'll finish up with you, you can't be doing all of this on your own."

Mina tugged your arm to get you up from your seat. "Y/N," she whined.

Seungmin chuckled at the interaction. "Go, I'll be fine," he assured.

"Okay," you said reluctantly with a grateful smile.

You and Mina then rushed out of the building back to your apartment. The time was only 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and the party wasn't going to start in another two hours or so. But Mina was insistant on getting you ready and gossiping. Yes, gossiping.

As she had just sat you down on a chair in front of the mirror in the bathroom, about to curl your hair, she was giving you a look you were not liking. "So?" she said while wiggling one of her eyebrows.

"What?" you responded cluelessly while sipping onto your bubble tea.

She gave you another knowing look. "Oh, please, don't act like you don't know what I am referring to."

"Jisung?"

"Obviously."

You sighed. "He's helping me with some work, nothing more."

"You could have asked me," she shrugged, insinuating how actually hurt she was for not being as close to you as she used to. "I'm great with school work."

"I know but Jisung is... He just knows some stuff."

She scoffed. "Sure, he does. Just admit you asked for his help because you like the boy."

You got flustered very easily, bending your head onwards a little. Mina immediately replaced your head so she could continue to style your hair, inevitably exchanging looks with her through the mirror.

"Y/N," she insisted once more.

"It's not like that."

"If you say so," she said although it was clear she wasn't believing you. "I'm just trying to warn you. These guys are no good news."

"You say this because of Chan."

"I'm not," she argued.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not, her feelings were only getting the best of her. In a way, you were glad she was trying her best to protect you. At the same time, you'd seen no sign as to why you should be wary of Jisung. So far, he was someone sincere and honest, someone you really could rely on. It was hard for you to even think of the possibility of him hurting you.

"What if I like him?" you questioned.

She pondered for a second, visibly troubled by your question, but she answered. "Then I'll be very sad for you."

The remainder of time before the party was a bit awkward. You silently agreed to not speak on the matter anymore, so it was mostly small talk about what kind of products she was using to make your skin glow. It was hard to deny, she had the trick in terms of getting ready for events.

After bickering for a while about what you were to wear, you settled on a casual shirt with jeans while she chose a skirt for herself. You weren't planning on staying there for that long, anyway.

"Bye, my love," you cooed at your rabbit, earning a heavy sigh from your friend. "Hey! Let me love my bunny!"

"Alright, alright," she rolled her eyes. "Come on, now. We don't want to be late."

Soohee was the kind of girl who'd get anything from her parents as long as she kept her grades up. She was an excellent student, meaning she had literally everything she'd ask for. One of them was to have her own house near campus. Yes, her parents were that rich.

So no need to say how stunned you were when you arrived in front of the literal mansion. The music playing inside could already be heard from where you were and you spotted many students walking in and out of the place. This was worth to be in a movie. Funny enough, it was a movie. You began to wonder if this party would occur in the actual film. Probably not, since Jisung wasn't the type of person to go out.

"You're looking gorgeous, ladies," you heard coming from your right.

You smiled at Seungmin before enveloping him into a hug. "You don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Kim," you complimented.

"So," he let out after breaking away from your embrace. "This is what the big deal is about."

"Fancy, isn't it?" Mina said excitedly. "Let's go inside, I need a good drink."

Before you could say something, she was already heading towards the entrance. You and Seungmin couldn't do anything else but follow her. While you didn't feel at ease so much, you were happy to see a familiar face as soon as you walked in.

"Hyunjin?" you called him out.

The man had his arm wrapped around Soohee's shoulder when he spotted you. "Hey! Y/N, right?"

"That's me," you chuckled.

Soohee looked back and forth at the two of you. "You two know each other?"

Hyunjin shrugged. "A friend of a friend of a friend... We met each other a couple of times, nothing more," he explained, seemingly trying to reassure his partner. "Y/N, this is my girlfriend Soohee."

"I know, you're kind of a big name around here," you said to the girl.

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "Nice to meet you! Any friend of Hyunjin is welcomed here."

Mina nudged your arm, a sign she wasn't too fond of your newfound friend. Nonetheless, she greeted the girl happily as if they had been friends for years. She was a lot better than you in faking kindness.

"I'm glad to see you made it," Soohee said with a smile.

"I could not miss it for the world," Mina said through her teeth.

The couple left to greet more people coming in, leaving your trio together. Mina, who hadn't enjoyed this interaction, hurried herself to go get something to drink — you and Seungmin following her again. The counter had tons of sorts of drinks. Some had questionable colours but most looked tasty as hell. Assuming Mina knew what to take, you picked a cup of the same drink as hers. Seungmin went ahead with getting himself a beer from the cooler near the counter.

"That girl is so annoyingly nice, I hate it," Mina spat out in-between sips.

"Now, don't be so harsh on the girl. We're in her house after all," Seungmin tried to resonate her.

She shrugged. "Sure. Y/N, I'm going to the other room if you want to come with me."

"What other room?" you asked, confused.

"The room at the back is the biggest of the house where interesting stuff happen."

You looked at Seungmin for advice but he shrugged, letting you choose for the three of you. You ended up following her lead since she was the expert in social events like these. She was right, the room was so much bigger and organized as to make a few beer pong stations in the middle while couches were put against the wall for those who preferred sitting down. Mina didn't wait for you when she heard that a new game of beer pong was starting and she rushed to say she and you would play.

"Oh, great," you mumbled to yourself but Seungmin heard you as clear as day.

"Go have fun," he chuckled but received a glare from you.

"Seungmin, want to join our team?" Mina yelled out at him, causing him to sigh.

"Come on, let's go have fun," you copied him teasingly and it was his turn to glare at you.

You took his hand despite his protests and joined Mina at the table. She was already setting the cups ready for the game and you lost no time in giving her a hand.

"Oh, Y/N?" you heard a familiar voice say.

Looking up, you were pleasantly surprised to see Changbin grinning at you. "Hey, Bin."

At the sight of the man, Mina's eyes went wide open. "Fuck, don't tell me..."

The worst she was expecting happened when Chan joined his friend's side. He looked as troubled by Mina's presence as she was by his. You felt like you shouldn't be there, their staring contest was a bit much for you.

"Do you still want to play?" you asked her in a worried voice.

"Why wouldn't I want to play anymore?" Mina acted as if nothing was wrong.

Chan let out a chuckle. "Alright, if you say so."

"You don't believe me, Christopher?"

His jaw clenched but he remained calm. "I didn't say the opposite."

"You're missing a player," Seungmin pointed out.

"Are we?" Changbin cheekily said.

Almost on cue, another man joined the lot as he placed himself next to Chan. As soon as he saw you, Jisung froze. While he didn't want to come to this party originally, he certainly did not expect you to be there. Even less dressed up like you were. That shirt of yours exposed so much of your skin and curves, he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

"My bad," Seungmin said upon seeing Jisung.

Your gaze lingered on him for longer than it should. While it was the others' turn to play, the two of you were exchanging a few looks with each other. It was either funny faces or one of you mouthing something the other couldn't understand. At one point, you were growing frustrated to no be able to decipher what he was trying to tell you. He chuckled as he saw the frown form on your face.

"Cute," he mouthed but you were still clueless.

"Uh?"

Yeah, he gave up. You were not the best at lip-reading, it wasn't your fault. Instead of repeating himself like he had done for a while now, he winked at you. That was new. Not knowing how to react, your face went red as you attempted to look at anywhere but him. He grinned at himself, satisfied by your reaction. You were too adorable, he hated it.

Your team ended up losing, much to Mina's disappointment. The girl had drank so much from the game only, you were growing worried about her physical state. Despite that, her fury against Chan was much stronger than a couple of drinks and she rushed after him once the game was over.

"I should follow her, right?" you said to Seungmin.

"Yeah, definitely," he affirmed which was all it took for you to go after her.

As you got closer, you reached out to grab her wrist but she broke free harshly. "Christopher Bang Chan!" she called out.

You winced in embarrassment, feeling bad for her. Chan immediately turned around, eyes growing bigger while Mina threw herself onto him. Luckily, he was quick to catch her.

"Hey, maybe you should sit down for a minute, yeah?" he said softly to her but she was not listening.

"You're such an ass, embarrassing me all the fucking time," she claimed.

You felt a nudge on your arm and let out a sigh of relief when you saw Jisung by your side. You had been meaning to go see him once you made sure Mina was alright. Clearly, this was not how things were going.

"Maybe we should leave them some privacy," Jisung suggested.

"But Mina is obviously not okay," you argued.

"Chan is with her, it'll be fine."

He took your hand and, reluctantly, you agreed to follow him outside to get some fresh air. The night was just a little breezy, but it was perfect for this kind of social gathering. There was, unsurprisingly, an inground pool along with a jacuzzi and a few outdoor couches. A little fire was lit further away from the house where some guys you didn't know were conversing in laughs. You were glad to see that none of them had a drink nearby, meaning it wouldn't turn into a disaster.

Jisung led you to one of the couches and sat with you. You had not noticed until then but he brought you a drink along with his. You thanked him as he offered it to you and you sipped in silence while watching the other students mess around. Some couples were making out in front of everyone, groups of friend were dancing together, others were simply catching up... Somehow, it was calmer outside than what was happening in the house.

"I never thought I'd see you here," Jisung informed with a small laugh.

"I could say the same about you. What are you even doing here?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Soohee has some friends who work in an entertainment company. Chan thought it'd be a good idea to make some contacts within the industry so we can get somewhere with our stuff," he explained without much enthusiasm.

"I suppose things are still not taking off?"

He scoffed with a small smile. "We've been putting music out for a while. Shouldn't we at least have established a bit of a fanbase yet?"

"I'm a fan," you grinned widely.

"It's different, the real Y/N wouldn't like our stuff. Besides, you're my friend. That doesn't count."

You tried to ignore the hurt his comment caused to your heart. "What tells you she wouldn't have liked it? And, sure, I'm your friend but I'm honest. I would have told you if your music was trash."

He smiled thankfully but you still saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I really appreciate it. Still, you're too nice and you might just be trying to cheer me up right now."

"Fine, guilty," you sighed. "I am trying to cheer you up but I'm sincere. I love your music."

He let out a heavy breath before taking your hand, rubbing the top of it softly with his thumb. "Thank you."

"It's nothing, I'm being truthful," you said while raising your shoulders.

"What about you? Why did you come here?" he said, letting go of your hand to take another sip of his drink.

You tried to hide the fact you missed his touch already and cleared your throat. "Mina."

This was all the explanation he needed. "She would have been too suspicious of you if you didn't go to a party with her at some point."

"I know, that makes me want to go home even more honestly."

He choked up on his drink at your statement. You panicked for a second, patting his back to make sure he was okay. Once his coughing stopped he looked at you right in the eye.

"That much?" he asked in an almost hurt voice.

You gibbered for a bit, unsure as to why he was reacting this way. "I mean, kind of? As much as I love it here, I do miss my family and my actual bed," you tried to joke but he didn't laugh with you.

"Minho's not working this Tuesday if you want to come at the library. We could do more digging into the books," he suggested.

"Oh, sure. Actually, that'd be perfect. Thank you, Ji."

Your smile pained him even more. Of course, he couldn't blame you for wanting to go back home, he would have felt the same. However, there was something about you he became addictive of. Whether it was your being, your presence, your ability to make him feel comfortable so easily... All of it became something he couldn't imagine losing. There was something else within you, a spark. The last time he saw one like it was with his mother.

"Hey," you called for him. "Are you okay?"

Remembering where he was, he gulped and got up. "Sorry, I have to go."

And just like that, he went back inside without a word. You watched him, confused, until his shadow disappeared among the other figures around him. You wanted to follow him but not knowing what had caused him to leave so abruptly held you off. Was he mad at you? And what for? You couldn't bear with imagining you had caused him pain. Hesitantly, you got up and walked towards the back door. Only, you never reached the back door.

"Ouch!" you yelled out when your body collided with a frame bigger than your own.

"Oh my Gosh, Y/N, I'm so sorry," the person immediately apologized.

While you had technically never met him before, you recognized Jeongin from the pictures in your phone. "No, don't worry about it. I wasn't looking."

"But I kind of spilled my drink on you," he chuckled, embarrassed. "And you spilled yours too."

You looked at your empty cup and groaned in annoyance. "Great."

"Do you want my hoodie to cover the stain?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just give it back to me next time we see each other," he said with a bright smile. "Talking about that, I haven't seen you in a while."

You gratefully put his hoodie on and followed as he was walking back inside to get himself a new cup. "Yeah, I haven't been myself lately let's say."

"Beer? Punch? Sangria?" he asked while pointing at the different beverages.

"Sangria," you picked out and he gave it to you before picking one for himself.

"Yeah, Mina told me you had an amnesia episode or something?"

"Or something... I'm better now, though. Well, I think so."

He let out a laugh. "You do seem good. I assume you remembered me since you didn't look so confused when I went on about not having seen you in a while."

"Yeah, I do. It's a bit blurry but it's coming back to me slowly."

"Good, I'm glad. Did you go to a doctor to check it out?"

Oh. That was suspicious, wasn't it? Claiming to have amnesia without getting a professional to take a look at it. Your heart began to race as anxiety spread through your body. What if Jeongin was to uncover your act? What would happen then?

"I brought her to one the first day."

You thanked whoever who had brought Jisung near to save you. You wouldn't be able to explain how relieved you felt at this moment.

"Oh, that's good," Jeongin nodded. "Jisung, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Do you mind if I steal her from you?"

He sent the both of you a knowing look and didn't protest before walking away to elsewhere. As Jisung watched him leave, he sighed as he was about to nag you for not being careful. However, as soon as his focus was back on you, he froze in place when you dropped into his arms. It wasn't too noticeable but he could feel your body shaking.

"Thank fucking God, you were there," you breathed out. "I thought you were mad and I was going to look for you but I bumped into him and then I-"

"Hey," he stopped you. "I'm not mad at you, you don't have to explain anything to me." He pulled away from you but still had a grip on your shoulders. "How about we stick together for tonight?"

You nodded in agreement which he responded with his boxy smile. For a second — although it felt like minutes —, you couldn't see anything else but him. There was no way to describe how you felt around him. It was a mix of safety, happiness, comfort, nervosity, etc. All of these feelings, and more, altogether.

"You're pretty," you unconsciously let yourself slip out.

Jisung's cheeks had a faint pink colour to them but it didn't seem to bother him. "I think you're the pretty one between us," he corrected.

You shook your head and got closer to his face to inspect his features. "You're prettier," you affirmed once you analyzed his face.

He let a nervous laugh out. "Y/N..." he began, but didn't seem to find it in him to finish his sentence.

Your being brought him into a whole other world. If this was travelling universes, he'd want to do it all the time. This world only had you and him in it. Curiously, he was content with that idea. Somewhere where it could only be the two of you.

"Kiss me."

His brain short-circuited. A second ago, his mind was elsewhere, and now, you brought him back to reality in an instant. However, he still wasn't able to acknowledge people surrounding you. His sole focus was on the two words you said, and on your lips. Those pink lips he had always wished to kiss ever since that night when he saw you in his clothes. And you were demanding him to kiss you. Why couldn't he do it?

"Whoo!"

The loud scream coming from only a few meters away from you broke you out of your trance. Your gazes darted away from each other to find Minho, who was very much drunk, proudly showing his empty can to a group of girls after doing a shotgun.

The two of you, still holding onto each other, opted to go back to the main room in order to diffuse the weird tension between you. The sight you stumbled upon certainly was not what you thought of seeing any time soon. Chan was grabbing Mina by the waist, keeping her body close to his, as they kissed hungrily in the corner of the room. Near them was an annoyed Changbin, doing everything he could to avoid looking at the couple. The moment he spotted the two of you, he waved at you to come and join him.

"What's this about?" you asked, motioning towards your friends.

"Long story short, they left for a while and came back like this."

"Who would have thought she'd get laid with Chan?" you huffed.

Changbin glared at you. "Thank you for stating the obvious, Y/N."

Well, Changbin was being pretty sensitive tonight. It might have been the alcohol or the dislike he had for Mina. Anyhow, this looked pretty funny to you.

"The party's here, I see," Felix exclaimed as he joined you, bringing his arms around you and Jisung. "How are you, guys?"

"Tired," Changbin replied grumpily.

Hyunjin, Soohee, and Minho, who had all been following Felix, came to sit on the couch next to you. You had just then realized Seungmin was nowhere to be found, which was odd considering he wouldn't have been the kind to wander around too much.

"Soohee," Changbin called for the girl who broke her kiss with Hyunjin to look at him. "Did they say anything to you?"

You assumed he was referring to these friends of hers who worked in the music industry. Soohee clapped her hands together in response, a wide smile spread on her face.

"They've got a spot this summer for new producers and they told me they'll slide a word to their boss to give you the position," she squealed excitedly.

"You're kidding," Jisung said blankly, not believing her.

"I'm not!" she affirmed.

Jisung heard her right. Still, he couldn't fully process what she said. He had the chance to actually make a career out of his hobby. This felt so unreal, his face remained hard as stone, unable to express what he was feeling. Quite frankly, he didn't know what he was feeling himself. While the others around him were cheering happily about the excellent news, everything was a blur for him. Even if he couldn't be any happier, this also meant things were getting serious. Was he ready for this? He was still so young, maybe this was happening fast.

"Ji?" you said to him softly, noticing that he wasn't quite there.

"Uh?" he said while blinking slowly.

"You good?"

He swallowed and then stared back at you. "It's all a tad overwhelming," he admitted.

You gave him a reassuring smile before taking his hand. "How about we celebrate for now and worry about the rest later?"

This did the trick to bring him back fully from his thoughts and he finally allowed himself to cheer with the others. The first thing he did was bring your body into an embrace, holding you close. So close, you could feel his breath grazing the top of your ears, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Guys," Soohee said loudly enough to grab everyone's attention. "I have to precise, there is no certainty you'd be taken. But if you are, then don't mess it up. You've got one chance, and only one."

"Having the position or not, this is the furthest we've gotten so far," Chan answered. "Either way, this is accomplishment."

"I say we drink to this!"

You widened your eyes when you saw Seungmin leaning onto Jeongin as the both of them walked towards you. This was definitely not how you imagined Seungmin be by the end of the night. He was the last person who'd get drunk like this. However, nobody seemed to care and they all agreed to get themselves more alcohol for the occasion.

Meh, at this point, nothing was keeping you from having fun. Besides, Jisung was there. There was nothing to be worried about, as long as he was around to keep you safe.

You didn't know how long you had been drinking and dancing with Mina when you felt yourself getting dizzy. You tried to shake yourself out of your drunken state but there was no use, you had consumed more than needed. Although Mina wanted for you to keep partying with her, you had enough sanity to decline and make your way back to the couches.

The faint view you had in front of you was of a concerned Jisung discussing with Minho. As soon as his eyes laid on your clumsy self, he lost no time in holding onto you to keep yourself from tripping.

"Hey, there," he said softly before guiding you to sit down. "How about you take a little water break?"

You pfft at him. "Who needs water? It tastes like shit."

"I'm not giving you a choice."

Before you could argue, Minho — who you hadn't noticed had left — held a bottle in front of you. Jisung gave him a thankful nod as he took it from him and opened it for you. One would say you were acting like a child as he was trying to get you to drink. Your whines and uncoherent babbles were both concerning and cute to him. The pink that had appeared on your cheeks didn't help.

"It's near 3:00 A.M." he informed to nobody in particular.

"Wow, so early!" you exclaimed.

"You're right, I think it's time we get you home."

You frowned. "Get me home? You found a way to get me home?"

He shut his eyes close for a second. "Not like that, your other home."

You pouted. "But I miss my bed."

"I know you do. Now, can you be quieter? There are people around," he whispered in your ear which tickled it.

"Ji," you giggled and he sighed in exasperation.

"Chan, Changbin," he said to his friends who were standing next to you both. "I think we should leave."

"Finally!" Changbin said with a groan. "I'll get our stuff."

"And I'll get Mina," Chan said before wincing at the sight of his lover.

The girl had found her way to a table where she had let her body fall onto. Her face was inches away from a beer someone had left behind and you could see in her eyes how she was debating internally whether she should take it or not.

The boys had no problem with taking the both of you in Changbin's car and driving back to their place. Although the two other men argued on getting you to your apartment, Changbin just wanted to go back in the comfort of his room. Not that he didn't have fun that night but he was tired as hell. As he was the designated driver, his friends didn't protest any more and they drove home.

"Are you okay with her?" Chan asked Jisung in a concerned voice as they both helped you and Mina get inside.

"Take care of her, don't worry about us. I'll just help her get in bed," he assured and Chan gave him a nod before disappearing in his own room with Mina.

You were left in his care as Changbin had no worry other than going to sleep. You weren't heavy which made the task so much easier for Jisung. Even if you were still mumbling things he couldn't understand fully, you seemed much relaxed than back at Soohee's which he took as a good sign. He carefully laid you down on his bed, making sure he placed your head properly on the pillow.

"Jisung," you mumbled.

He instantly stopped moving you around and crouched to face you. "What is it? Do you need anything?"

"What if I can't get home?"

His heart stopped for a second. He knew you had worries because you still hadn't found a way to travel back to your world but he hadn't noticed how much it actually was affecting you. He was foolishly too focused on spending time with you to notice that. It was time he showed you what he found, he thought. He couldn't be this selfish any longer, it was hurting you.

"You'll find a way, I'm sure of it."

Of course, he was. He had already found it. He was just not ready to see you go yet. Yeah, he shouldn't have gotten so attached to you. But can you blame him? You were so warm and caring to him, it didn't take long for him to like you.

"I'm not so sure, myself," you began to cry and it broke his heart.

"Don't cry, it'll happen," he shushed you softly, rubbing your shoulder.

Without thinking (well, you weren't thinking at all under the influence of alcohol), you took his arm and pulled him closer clumsily. You somehow managed to get him on the mattress and you snuggled into his chest. You could tell he didn't know how to react but you couldn't care less. You were sobbing and in need of his warmth.

"Y/N," he said in a whisper.

"The thing is, I don't even know if I want to go back anymore," you continued to cry.

He was confused about your statement. "What do you mean?"

The rubs he was giving you on your back gave you goosebumps, you didn't know if you had the energy to keep yourself from spilling anything you'd regret the next day. "I mean that I like being here with you."

His breath increased. "I am fun to be around," he joked as to ignore what he knew you were insinuating.

"As in I like you."

Here, you said it. Fatigue mixed with drinking hadn't been of help with keeping this to yourself. Heck, you didn't even admit it to yourself and here you were declaring your crush on a fictional boy. This was ridiculous. However, your sober mind was not present. You would have to worry about that later.

In the meantime, Jisung couldn't find the words to respond to this. This was what he had hoped for in a while, you feeling the same towards him. Still, he knew as much as you that this couldn't happen. But fuck, he couldn't fake it any more. Not only that but he had also drank his fair share, he wasn't fully aware of himself either. That's why he wasn't able to stop himself from speaking his mind.

"I think I like you too."

Six simple words. And yet, that was all it took for something to snap in your head. Moving to be face to face with him, you pulled him by the collar of his shirt and crashed your lips on his. He was quick to match your movements and pace making your lips move in total sync. Even if this was wrong on so many levels, there wasn't anything that felt as right as this. It was almost like you were meant to be together like this.

Jisung swiftly pushed you to be on your back while he positioned himself on top of you, giving him better access to pepper your face with small pecks. As one of his hands stood next to your head to steady himself, the other had no problem exploring your curves, moving up and down from your waist to your hips. A few squeezes here and there, and you were gasping. You wanted more. Your fingers found their way underneath his shirt and you couldn't stop yourself from touching the skin of his abdomen. Fuck, since when was he so toned?

You felt him shiver under your touch and he growled before attacking your neck, sucking on your skin. You gasped and a moan escaped your mouth. This was definitely going to be visible tomorrow.

"Make that sound again," he said in a raspy voice and it made your mind go crazy.

As he sucked once more, you moaned again and you could tell he was having the time of his life getting you to make these noises for him. In a hurry, you took the hem of his shirt and pulled it up needily. You felt his lips form a smirk against your skin. In the time of a blink, he helped you remove his shirt which now left him totally exposed to you. Your eyes widened at the sight. You didn't know he had been working out, his proportions were insane. From his tiny waist to his prominent pecs to his massive arms; he was perfect.

It didn't take long for him to get your shirt off as well. What he hadn't expected was the lack of bra. He immediately became bright red from seeing your breast on full display in front of him. Although this was a view that took his breath away, it switched something in his mind. He suddenly realized what was happening, as if he was sobering up all of the sudden.

"Y/N," he said again, his voice now shaky. "I can't do this."

You frowned. "What? Why not?"

"We're both drunk, I can't possibly take advantage of you like this."

Before he could hear your complaints, he got off of you and back on his feet next to the bed. Carefully, he brought the covers over your body and tucked you in. While you were still pouting, something about him caring that much about your well-being made your stomach flip upside down. He placed a kiss on top of your head and was about to leave the room. Only, you didn't let him.

Grabbing his finger, you looked up at him. "Stay."

And to that, he couldn't say no. So he stayed.

You would have been much better if you hadn't woken up half-naked in Jisung's bed the next day. While you thought you were in the comfort of your dorm with Mina, the scent of Jisung was all over the covers, engulfing you in another type of comfort. In a way, you were glad it was in his home that you were. On the other hand, his shirtless body laying next to you sent you into panic mode real quick. You had no recalling on what happened after the whole gang began drinking like there was no tomorrow and, frankly, you wondered if you wanted to know what happened.

You sat straight up, pulling the blankets over your chest to cover your bare skin, but an intense headache suddenly hit you. You had forgotten how hangovers were this painful. No shit you weren't going out a lot. As you winced at the pain, a few images came back to you.

The first to hit was Jisung's lips on yours. You suddenly remembered how you had pulled him into a kiss after having cried in his arms in his room. It still wasn't clear why you were sad, but one thing was for sure: you fucked up big time.

Another image that hit you was Mina in a much worse state than yours. Chan had her in his arms while her face became so pale to the point it wasn't a skin colour anymore. Where was she even? Did she make it back home.

The final memory you got back was of you removing Jisung's shirt. Well, at least you knew who between the two of you had been needier than the other. You cursed at yourself, already regretting having allowed yourself to let go this much. This guy wasn't real, for fuck's sake. In no way could you even consider the option of having feelings for him.

Well, there wasn't any feelings, technically. It was only a bit of kissing and making out, nothing more.

"Good morning," a deep and raspy voice greeted you, making you almost jump out of bed.

Jisung stretched his arms out before yawning loudly. Once he opened his eyes fully, he was met with your panicked face. That automatically got him nervous and by the way you were shamefully covering yourself, he felt like nothing good was about to happen.

"Fuck," he cursed out in a whisper before rubbing his face with both hands.

"That's one word to describe it," you huffed shyly. "Do you remember what happened?"

He lifted his head up and perked an eyebrow. "Do you remember what happened?" When he saw you hesitate, he cursed again. "Shit, I'm so sorry."

"No, no," you immediately said. "I do remember most of it. Just, not in details, if that makes sense."

His shoulders relaxed but that didn't dismiss the worry spread on his face. "So, what now?"

"Good question."

You didn't dare looking at one another, you were both too ashamed for that. As you were trying to find the right thing to say next, a loud bang was heard from the kitchen. You determined the boys must have woken up after hearing Chan nag Changbin for being clumsy. You and Jisung exchanged an awkward chuckle but that was it. You still weren't able to say anything.

"What's up, guys! Woah," Chan coughed out when seeing your physical state and he closed the door right after. "Uh, so... I made breakfast if you're hungry."

"Thanks, we'll be out in a bit."

The footsteps faded away after a few seconds which was your cue you were back to the awkward moment with Jisung. He didn't seem any more comfortable than you and you began to question if he had any regrets. Obviously, you hated yourself for what occurred last night but you couldn't regret it. It was so passionate and intimate, you hadn't felt so much lust with someone in a long time.

Jisung was the first to finally move and he walked to his closet. Shamefully, you couldn't contain yourself from looking. His back was well-defined, he was like a sculpture. There was no way his body was this perfect.

"Here," he said before throwing a hoodie your way. "I figured mine would look better on you than Jeongin's."

He didn't let you say anything back and he was out the room the second later, lazily putting a shirt on as he walked to the kitchen. You were left dumbfounded as you stared at the piece of clothing in your hands. There was a hint of teasing and jealousy in his voice, you kind of liked it. It wasn't possible for you that he had noticed Jeongin's shirt so much that he'd mention it to you. It was one way to know he might have feelings similar to yours.

After shaking your mind off these thoughts, you threw the hoodie on and went to join the boys to go eat. As soon as you stepped inside the kitchen, your gaze found Mina's. She looked much better than last night, having found her colours a little. She waved at you happily before taking another bite of her toast.

"I didn't remember you coming here with us," you commented as you sat next to Jisung (which was oddly the last free seat).

"To be honest, I don't remember a thing," she laughed. "But I do know Chan and I made up so that is what matters." She leaned to kiss him and then smiled even more. "I heard the two of you had an exciting night."

Jisung choked on his juice, coughing loudly. You chuckled a little but that didn't prevent you from blushing either.

"I'm guessing Hannie finally made a move," Changbin teased his younger friend with a nudge.

"I'd be more prone to think Y/N did," Chan added.

Your face grew redder by the second. "Can we not talk about it?"

This seemed to do the job and the others kept their mouths shut for the rest of the breakfast, only discussing about Mina and Chan's reunion. While you tried your best to take part in the conversation, your shoulder barely touching Jisung's distracted you too much. Weird, no? Only a few hours earlier, you had no shame touching him but here you were, terrified by his mere presence.

"I'll walk you home," Jisung announced once you were both back in his room.

"I can walk by myself just fine, thank you," you turned him down as you grabbed the shirt you were wearing last night along with Jeongin's hoodie.

"I'm not offering," he insisted. "I need to make sure you get there safely."

"Mina and I will walk together," you insisted back, not understanding why he was being so stubborn.

This time, he admitted defeat and dropped himself on his bed. "Text me when you get home, at least?"

"I will."

It reassured him a bit as he smiled shyly. "I'll text you for Tuesday, also."

Oh, right, Tuesday. You almost forgot about it. With a small nod, you left his room and joined Mina at the front door. She and Chan exchanged knowing looks but you ignored them. Waving bye to your friends, you both took off to get back home.

Tuesday came sooner than you had wanted to. Jisung barely texted you, only a few times to let you know where he was at with his research. Other than that, the few past days had mostly consisted of you ranting about your complicated relationship to Seungmin. The poor guy hadn't asked for anything and here he was, forced to listen to your problems. He actually did not mind, he was simply not very expressive when it came to gossiping.

"Are you sure you don't have more files to work on?" you asked him once again.

He deadpanned at you. "Stop this, you're going to go there and face him."

You whined. "I don't want to."

"You have to."

"Can't you come with me?"

"No!"

You huffed in annoyance. "Are you really my friend?"

He rolled his eyes at your question. "You're being so dramatic. What is even the problem? You like him, he likes you; it should be easy."

You bit your lower lip down. "It's more complicated than that."

"Is it?"

It was no use trying to explain to him, that would involve outing you out and you couldn't risk it. So, you sucked your sappy self up and left the office, earning you a "there you go" from Seungmin. You were supposed to meet with Jisung an hour ago but you were too much of a scaredy cat to actually get to the library and you worked some more to buy yourself time. But Seungmin was right, you couldn't put it off any longer.

You were almost shaking when you found yourself in front of the library's door. From outside, you could see him through the window. He was doing nothing more than sorting books and scanning a couple of them but the sight of him was all you needed to make your heart beat ten times faster. Taking a deep breath in, you repeated to yourself this was no big deal. You were coming to see a friend, nothing more. You finally pushed the door open and walked to the front desk. As he had told you, Minho was nowhere in sight. His back was still facing you, meaning he hadn't noticed you yet.

"Just a moment and I'm all yours," he spoke as he finished up his task.

This was a simple phrase of politeness. And yet, the idea of him being yours briefly passed through your eyes. No, this was getting out of hand. You had to stop this behaviour.

As soon as he turned around, his mouth's shape changed into an "o". "I thought you bailed on me."

You scratched the side of your arm in shame. "I had extra work to do at the office."

"No, it's all good. I just thought-" he was about to say but paused before shaking his head. "Never mind. There aren't many students today so we should be fine in terms of discretion."

You nodded as you watched him walk around the counter. Did he really have to look that good in his red shirt? He seemed to have put much more effort in his appearance than usual. Nevertheless, this was not the time to check him out. You followed his steps towards a section in the back, one you hadn't explored yet. You were quite perplexed when he stopped in front of the fairy tale section and scrunched his nose while scanning through the books.

"Fairy tales?" you scoffed. "You must be joking."

He rolled his eyes as he pulled out one book. "Let me show you first."

"Well, sorry but this is not very promising."

He sent one more glare your way and began to flip the pages. "Don't be mad, I actually found this a while ago. I was afraid you-" he restrained himself from speaking again. "That you'd judge it because it is a fairy tale."

This was not what he wanted to say originally, you could easily tell but the way he cleared his throat. Even though you wanted to insist for him to spill it, he didn't let you by shoving a page in your face. You scrutinized the words attentively as you took the book from him. It might have been a fairy tale, a work of fiction, but the story was almost identical to how you arrived in this world.

Once upon a time, a princess lived in a castle. The girl loved her castle more than you could imagine. She was living a happy life on her own with the company of the animals of the forest. Some were big, some were small, but all loved the princess very much.

One day, the princess was reading a book like she would do every night before going to bed. The only difference was how marveled she was by its story. It told the journey of a boy living in the country, trying his best to live by his late mother's wishes despite not being very wealthy. Something about this boy moved her, she felt for him.

As she was about to go back to her chambers, one missed step on the stairs caused her to lose balance. In the snap of a finger, she tripped. Only, she never really fell. Once she opened her eyes, she was in a place she had never visited before. She was in a quaint little farm where a dozen of hens were greeting her with their clucks. Confused she was but these thoughts vanished when her gaze fell on a boy. She immediately knew who he was.

"How is this relevant?" you groaned, not understanding how he even thought this was anything close to what you had experienced.

"She tripped and found a boy, just like you," he pointed out. "You can skip to the last page, that's where it shows how she came back to her palace."

The boy invited the princess for dinner. It was not much, but it was all he could afford for her. He had cooked all of the dishes by himself, something he was quite proud of. He was hoping he would be proposing to the girl. Tonight was supposed to be the most gorgeous eclipse of their era, according to the village's sorcerer. He would not miss the opportunity to make the most of it.

When the princess arrived in the backyard of his home, her heart melted at how beautiful the boy had arranged the place. It was so simple but it felt like home. A blanket had been laid next to his family's tree and, on top, he had placed the food along with the best beverage he was capable of buying.

The night was perfect. The princess had fallen in love with this place, never wanting to leave. Especially not when she had just realized how fond she had grown of her new friend. Dare to say, she was smitten. As they were watching the last seconds of the eclipse, the boy gathered all of his courage and pulled the princess closer to him. With the shadow over them, they shared their very first kiss.

What they did not know was how this would also be their last. Slowly, the girl's figure began to fade away, vanishing into thin air. The panic on the boy's face was one she had never seen before, one of great pain. She was devasted, so was he. She then understood this was her time to come home. As she forced a smile through her tears, she mumbled the only phrase she had meant to tell him all along.

You shut the book closed, not wanting to read the rest. "Really? A stupid little story is the answer to my problem?"

Jisung almost shivered from how cold your tone was. He had never meant for you to think he wasn't taking you seriously, of course he was. In a way, he did understand why it seemed idiotic of him to show you this. But he knew this was your last hope. Everything you'd tried so far was a great failure. And since the moment you told him how homesick you were at the party, he now wanted nothing more but to make you happy. Even if it meant losing you.

"She was reading a book, you were watching a movie. She tripped, you tripped. She found a boy, you found me," he went on to explain. "And, if I'm not wrong, you fell in love with me like she did."

Your breath cut short. Was it so obvious? You did everything in your power to not let it show, even more to not let it happen. Apparently, love did not work like this and couldn't be helped. This whole thing was shitty, falling in love with someone you could never be with.

"You're wrong," you mumbled. "I care about you a lot, but I wouldn't call this love," you lied — apart when you said you cared about him.

He huffed. "What would you call what happened the other night, then? Because, for me, it looked a lot like it was a confession of your feelings. Unless you'd been leading me on."

It was your turn to huff. "You think I would stoop so low as to do something like this to you?"

"If it isn't because you love me, I don't know what it is."

Unexpectedly, heavy footsteps came your way, You both turned around to see Minho walking to you, red in his eyes. You glared at Jisung since you thought Minho wasn't supposed to be here in the first place.

"If you're to argue about your little love life, can you do it outside? I can hear you from the entrance."

"I thought you weren't working today," Jisung said with a frown, ignoring what his friend had complained about.

"I don't work tomorrow, I'm taking over for the evening today."

Shit, Jisung didn't look at the work sheet properly. Despite your dark eyes still on him, he grabbed your wrist and led you outside, apologizing quickly to Minho as you walked past him. You tried to break away but he was stronger than you were, leaving you no choice but to follow him. He ignored the beeping sound caused by the book you were still holding as you hadn't officially rented it. Once out of the library, he did not stop there. Instead, he continued to walk away leaving you as clueless as ever.

Finally, you began to piece things together when you saw where he was heading to. It didn't take you more than a minute or so to reach the football field, exactly where you had started bonding only two months ago.

"Okay, can you explain to me now?" he sighed, crossing his arms on his chest.

You massaged your wrist. "First off, ouch." He only rolled his eyes which kind of hurt you somehow. "Second off, there is nothing to explain."

"Almost sleeping together after you told me you like me isn't nothing," he persisted.

"Why does it matter?" you groaned, getting annoyed. "I'm to go back to my world, it wouldn't change anything."

"For me, it would."

"Why?"

He grunted in frustration before grabbing you by the shoulders, visibly not in control of his actions anymore. "Because I love you."

You stared at him in silence, mouth agape. You couldn't comprehend fully what he said. He couldn't possibly love you. And if he really did, this entire thing had taken a whole new turn you weren't sure you could handle.

"What?" you whispered, not finding the strength in you to speak loud enough.

"I love you," he repeated, loosening his grip on you. "I've never been the best in terms of opening up and all. But with you? This has never been so easy. There is something about you, a spark. It feels homey and safe. I find extreme comfort and reassurance just by your presence. Not only that, you understand me on so many levels, I wonder if you know me better than myself at times.

"And at the party... Fuck, Y/N, it was like you got me under a spell. I always needed to have an eye on you or I thought of suffocating. Then, when we were in my room, it broke my heart when you began saying you were afraid to never be able to leave."

You almost wanted to thank him for not referring again to the physical part of the whole thing, how you had almost given yourself to him. Despite that, this whole-hearted confession of his was no longer only about mere feelings he had. He actually loved you.

"I'm sorry," you mustered the energy to say.

What were you apologizing for? Even you didn't know. For letting him love you this much, probably. You were dying to tell him you felt the same but in no way was this how things were supposed to be. Loving each other was only going to cause you great pain.

"Tell me you felt something too, please," he pleaded, eyes watery.

You could feel the lump in your throat grow when you shook your head, refusing to tell him what he wanted to hear. That was what made him let go of you as he took a few steps back. You hurt him.

"I'm sorry for reading into things that weren't there," he pettily scoffed. "Read the rest," he motioned the book. "There's an eclipse this Saturday just so you know. Find a way to get back, but don't count on me helping you in this madness anymore."

He turned on his heels and walked off in a hurry pace, obviously wanting to get as far from you as possible. You wanted to call him out, cry, scream, anything. But nothing. Your body was limp and wasn't letting you express what you were feeling. Instead, you dropped on the bench next to you with the book on your thighs.

You opened it back to read the end. Just like you had anticipated, this was only heartbreaking to come to the conclusion neither characters saw each other again. This was what you wanted to avoid, live with an void in your heart because you fell in love with the protagonist.

You did everything to prevent it. But you failed.

Saturday was dangerously coming fast and your stubborn self was refusing to reach out to Jisung. He told you to find a solution on your own, that was what you had been doing. Nevertheless, the only remaining option was him. He had to be there.

You ended up telling the truth to Mina the night after your argument. It was inevitable, your emotionless stare outed you right away the moment she saw you. You couldn't hide it from her anymore. She took it better than you thought. Not only that, you also told her about the whole movie thing. She had been nothing but supportive, not even a bit bothered that she was fictional.

"Fictional or not, what I feel is real and that's what matters," she had answered when you asked why she remained this calm.

She was a bit of a replacement for Jisung, she was fully aware of that. But when it came to trying to get you home, she insisted the fairy tale wasn't just an odd coincidence. And that was why you were staring at your phone with nothing but fear.

"If you don't tell him to meet you at the park tonight, I will," Mina threatened, growing impatient as it had been almost ten minutes since you agreed to invite Jisung.

"He'll think I'm just using him to get home," you argued.

"I guess you are, but he won't care about that. If he loves you, it'll be stronger than his free will to come to your help."

You bit on your lip and finally picked the phone up. Opening your chat with Jisung, your fingers lingered above the keyboard. You knew what to say. The issue was how were you going to word it. After one last glance at Mina, you took a deep breath and began to type.

Y/N: Hey. How have you been?

No, this sounded too weird. It was obvious he hadn't been well, it'd be stupid to start the message like this.

Y/N: Hey! I know I haven't been exactly the greatest friend to you. You are right, I keep leading you on when I fully know that what we have can't even happen. It doesn't change the fact that I never wanted to hurt you intentionally and I am so sorry for the trouble I've caused. If you are still willing to forgive me, and maybe help me, meet me at 4 at the park where we met. There are many things I still need to tell you. I hope to see you there.

Sent. And now all you had left to do was wait. Mina hugged you tight as soon as you let go of the phone. You could tell she was proud, it felt nice to know she cared this much for you.

"If he does show up, does it mean I won't see you again?" Mina asked while still hugging you.

"Most likely, yes," you breathed out. "You'll have your Y/N back."

She chuckled. "She's not like you. Sure, I miss her, but it would have been better if having the two of you was an option."

It was your turn to laugh and you pulled away from the hug. "I promise I won't tell a soul about this," she affirmed.

You smiled gratefully. "Do you mind doing me one last favour?"

"Anything," she didn't hesitate to respond.

"One last makeover?"

The grin was all the answer you needed. You spend the afternoon doing some self-care activities while exchanging and laughing. She asked you some more about your own world and you answered. You hated to admit so but you were going to miss her. You never had one close friend in particular, it was always people scattered a bit everywhere without being so close to them. It was probably a sign you needed to bond more with your own friends.

That was if Jisung showed up. There was no telling when the next eclipse would happen so the option of staying here for much longer stayed in your mind vividly.

4 o'clock was approaching and Mina was still debating whether you should go for a dress or a jumpsuit. You let her have her fun when you heard the notification sound coming from your phone. You immediately rushed to see if Jisung had replied but you were left disappointed when you saw it was only a promotional text from some random company. Your message, however, had been read. But no reply.

Mina said nothing from seeing your sad face, but she came to show you the dress she chose. You were still amazed at how she always found the perfect combination for an outfit.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she offered but you shook your head.

"I'll be fine, but thank you."

She let you get changed and once you did so, the two of you sat in silence in your shared dining room. You were intensely staring at the clock and it was killing you how time seemed to pass by so slowly. Eventually, ten minutes before 4 o'clock came and it was time to head out.

Mina couldn't help herself but cry as she hugged you close to her. "Don't forget me, yeah?"

"I could never," you reassured. "And don't forget, the other Y/N is still me in a way. You haven't lost me completely."

She sniffled as she let go of your body. "Good luck with your man."

You gave her one last warm smile and you walked out the door. You sighed heavily as you walked down the stairs. This was already a day full of emotions, you weren't sure if you were ready for what would happen next. Either you'd be heartbroken Jisung didn't come or you'd have to leave him forever after finally telling him how you truly felt.

The walk to the park was quick and you were about a minute early. You walked to one of the swings and sat there, slowly swinging your body back and forth. You were glad the weather wasn't too cold since the dress wasn't exactly the warmest thing you could have worn.

Minutes passed, maybe even an hour. There was still no sign of Jisung. You began to think it was a bad idea to ask him to meet where his mother had died but you assumed it being the spot where you appeared would be an important factor to get back to your world. Perhaps he simply didn't want to see you again. You did hurt him a lot, it would be understandable.

You weren't counting the minutes anymore when you concluded he wouldn't come. Jumping onto your feet, you were on the verge of walking back to Mina but you stopped on your tracks stiffly.

He was there.

You couldn't quite believe what you were seeing. With only a lamppost nearby to illuminate your surroundings, his face was glowing. There was obvious resentment in his face but you could tell he was not as pissed as the last time you'd seen him. He gradually approached you while you remained hard as stone, unable to move. It was a miracle you were even breathing, in all honesty.

"I guess I still help you in the end," he began, avoiding your gaze.

"I thought you wouldn't come," you said with relief and he sadly laughed.

"You could call this a payback from when you arrived an hour late."

You felt even more relieved he was feeling comfortable enough to still joke a bit. However, you couldn't take his presence for granted. There must have been a reason for him to show up despite the hurt you'd done.

"Can I sit with you?" he gestured towards the swings and you nodded.

"I don't know where to start," you nervously chuckled. "I guess I can start with apologizing."

"That'd be a good start."

You cleared your throat, feeling a tad uneasy with how bizarre the tension was. "I'm sorry for not being truthful. I wasn't honest with a lot of things, including my feelings for you."

He frowned as it clearly quirked his attention. "What didn't you tell me?"

Even if his voice was shaky, it still held so much softness, as to not put pressure on you. If this was his goal, it worked. There was no turning back now.

"I don't have the proper words to put it out easily but I'll try my best. Remember how I've told you I was watching TV when the shift happened?"

His breath hitched. "What about it?"

"It might have been a film about you."

He didn't panic or get mad. In fact, it was quite opposite. He looked relieved and happy. You searched in his face any sign of anger but there was none, which left you more confused.

"Jisung?"

He let out a breathy laugh. "I kind of figured it out, I was just wondering if I was going crazy with this theory or not."

"What- Since when?"

"I'm not sure. It's like I've always known. Same as when you told me you were from another dimension, it just made sense for some reason."

You huffed. "How come are you so chill with it?"

He looked at you as if you had asked the dumbest question. "I might be fictional where you are but, here, I'm pretty fucking real. If I'm not, then I can't explain how I have all of these complicated thoughts and emotions when it comes to you."

You could feel yourself swoon at his words. "I don't want to leave suddenly," you confessed but he shook his head.

He stood up and stopped in front of you to take yours hands and get you up as well. Face to face, you could feel him exhale on your forehead. It felt nice to have his body close to yours again, like you had longed for it without knowing.

"You know you have to go."

You finally looked up at him. "No, I can stay. I get along just fine with Mina and the amnesia lie seems to be convincing everyone."

"Y/N, you already struggled with lying to me. How can you handle putting a façade up for the rest of your life?"

You wanted to scream at him, tell him how wrong he was. Accuse him of how low he thought of you by saying this. The truth was he was right. You knew deep down your place was not here. But just one thing was stopping you.

"But I love you," you mumbled as tears began to fall on your cheeks.

Jisung was surprisingly very sereine and he wiped your tears away with his thumbs. "There, you said it," he grinned victoriously.

You shoved him slightly. "Shut up."

He laughed again and damn was he pretty when he laughed. "That's all I wanted to hear, that you loved me too."

"If you love me, why should you let me go?"

He sighed as he rubbed your cheeks gently. He wasn't going to answer, you both knew it wasn't necessary. Nonetheless, it didn't mean it didn't hurt at all. It stabbed you like a knife. You had gotten so used to being around him. How were you going to deal in a world where he didn't exist?

"Can I kiss you?" he whispered even if his mouth had already had the time to get closer to yours.

It was all you needed to kiss him yourself, standing on your tippy toes to reach his level. It was just like you remembered it; sweet, tender, passionate. It was so addicting, you didn't want to imagine how breaking it would feel like. His hands let go of you to move on your hips before he pulled you even closer.

He didn't want to let go either.

You didn't notice he was crying as well until you reached your hand up to cup his cheek. It pained you more and more, and how you still were kissing him despite getting out of breath was a proof of it.

You both pull away eventually, even if it was clear as day both of you didn't want to. Jisung kept his forehead against yours and, without speaking a word, his gaze dove in yours. He wanted to remember your eyes, get one last good look at it. Because he knew what was already occurring right before his eyes.

"I'm leaving already, aren't I?" you cried out, as if you had read his mind.

"There's an eclipse, and I kissed you."

You nodded slowly and scanned your body. "It's a strange feeling."

He watched you slowly fading away and his heart clenched. "Think of me, please," he almost begged.

"Always," you smiled weakly. "I love you."

"I lo-"

And then nothing.

A loud music woke you up. Your eyes shot wide open as you gasped for air. Taking a look around you, you stood from the ground. Everything was exactly where it had been. The first thing you went to look for was your sweet rabbit. Her nose peeking from under the couch, she wasn't hard to miss.

"Hey, baby," you cooed as you picked her up. "For you, it's been a second, but I haven't seen your cute face in months!"

You carefully placed her back in her playpen. Once she was safe and sound, you finally allowed yourself to look at the screen. It was Jisung, having a blast at Soohee's party. You forced yourself to smile as you watched him hold tight onto a girl. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't finish this movie. Not any time soon, at least. Grabbing your remote, your turned the screen off and crashed on your couch.

It had been a while since you felt yourself relax. Still, the headache you had made you question if what you had experienced was a dream or not. You did wake up because of the music coming from the television. That meant it was very possible this was only a dream.

Either way, it was over now. You had gone back to your life and now you needed to call your workplace to inform them you would be coming in tomorrow in the end.

And tomorrow came as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary; work, eating, more work, and then back home again. It felt rather underwhelming after your journey with Jisung. Somehow, you couldn't get him out of your head, not even for a second to work correctly.

You were very much distracted. Too distracted. Frustrated, you let go of the soup you were slurping and walked to your room. Sitting down at your desk, you opened your laptop and began to look up Jisung's name. You hadn't even noted down the title of the movie, his name alone should do the job.

The moment you clicked on "enter", articles and websites flooded like a river. All of them about Han Jisung. It was him for real, with his actual name next to tons of pictures. So he wasn't fictional after all. Then, who the hell was he?

You scrolled down to find a recent article which mentioned the movie itself. Opening the link, you read it all so quickly. It said Jisung was, indeed, a young artist who had the chance to collaborate with many renowned producers to make a film about his struggles. His main purpose was to reach an audience who could relate to his pain and learn to get through struggles like he did.

You weren't sure what this was referring to since you technically didn't watch the film entirely. What caught your attention, however, was the final paragraph.

The singer has begun his promotion tour where he holds conferences concerning mental health in younger generations. He hopes to spread awareness as much as he can. To see him, his next seminar is to be held in Seoul the Thursday of next week.

You checked the date this article was published and thanked the universe that it was no older than a week. That meant the conference was tonight. You didn't know if it was a good idea but you still had so many questions about everything, you felt like getting the chance to speak to him might answer a few of them.

"Looks like I'll be spending $40 tonight," you groaned to yourself before opening the sign-up page to the event.

You were lucky it wasn't starting too early and that you still had two hours before it began. It was enough time for you to wash up, get changed and hop onto a bus that transported you all the way to the other side of the city.

One would call you crazy for going all the way in for this boy who probably had no idea you existed. But the memory of him was too fresh, it bothered you. You thought it'd help you to see him in person. That was not exactly how it went.

As the crowd settled comfortably on their seats, the host greeted the audience warmly. Needless to say, you were taken aback to see the man you grew to know as Chan on stage. This was surely the actor who played him.

"Hello, everyone," he waved with a bright smile. "My name is Bang Chan and I will be your presenter tonight."

Okay, this was getting weirder and weirder. First Jisung was a real person, but Chan as well?

"As you may know, I have contributed with the production of the movie Alien: I'm so lonely. The mastermind behind this work is my dear friend, Han Jisung. But you knew that, that's why you're here. I ask of you to be patient as him and I will discuss his journey on this project. Afterwards, you may ask your questions and Jisung with happily answer them. Please, welcome Han Jisung!"

The crowd applauded as he came on stage. He looked tinier and intimidated on this big stage in front of so many people. You were starting to question yourself if this was the same man you had in mind. But as soon as he flashed his smile, your heart skipped a beat. This was him. And visibly, these feelings were as strong as they were back in the movie's world.

"I'd like to think you all came here after enjoying my movie so I'd like to start with thanking you all for your support. It means a lot," he smiled before bowing.

The two men sat down and Chan was the one to initiate the discussion. "I had the pleasure to be part of your project but there are things that are still a mystery. The entire film is based on your own experience whether it is the loss of your mother, your struggle to make a name for yourself in the music industry as well as the mental struggles you had to face. However, there is one aspect that was never part of your actual life and it is the character of Y/N."

Your body stiffened. Had you heard him right? This had to be yet another disturbing coincidence, it wouldn't be logical otherwise. The real Jisung didn't know you.

"We're getting right away into your favourite part today, aren't we?" he chuckled uncomfortably. "I had a dream long ago. It consisted of my usual day-to-day life but this girl appeared out of nowhere. We went through everything together the way we did in the movie. It was only a dream but I woke up feeling empty. She wasn't real but she was present for me more than anyone."

"Are you saying you felt more connected to an imaginary friend than to your close ones?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "I came around the idea she was a fragment of myself that represented my strength. I'd like to think she really existed, but I can't drive myself crazy over that."

The rest of their discussion was nothing but a distant sound to you. Plenty of possibilities about what occurred were now open and, quite frankly, it was giving you a headache. You had never met Jisung in this world, but maybe his other self was still a part of him. That, or you visited his dream and not the movie.

The two men discussed some more details for another hour. After what felt like an eternity, the question period finally arrived. You had forgotten all pre-prepared interrogations you had by then. Despite that, you were determined to, at least, speak to him once. Nervously, you raised your hand while he was already responding to someone.

"So yeah, I'd say my mother was the main reason why I wanted to make this film," he concluded his answer with a nod.

Chan looked among the audience and it was almost like he recognized you. With a knowing grin, he pointed at you. "Miss with the red shirt."

The crew member walked to you to give you a microphone and it abruptly hit you how unprepared you were for this. You gulped as you shakingly brought the mic closer to your mouth.

"I had a question concerning this Y/N character."

Jisung, on his side, looked a mess the instant he heard your voice. He went closer to your side of the stage while squinting in order to take a better look at who was talking. He would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Go ahead," he finally said.

"When you said she appeared out of nowhere in your dream, what did you mean by that?"

And once and for all, he got a good glimpse of you. The actress who played you looked nothing like you. She was no match compared with your soft features. That was why she was the only character he struggled to cast — besides the fact half of the cast was his actual friends playing themselves.

"I-" he pondered for a moment. "You know what? Can you come see me after the conference? I feel like this is not something I can answer in the span of two minutes."

Surprised, you didn't let it show and nodded as you sat back down. What were the odds for him to want to talk to you one on one? Like he had requested to, you remained seated when Chan dismissed the audience.

It wasn't long after that a security member came to fetch you. He guided you all the way to a room backstage. Only from afar, you saw Jisung talk with Chan. He looked disturbed and worried. You started to think it wasn't a good timing to interrupt him. However, before you could have a say in it, the security guy pushed you inside and closed the door.

You looked at anywhere but them, rocking your body back and forth to hide the nervousness. There was a long silence before Chan sighed in a discouraged way. Without saying a thing, he walked past you and left the room.

It was only you and him.

"Is your name Y/N by any chance?" Jisung broke the ice making you look at him. His eyes were filled with hope.

"It is," you confirmed and his body immediately relaxed.

"I don't want to sound too creepy or whatever but..." he hesitated a little as he bit his upper lip. "I feel like I've seen you before."

Your breath cut short. He remembered.

"I might have a similar feeling towards you."

This made his unsure expression break into a smile, which then made you smile. It was like meeting a friend you hadn't seen in years, except you saw this same guy only hours ago. Heck, you were kissing him.

"Do you have time to go out for dinner with me?"

His question might have made you happier than you were supposed to be but you didn't care one bit, and it didn't look like he did either. After you shyly nodded a yes, he walked your way and drowned you in a hug. You didn't fight back.

"I think I forgot to tell you something," he mumbled softly against your ear.

"What is it?" you responded in the same tone.

"You left before I could finish; I love you."

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[withleeknow]

wishful thinking. (06)

chapter six: like lightning

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; mentions of sex, swearing, this chapter is also pretty mild in terms of warnings? the angst begins here tho !!! could've been more edited but yk lol word count: 4.9k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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If I never laid eyes on you Would I feel something missing? If you never laid eyes on me Would you know something’s gone?

Happy Accidents - Saint Motel

You don't know if you've ever changed, even once, in your life.

You feel like you're still 8 years old and your best friend is the neighbors' elderly dog that they let you play with every weekend. She's a golden retriever, and she would stand taller than you if she could walk on two legs.

You're still 16 and your happiest memories are of a boy who doesn't love you back. But all of your friends say that he does, and oh, how much you want to believe that their words are true.

And at the same time, you're 22, just a few months shy of 23, sitting in front of a canvas showcasing your own bleeding heart. Your growing pains, laid out by acrylics and gentle brush strokes. You liken yourself to the figure in front of you, the one that's standing in the corner of your painting, overlooking a sea of blues and grays. There's a piece of you that's left behind in everything you create. Sometimes, you leave it there on purpose, a memorabilia for your future self to look back at fondly.

You think of everything in your life that has changed and how you're the only thing that has managed to remain the same. The dog eventually dies and the boy moves on with his life. The passage of time is relentless but you seem to be the only one who can't keep up with the tireless flow. You're always running in place, always stuck behind in the end. There's a past in which you still live, one where you don’t know if you'll ever make it out of.

You think of home and the search comes up empty, like it does every single time. Home isn't here inside of your own body, nor is it within the four walls of your childhood bedroom. You've never felt like you belong anywhere. Everything is always fluctuating, constantly and unabatingly spinning and spinning and spinning when all you're asking for is a minute to stand still and catch your breath.

Home isn't always a place, that much you know. Maybe home isn't even a thing that you build but something that you find, in a person or a touch, in a feeling or a scent. Perhaps that's the problem, isn't it? Home is something you find, and you've spent your whole life searching.

People say your early 20s are supposed to be the best years of your life but that sentiment has never resonated with you. These are the years that you spend in excruciating limbo, where you're not an adult but you're forced to be anyway. The years where loneliness is an invisible friend that shadows you day in and day out, a presence you don’t want around but can't seem to shake off, a haunting that's far too gentle to be considered such. These aren't your best years; these are your saddest years.

None of it helps build character. It just hurts.

It hurts. You accept that it hurts. You keep on living, always accompanied by the hurt. At some point, it stops bothering you as much; you've grown numb to the way it stings, but it doesn't mean that there aren't days where you're pierced with a sudden and debilitating hollowness in your chest.

Here you are, half an adult but still a child, wondering if you know anything more than you did when you were 8.

You just want to go home, but you don't know where home is.

You look at the small pool of yellow acrylic paint that's been sitting on your palette for a while now. It feels so out of place among the other insipid tones, even though that has always been your intention - a burst of life amidst a sea of blues.

You don't think about anything in particular when your fingers pick up a brush and dab it in a generous amount of paint. It doesn't make much sense, but it feels right. You don't think about anything in particular when your hand smears the color on the cavas, on the figure, a startling stroke right in the center of her chest, contrasting all of the dulls and darkness surrounding.

Though, you do think of him afterward. Of him and daffodils and spring.

The rest of your friends are already present when you and Felix show up at Chan and Jess' shared apartment, holding boxes of pizzas and a case of beer.

It's a cute tradition that was started last year, when all of you promised to gather the final Friday of every month to have a cozy little dinner party among yourselves. It usually takes place at Chan's, since his apartment is bigger than the rest of yours, and because him and Jess are practically the parents of the group anyway.

The second you step into the living room, a chorus of groans erupts all around. Hyunjin and Jisung are the most vocal petulant babies, pouting from their seats, complaining that you two took too long and that they've been starving for hours.

You and Felix shrug off your jackets before delegating the tasks to the lot of them, since you were in charge of picking up the food for tonight. Minho and Seungmin grabbing plates and cups from the kitchen for Changbin and Jeongin to set on Chan's large coffee table.

You opt for a seat on the carpeted floor, next to the spot on the cream-colored couch where Minho left his phone, feeling more comfortable this way since the table is a little low for your liking. They come back a few minutes later, and you smile up at Minho when he reclaims his seat on the couch.

"Hi." He smiles back, smoothing a hand over your hair in greeting.

"Hi," you say. Even a touch so simple warms you up from the outside chill you were in mere minutes ago. No one else notices his lingering hand on you, or it's just such a you and Minho thing to be mildly affectionate with each other that the others don't care to comment on anymore.

You all fall into easy conversation soon after everyone starts digging in, chatting amongst yourselves as you always do. You and Hyunjin lament about your respective projects, reiterating the frustration that you've already expressed through your texts for the zillionth time. Chan and Jess nag Jeongin about introducing his girlfriend to the group, to which the younger one responds with an exaggerated groan as one would when their parents ask about grandchildren, though he does placate them by promising to bring her along the next time there's a party.

You don't care enough to tune into Minho's conversation with Changbin and Felix about the new gym they started going to. You do, however, catch Changbin's attempt to tease Minho. A playful scoff, followed by, "Minho lost his abs ages ago."

Your response is automatic and therefore, it doesn't warrant much thought from you before the words are tumbling out of your mouth. "No, he has abs. They're still there."

You don't recognize the weight of your words until you notice all chatter has halted, and you look up to find all eyes on you.

"How do you know that?" Jeongin is the one to voice everyone's collective thought, puzzled, a little surprised.

"Yeah, isn't Minho notoriously weird about that stuff?" Felix adds.

You blink in a daze, and you don't know if your face is reddening because of embarrassment but you sure hope that it isn't. The mouthful you're munching on gives you a reason to stall, your reputation of being a slow eater makes the excuse more believable when you don't answer right away.

As subtly as you can, you nudge Minho's leg with an elbow. He just laughs, though you're pretty certain he can tell that you're internally freaking out.

"I was walking her home from class a few weeks ago and we got caught in the rain. She let me come up to her apartment to change," he says calmly.

You remember that day. He was walking you from campus back to yours, so that part was true. But it didn't start raining until you were both sheltered in the comfort of your apartment, with him on top of you as he fucked you nice and slow on the couch. You didn't know when the rain stopped, but it must've been some time during your shower that you offered him to join with the innocent intention of cleaning yourselves up and saving water, only for him to end up on his knees with his face between your legs and his fingers buried deep inside of you. He'd made you come three times that afternoon, then took you out to udon afterward.

"And you just... changed in the middle of her living room or something?" Changbin asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Minho shrugs, completely nonchalant. "Yeah."

The silence in the room persists as you swallow down the bite. Their stare lingers on the pair of you, then they turn to look at each other like they're speaking a secret language that you're unfamiliar with. Why is it such a scandalous thing for you to see Minho without a shirt? You've seen your other guy friends shirtless numerous times before, when all of you are hanging out in someone's apartment on particularly hot summer days.

Though, they aren't wrong. The arrangement between the two of you muddles your memory, but you don't really remember seeing Minho flaunt his bare skin often before.

You're about to squeeze out a weak response to aid Minho's explanation, but your friends just start nodding along in acceptance.

"I guess that makes sense. If there's anyone who would see him naked, it'd be Y/N."

This definitely makes you blush. Minho laughs again.

"What?! I did not see him naked."

Well, look who's a liar now?

"Y/N, and whoever he's banging," Hyunjin supplies, which seriously doesn't help the flush on your cheeks at all.

"Why would it make sense that it was me?" you protest.

"Because you're his favorite." Jess is the one who answers, to which the rest of your friends all hum in agreement. The way they're reacting makes it seem as though it's just a fact of life that you're Minho's favorite, and that whatever boundary he lets you cross or whatever rule he breaks when it comes to you is simply a result of this fact.

Not once has it crossed your mind that everyone might have a favorite person in the group, but now that it's been said, you quickly conclude that Minho would be your favorite too (your secret arrangement notwithstanding.)

You glance up at him, seeking reassurance with a curious blink. "Am I?"

"You're alright," is what he tells you in lieu of a confirmation. "The least annoying one."

And you don't know if it's the way he speaks ever so gently when he looks at you or how his lips curl up in a knowing smile that sends a tingle of warmth down your spine. Or perhaps the culprit is the softness in his sharp eyes that makes you a little dizzy, makes a pair of butterflies go rampant at the pit of your stomach, as though they're prepared to soar when the ardor of spring begins to thaw the winter frost.

Chan laughs, "That's practically a declaration of love from Minho."

At one point, Hyunjin looks around and comments with a mouth stuffed full of pizza, "Wow. We are literally perfectly divided."

All eyes fall onto him, clearly no one is catching his drift.

Hyunjin swallows his food and washes it down with a big sip of beer before gesturing vaguely at the group, "All the singles are on the floor."

You look at the people on the couch while they stare back at you, Hyunjin, Seungmin, Changbin and Felix sitting comfortably on the fluffy rug.

"I'm single," Jisung says, pointing at himself. "Should I get on the floor?"

"No, you're not," Seungmin says flatly.

"What?"

"Didn't you get back together with your ex girlfriend?"

"What?" Jisung practically squeaks out. "Man, what are you talking about?"

"I live with you. We literally share a wall. I heard you last week. The whole two hours."

“You were home?!”

"My shoes were by the door. I had dishes in the sink. I went to the bathroom to pee several times."

Jisung gasps, growing redder and redder as more eyes start diverting their attention to him. He opens his mouth only to promptly close it as he thinks of what to say. Repeats the process a few times. "We didn't hear you. You never said anything," is what he settles on stuttering out. Then, "Why didn't you bring it up? Why do you have to air out my dirty laundry now?"

"It's more entertaining to embarrass you in front of everyone." Seungmin shrugs, and ignores Changbin's subsequent comment calling him a pervert. "And no wonder you didn't hear me. You were going at it like you were rabid."

"Wait," Jeongin says, "when did you even get back together?"

"We didn't. It's complicated! We're just… y'know…"

When Jisung trails off sheepishly with the bright blush still apparent on his cheeks, Minho cuts in, finishing his sentence bluntly, "Boning."

You send him a glare from where you're seated on the floor, to which he just gives you a lopsided grin and nudges you with his knee.

While everyone else is busy bombarding Jisung with questions on potentially getting back together with his ex, Minho quietly slithers down to the floor like a stealthy cat, squeezing himself into the space between you and Felix. Minho rests his arm behind you on the couch, leaving it stretched out comfortably on the cushions, just lightly touching your back. Usually, when you two are alone, he would have his arm wrapped around your shoulders so he could pull you close, until you're safely tucked into his side where you would remain on most of your evenings spent together. But for now, he leaves his arm where it grazes you only slightly as you sit among friends, with the exception of his hand reaching to play with your hair once in a while.

"Hey!" Hyunjin practically screeches, pointing at Minho when he notices. "Why did you get on the floor?"

"What?" Minho asks innocently. "You said the singles are on the floor."

"You're not single. You have a girlfriend."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

Hyunjin scoffs. "You have a sneaky link."

"Hmm, not the same as a girlfriend."

"Why can't you just tell us, man? There's gotta be something else you're hiding."

You stay quiet, still as a statue while they bicker back and forth, like the mere motion of your breathing could give your secret away. You don't doubt that Hyunjin has been hounding Minho about his new discovery ever since the night of Yeonjun's party, but Minho seems unfazed about it, evading Hyunjin's badgering with a calm composure that's distinct to no one else.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, quickly shuffling away as if your absence at the table would help make things seem less suspicious for Minho. You splash some water on your face, wait for a while until it feels like an appropriate amount of time has passed for them to have already moved onto another topic. You are, quite literally, hiding from your own friends.

Moments later, you re-enter the room with gentle footsteps and a certain tension in your spine, but you soon grow relieved when you find that the conversation has somehow shifted to Seungmin and his on-again off-again not-girlfriend, about which he just seems kinda sad for a few seconds before he's telling everyone to fuck off and mind their own business, always quick to conceal any and all emotions. He's similar to you in that way, you suppose.

You sit back down next to Minho who's still on the floor, though you put a little distance between your bodies that wasn't previously there. You don't know if it's enough to be noticeable, but he does look at you for a brief moment before leaning a bit closer, asking softly so only you could hear, "Walk you home later?"

You embark on the familiar route from Chan and Jess' place back to yours. It's not that late, barely even 10PM on a Friday night, but the streets are almost deserted. Barely anyone tipsily roaming the streets with their friends in tow; just a few cars passing by every now and then. You relish in the peace and quiet, sighing softly to yourself as you walk in the crisp evening air.

Minho takes casual strides next to you, letting his hand brush against your hand for a while until his pinky finds its way around yours. The tranquility of the city is nice, but being with Minho is even nicer.

Just some of the stars have come out to play, though the way they gleam and glimmer is enough to make up for what they lack in numbers. It's easy to get lost tonight, when you're looking up at an infinite sky with little light and only Minho's pinky hooked around yours like an anchor to guide you back home.

In the grand scheme of things, you're just a speck of dust. You're young and confused - 23 is still a child in your mind - and most of all, you're insignificant. Not in a self-disparaging way. Maybe in the literal sense of the word would be more accurate.

You are insignificant, merely a face among billions of faces. In a crowd of hundreds, or maybe only dozens, you're not someone who would stand out and be picked. Sometimes, it's nice to blend right in and hide in plain sight; you don't particularly enjoy being under the spotlight anyway. But sometimes, it's lonely to be just a drop in the ocean. You could sink right to the bottom and no one would even notice.

Maybe that's why you enjoy being around Minho so much. He makes you feel safe, and seen, like you matter in the end. He makes you feel like if you were to disappear one day, there's a person out there who would go to the ends of the earth in search of you.

You hope that he sticks around, that he wants to be in your life for as long as you can have him. You're not sure what it is that makes you sick to your stomach at the mere thought of losing him; perhaps because you know you will never come across another one like Minho in your lifetime. There's nobody else that can make you feel the same way he does.

I don't want to lose you. You're the only good thing I have.

An intersection, two left turns, and your apartment building comes into view all too soon.

"Wanna come up?" you ask bashfully. The streetlights do a good job at masking your light flush.

"I can't tonight," he says, a little apologetic. "I'm going to my parents' house first thing in the morning."

"Oh." You're disappointed for no specific reason. Sure, you were practically glued to Minho's side for most of the evening, but you were also surrounded by the very friends who are unaware that you two have been sneaking around behind their backs. It's been about over a week since you hung out with him alone, which isn't that long ago by any means, but still. "For the weekend?"

"Yeah, just for the weekend."

There's a selfish urge, just a tiny one, to ask him to come for a while anyway, maybe only twenty minutes or so, but you swallow it down and wave it away. "Okay, have fun. Say hi to the cats for me."

"I'll send you pictures," he tells you. "They miss you, y'know."

You smile at that, laughing a little. "They've met me once."

Last fall, you and your friends all took a weekend trip to Minho's childhood home for his birthday. It was fun for you, though you're not sure how much his parents actually enjoyed it, considering they had to house and feed almost a dozen kids that weren't their own. You remember the cats, of course you do, and how Soonie took an immediate liking to you, how he mostly hovered around your personal space whenever you were in the house.

"No, seriously. My mom says Soonie meows your name once a day."

You throw him an eye roll, accompanied by a light punch to his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Min," you say. "Text me when you get home."

"Okay."

Even after that, the two of you still stay rooted to the spot, your pinkies interlocked. Minho's gaze doesn't leave your face, and for a moment there, it feels like most of the stars didn't show up because they all left to gather in his eyes.

"Can't go up if you don't let me,” you quip, glancing at your hands, knowing full well that you can easily retract your finger if you want to.

His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer. "Let me kiss you," he asks softly, releasing your pinky only to take your hand in his, tugging you closer until you’re all up in each other's personal space.

You blink at him, your heart caught somewhere in your throat. You're close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. "Min…" you murmur but you don't actually know what you want to tell him, so the nickname hangs like an idle lantern in the bubble of space between your faces.

"Just a goodnight kiss."

"Friends don't kiss," you say meekly, reminiscent of your conversation over a week ago.

"Friends don't have sex either," he repeats.

"But we’re not having sex."

"You asked me to come upstairs. What do you think we would've done?"

And he's right. If he had agreed to come up, then you would probably be pressed against the door right now, with his hands trailing down your body, removing every article of clothing they find, his lips kissing every exposed patch of skin along the way.

Minho would've been kissing you regardless - anywhere and everywhere, and you wouldn't have had any qualms about it like you do right now, even though you want to kiss him too.

"Maybe I wanted you to come up to make you peel tangerines for me while we watch a movie."

He says nothing to that, only grins amusedly and leans in to nudge his nose against yours. It's so cute that you can't help but mirror the quirk of his lips. You're sure that no one else gets to see this version of him - the one that boops you like an overly affectionate cat and smiles like you're his favorite person not just in your little group, but in the whole wide world.

"I haven't kissed you all week," he murmurs, his voice so gentle in the quietude that surrounds you. "You were right there but I couldn't kiss you all night."

You lose yourself in his brown eyes, the same eyes that hold nothing but sincerity and fondness for you. The stars here are brighter than the ones overhead.

"Let me kiss you," Minho says, "please?"

You cave. Of course you do.

The first glide of his lips over yours has you weak in the knees. Something sinks in as he kisses you deeply. Under the streetlights, not surrounded by your familiar four walls like a long lost secret but out in the open where anyone can see, even though there's not a single soul around.

Again, tears well up behind your eyelids the same way they did that morning you woke up next to him for the first time. You don't know what it is, never felt this way around anyone except for him. It's akin to the feeling of finally coming home after being away for a long time, or at least that's what you think that's how it would feel.

You don't want to be caged in by the walls of your own making. You want to be seen, and you want to be seen by him. You're the remnants of snow and ice stuck between cracks in the sidewalk, and he is warmth. You're a mosaic of a daffodil garden caught in an endless winter, and he is spring. Minho is the brief but wonderful moment when cherry blossoms have yet to fall from their branches, but green leaves are already growing impatiently, resulting in the beautiful coexistence of pinks and greens if only just for a few days.

You let him kiss you until you're both out of breath, let him wrap his strong arms around your body and hold you like he could mend all of your broken pieces. Maybe he could. Maybe you'd like him to make you whole again.

When Minho pulls away, he doesn't stray very far. He puts enough distance between your faces so you can catch your breath. But even then, you have a hard time getting air back into your lungs. He's looking at you like he would pick the moon for you if you asked, like moving mountains is no more difficult than peeling tangerines for you whenever you get a craving.

The streetlights are dim, but the stars in his eyes are bright enough to tell you something that his words don't.

It hits you all at once, in a moment where even the wind is still, as if it's been reduced to a mere spectator, watching the two of you with bated breath on the sidelines. The tipping point can be something as simple as him asking - almost pleading - to kiss you goodnight with no ulterior motive, no other intention than because he wants to. As though it would kill him if he had to go another minute without kissing you.

You realize why he's the yellow to your sea of blues, why you're so happy every time you look at the bracelet on your wrist. You realize why you feel so safe around him, why he makes you experience emotions that no one else can. You realize why you don’t like hearing about Hana, or any other person in the same sentence as his name with the implication that he could be romantically involved with them.

You realize why you kissed him for the first time all those months ago, and it wasn't because you were sad and he just happened to be there and let you cry on his shoulder. The times that your friends would tell you how you and Minho would be perfect together - you wanted it to be true. You knew it was true - that he was someone you could love, the only person who's worth opening up to. You kissed him because you wanted to love him. You realize why it made you soar when he kissed you back, because you wanted him to love you too.

You realize why the thought of losing this friendship terrifies you. You realize why you asked him to stay that night after the party and the club, even though you had never allowed him to sleep over before. You realize why the other week you let him only kiss you and nothing else, and you realize why your heart is hammering in your chest this very second, why your knees are weak, why you can't really breathe here in the middle of an empty street under a moonless sky, just because he's looking at you as if it's not the sun that the earth revolves around but rather, it's a girl who has never learned how to say what she means.

You're good at leaving things alone; it's a skill that you've unintentionally mastered over the years. Nothing has to change if you let it remain the same. And yet, the one exception always seems to be Minho, and you're a mirror of yourself when you're with him. You like the version of you that only he's able to bring out, and he does it effortlessly every time. He pulls happiness out of you so easily that it's hard to ignore what you feel for him, hard to convince yourself that what you harbor for him is still only platonic affection.

It comes bubbling up to the surface without your permission. It strikes you the same way lightning splits open the whole sky on a cloudless night, abrupt and unmistakeable. Love isn't something that you've ever come close to, and you have always been an unbeliever when people answer "You just know," in response to "How do you know when it is love?"

Though as you stand right here, right now, you think maybe this is what love is supposed to look like, personified with starry eyes and shallow dimples when he smiles.

Before he leaves, Minho presses another sweet kiss to your cheek. You're still dazed by the dawning, overwhelmed by the recognition that you can only mutter a stupid "Bye," when he bids you good night.

As you watch him go, there's something else you realize, almost tragically, that you've always been a ruiner. You run away the moment shit starts getting too real, even if it means letting beautiful things slip through your fingers like running water.

Love just isn't something you've ever learned to hold.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 15.04.2024]

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know smut #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho #fic: wishful thinking

[non-stop-imagines]

Calm Down

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Black!Reader

Summary: Oscar has his own ways of calming his you down. (From this request 💖)

Word Count: ~1.5k words (I've been real lazy y'all so this is me eye balling it.)

Warning: Smut, p in v (unprotected, stay safe kids), fingering, teachnically thigh fucking, orgasm denial, Hard!Dom in a very Oscar way, mention of the FIA (we all need to be warned about that), some plot (enough for this to actually be a fic)

A/N: I'm still working my way through a few more pre-"closed request" fics, after this one I have 4 more. 🥳 I'm kinda glad I'm able to get this one out. It's to the lovely anon that requested it but also for another anon that would like more Oscar fics out there. I have my Oscar moments, and I guess you guys caught me in one. 🤭 Anyway, hope you all enjoy! Love you all!!💖💛💖💛

(P.S. Expect another headers update because these requests y'all have been sending in are😚🤌🏿)

Masterlist

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"No further investigation." This was the umpteenth time those words have plummeted from your mouth, now in quiet disbelief while you paced around Oscar's driver room when before it was being repeated by you as you first attempted to march your way towards the stewards office, but when that was thwarted by members of the McLaren team who were used to your reaction towards botched penalty calls, you tried to make your way to the Ferrari garage to just "have a talk" with the Spanish driver who pushed your boyfriend off the track, but Oscar was able to find you and promptly divert you to his room. "How could they be so stupid?"

"It's the FIA, I think they share a singular brain cell among them, and that brain cell is on holiday most of the time." Oscar spoke calmly as he undid his neck strap of his race suit and began to unzip it to expose his black fireproofs.

"How are you so fucking calm right now!? Carlos forced you off the track causung you to damage your front wing in which having to replace it during your fucking pit stop no doubt costed you third place!" The braids in your ponytail thrashed around as you erratically expressed your disdain for the unjust treatment your boyfriend was given during the race, and Oscar watched, mostly in admiration, but also slight annoyance. This wasn't the first time he has had to calm you down from such frustration.

"Because, there's nothing else we can do except go into the next race. Yeah, it sucks, but it's done." He shrugs his race suit off his shoulders and lets it gather around his waist while you scroll through Instagram, seeing the incident over and over again. You were like a bull seeing red.

"Nah, like, I just want to go talk to Carlos. It's like he has some weird hit out on you cause this is not the first time he's done this and I'm fucking tired of it." You push off of the massage table and head towards the door of the driver's room, but your wrist gets captured as you walk by Oscar, who gently guides you back to him.

"Yn, you need to calm down." He pulls you to him and wraps an arm around your lower back, his other hand fixing the askew braids in your ponytail. He was still a little damp but you something in your brain allowed you not to care too much about the sensation because he always looked little sexy with the messy sweaty hair and rouged cheeks and nose. A little sweat was worth it

"And what if I don't?" You squint, your insubordinace unphasing to Oscar as he finishes fixing up your ponytail.

"You know what happens, baby." A sweet grin makes its way onto his face but the hand that was previously in your hair grips your face, forcing you to look at him. "I make you." He gives you a quick peck on your forcibly puckered lips and then flips you so you were bent over the massage table, ass exposed to him. "You wore a skirt. You wanted this to happen you horny little minx."

"You're the only 22 year old I know that would use the word minx." You antagonize as Oscar makes quick work of flipping your skirt up, removing your underwear and pushing his race suit down letting it rest at his ankles, leaving him standing behind you starting to push down his underwear. "Ooo, I've made him mad now."

"No, no. I'm just used to you mouthing off. Especially when you're really horny, so..." He leans over to look at your face, your head resting on your hands and turned to the side, then finishes pushing his underwear down, releasing his dick which he almost automatically rubs between your pussy lips. "You're already so fucking wet, all from being a brat."

"And you're already hard because you like when I'm a brat, sweetheart." You wiggle your ass and move your hips backward, making Oscars dick slip between your sticky thighs again.

"Still so fucking mouthy." He grasps your hips for a moment to stop your hips from moving, then moves his hand to your lower back while he brings his cock to your entrance, pressing in and bottoming out in one fell swoop, forcing a loud moan from your chest. "Where's all that talk now, sweetheart?" He bends forward so he's speaking into your ear, then retracts his hips and thrust forward again.

"Os, fuck..." You let out sobbing whines with each thrust of Oscars hips, reaching out so you could grip the other side of the massage table.

"All you had to do was calm down love. But we both know you wanted this, hmm. Wanted me to fuck you quiet." Your legs were already getting weak, so Oscar had to adjust his grip at your hips, wrapping his right arm around your waist, the angle perfect for getting your clit. He doesn't put to much pressure, just allows the sticky slickness of your arousal to make it easy for his fingers to glance over the bundle of nerves. Even the slight touch sends a jolt through your body, making you gasp. "Look at you being a good girl for me now. Nice and quiet so no one hears. Wouldn't want anyone to know that your little act out there was just so you could get fucked senseless." All you could muster up was a moan as Oscar sped up the pace of his hips, he could go for hours, but he knew he had to make it to media obligations or else his absence would be suspicious. Lucky for him, despite your weak knees, you started to meet his thrusts, trying to get yourself to that proverbial edge that you could just taste.

"Can I cum, please?" You reach back to the hand that kept grazing your clit, guiding it to rub circles on it, having to move his hand a bit to get the optimum amount of leg shaking sensation.

"Only if your promise to be my perfect little girl from now on." He pulled his dick out of you and thrusts between your legs, the sensation of it rubbing on your clit making you whimper and giving him the wonderful visual of your cunt contracting around nothing.

"I'll be a good girl, I promise!" You were back to wiggling your ass, nonverbally begging for him to go back to fucking you. He looks up to check the analog clock on the wall.

"Okay, I'm gonna give you exactly one minute, but I'm only gonna use my fingers." You have a short tantrum while Oscar steps out of his race suit and pulls his underwear, then runs his fingers through your folds stopping your stomping feet. "I could just not give you a chance, I do have places to be..." He doesn't move and continues to run his hand over your cunt, but you took his threat to heart.

"No! Nooo, please, Os. Help me cum, please." He love to see you beg for him, especially when 99.9% of the time you were boisterous and confident and didn't take anyone's shit, which he loved, but little moments like this when he was in charge was the cherry on top of the relationship between you two.

"That's my girl." He brought his right hand that running along your cunt, now soaked in your juices, to your entrance, his middle and ring finger teasing you before pressing in, filling the emptiness his dick left. His left hand snaked back around your front to rub your clit. He did keep an eye on the clock, as he thrusted his fingers in you and rub your clit exactly where you guided his hand earlier, the sound of your muffled moans filling the small room, now that your face was down on your hands. Your hips gyrated in the air as you chased pleasure from Oscar's skillful fingers. But it was getting dangerously close to that one minute mark, and you still haven't came, and Oscar was serious about that time restraint.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven..." He counted down, fingers moving at a slightly faster speed, trying to help you reach your climax by "zero". Zero came, but you didn't, and you were left on the edge as Oscar removed his fingers from you, sucking your slick from them, and finished getting dressed to head to the media pit, ignoring your cries from being denied a surprisingly intense orgasm. "Sorry, hun. I'll help you when we get back to the hotel, okay?" He helps you up from the massage bed, smoothing your skirt down for you, adjusting your shirt and fixing your ponytail again before finishing off with a kiss to your pouted lips.

"Fine." You watch him do final checks on his own appearance before leaving his room, suddenly realizing your lack of underwear when you watch him stuff your panties in his pocket, becoming hyper aware of the stickiness between your thighs and the coolness of the air on your pussy. "Hey, wait. I can't go commando in a skirt."

"Exactly. You wouldn't dare go and try to fight anyone from Ferrari wearing a skirt and no underwear." He tips your chin up slightly and presses another long kiss to your lips. "I'll be back. Be a good girl, just like you promised." He taps your nose with his index finger and then turns to leave the room.

"Fuck you, Piastri." You cross your arms and lean against the massage table, a grin sneaking into your scowl.

"You already did, sweetheart." He rushes out the door and shuts it quickly to avoid the water bottle you chuck at him, both of you giggling like school children.

#formula 1 #black reader #f1 imagines #formula 1 x black!reader #f1 x black!reader #request #oscar piastri x black!reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smut #f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 fic #oscar piastri x reader #f1 scenario

[daisynik7]

Strawberry Soju

🎶 I don’t need another shot of you, but I got to, my strawberry soju 🎶

Pairing: Eren x f!reader

Rating: Explicit - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Genre: college au, enemies-to-lovers

Word Count: ~7.0k

cw: asshole!Eren, fratboy!Eren, subby!Eren, blowjob, cunnilingus, face riding, multiple orgasms, cowgirl, unprotected sex, alcohol, language.

Summary: Two weeks before graduation, you are finally done with your senior project. This calls for a celebration with your team, including the person who annoys you the most: Eren Jaeger. The two of you learn to put your differences aside for one night, starting with a bottle of strawberry soju. 

Notes: All characters are seniors in college (21-22 years old), engineering majors. Eren is a frat boy, so some details from my series Rush will be used, but no correlation to that story. Inspired by the song “Strawberry Soju”, which I’ve been obsessed with for the past two weeks. I had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you enjoy! Reblogs, likes, and/or comments are ALWAYS appreciated, thank you so much! 

“And now, we are proud to present the winner of this year’s Senior Project Showcase: Team Titan! For their omni-directional mobility gear, designed for construction workers in the field to ensure safety whilst elevated hundreds of feet in the air! Bravo, Team Titan! Bravo!”

Professor Pyxis’s announcement leaves you and your group flabbergasted. Sasha and Connie both have their jaws dropped. Eren, who sits beside you, throws his fist in the air, exclaiming, “Oh hell yeah!” You stay in your seat, in total shock.

Pyxis stares fondly at the four of you, beckoning you towards the stage in the main engineering lecture hall. “Don’t be shy, my young engineers, come here to accept your award!” Hesitantly, you all make your way behind the podium, a polite round of applause from the other students and faculty echoing throughout the room. 

Nearly an entire semester of work has led to this. Five months of grueling research, scrambling to acquire the right materials, complicated design issues that made you want to scream. Not to mention five months spent collaborating with the bane of your existence: Eren Jaeger. The award for first place barely makes up for a semester’s worth of torture; nonetheless, it’s still a pretty trophy.

It was fate that brought the four of you together back in January, the same fate that has spited you for whatever reason, forcing you to work alongside Eren, the most obnoxious, cocky, annoying person you have ever met in your short twenty-two years of living. While you had no issues with Connie or Sasha, you and Eren did not mesh. It’s been apparent since the beginning of the semester when you were chosen to be the team leader. He scoffed, claimed that he “would be a better choice, but whatever.” Your relationship with him was doomed from that day on. 

What’s odd is that he isn’t an asshole to the entire group; his less than pleasant behavior seems to be reserved for you, and only you. He gets on perfectly fine with Sasha and Connie, who have basically played mediator for you two, keeping as much of the peace as possible whenever an argument ensues. He usually instigates it, always making an unnecessary comment to get under your skin. At this point, you’re convinced he’s doing it on purpose just to get a rise out of you, because how can one human be this irritating?! 

Despite all the petty drama, you have to admit that he’s smart. Not only that, but he also works hard and gets shit done, no matter how much grief he gives you about it. And, if you squint hard enough, he maybe is, almost, sort of…hot. Strictly speaking from an objective standpoint, that is. Based on media-driven beauty standards and common qualities that are considered conventionally attractive by society. Of course, you will never, ever admit this aloud, especially not to him. You’re convinced that if he ever finds out, his massive head will explode, already overinflated from his gigantic ego. 

Your team crowds Pyxis, who happily hands you the trophy first. Eren, no surprise, snatches it from your clutches to hold it himself, kissing it and lifting it above him like he won a major league championship. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, trying to maintain professionalism in front of the watching staff. 

“Will your team leader give a few words about the project?” Pyxis asks, gaze on you, motioning to the stand. 

You tense up, usually nervous about public speaking. Clearing your throat, you lean into the mic. “Uh, thank you Professor Pyxis and the rest of the faculty for selecting our project. This has been a labor of love for the past five months and we are honored to have it recognized. We hope that this prototype and any of the research associated with it will help improve labor conditions for those working in construction, risking their lives every day.” 

You glance at Connie and Sasha to see if they’d like to add anything else. Connie adds, “Special shoutout to grad students Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, and Hange Zoe for helping us out a ton with our project, from offering advice to testing it out. We love you!” 

“And thank you Paradise Pizzeria and Café Utopia for fueling many late nighters throughout this whole semester! You rock!” Sasha exclaims, resulting in laughter from the audience. 

Eren grabs the mic from the stand, yelling, “This is dedicated to my fraternity brothers, for providing moral support during these trying times! Alpha Tau for life!” He holds the trophy in one hand, using the other to salute an inverted fist at his chest, sticking his tongue out.  

This time, you don’t contain your eye roll as the crowd laughs even louder, clearly amused by it. He passes the microphone back to Pyxis. “Fantastic! I love the enthusiasm of this team. Let’s give them all another big round of applause!”

After the presentation is over, Pyxis instructs, “They’d like to take your picture next to the ODM gear. The photographers are taking some shots of the other projects, so feel free to take your time heading to the Rose Center.” 

On the walk, Eren passes the trophy to Sasha. “What to hold it, Sash?”

“Sure! Still can’t believe we won!”

Connie puts his arm around her, staring at the prize. “I know it doesn’t really mean anything, but damn, is it nice to look at.”

Eren catches up to you, nudging you in the arm. “Would it have killed you to smile during your little speech?”

You shove your elbow into his ribs, a little harder than necessary. “I was smiling.” 

“You call that a smile? You looked like you were in a hostage situation. Like, blink three times if they’re hurting you type of deal,” he teases, that cocky smirk plastered on his face. 

“Like you were any better!” You stick your tongue out, mocking him. “Alpha Tau for life, bros!”

“I really meant it. I needed all the fucking help I could get, dealing with you this whole semester. If it weren’t for them, I would have gone fucking crazy because of you.”

“Oh right, because I’m the one driving you crazy, sure,” you respond, sarcastically.

“Hey, at least you’re admitting it! You’re finally making progress!” He claps in front of your face.

You shove him, glaring. “You are such a jerk.”

“Don’t be so sensitive, baby.”

“Oh, I am not your baby.”

Sasha jumps in between, yelling, “Enough! Both of you, stop it!!”

Connie joins in. “Yeah, we won today. Stop ruining the mood.”

Without you realizing it, the four of you have made it to the Rose Center, which is luckily vacant in the midst of your little spat with Eren. This is how your arguments usually go, all because of something petty that never leads anywhere. When the photographer arrives, they direct you to stand beside your project, already displayed in one of the glass windows. They take a couple of shots, then it’s over. Just like that, your senior project is officially done. There’s a huge weight lifted off your shoulders. All that’s left to do is to graduate. 

The sun is setting by the time the photoshoot is finished. The four of you exit the building, Sasha immediately announcing, “I’m hungry! Let’s get dinner one last time as a team!”

“I’m down for that. Any ideas where to go?” 

“Paradise Pizza?”

“No, we’ve had that way too many times this year. Let’s go somewhere special tonight.”

“There’s that all-you-can-eat Korean barbecue place downtown,” you suggest. “It’s only fifteen minutes away if we take the train.”

“Ooohh, I like the sound of that!”

“I’m down. Eren?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets. That too-cool-to-care attitude apparent in his body language. “If that’s what everyone else wants, then I guess it’s fine.” If it had been either Sasha or Connie to suggest it, you know for a fact that he would have a more positive response. Because it’s you, he has to act like he’s being forced into it, reluctant to concede with absolutely everything you propose. 

You go your separate ways to change out of professional attire and into more comfortable clothes, agreeing to meet outside Eren’s in an hour. His apartment is closest to the train station, making it the most convenient. By 7:00PM, you’re inside the restaurant, seated at a table, grill fired up as you browse through the menu. Sasha, the ultimate foodie of the group, orders the first round of meats. You pick the drinks. 

“Two bottles of strawberry soju, please!” you tell the waiter. 

“Oh, I love soju!” Sasha squeals. 

You smile at her. “Me too. This flavor’s my favorite.”

Eren, who is somehow seated next to you, grunts. “Strawberry? Of course you’d pick some girly shit like that.”

“Hey man, don’t knock it till you try it,” Connie says. “This shit gets you fucked up fast. Trust me. I’ve gotten soju drunk before, and it’s awesome.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Yeah, that’s because of all the extra fucking sugar, I bet. Sounds gross.”

The waiter arrives with the alcohol and four glasses, along with waters to share. You do the honors and pour everyone, except Eren, a shot. “I’m guessing you don’t want any of this gross soju, then?”

He snatches the shot glass, thrusting it towards you. “I didn’t say that. Just pour me some.” 

With glasses filled to the brim, you all cheers, then throw it back. The familiar flavor is refreshing and sweet on your tongue, smooth down your throat. 

“Shit, that’s good!” Connie raves.

“Strawberry might be my new favorite flavor! It’s so yummy!”

You face Eren, grinning. “Well?”

He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s alright.”

“Don’t lie to me. You like it, don’t you?” you tease, nudging him in the arm.

“I said it’s fine, okay?”

You stop pestering him, satisfied knowing that maybe you were finally right about something when it comes to him.

Soon, a plethora of tasty side dishes are scattered on the table. Rice, kimchi, fresh lettuce, potato salad, two helpings of steamed eggs to share. Three heaping plates of meat follow. Sasha begins barbequing, laying out portions of beef bulgogi on the hot grill as the rest of you watch hungrily, the steam and aroma surrounding you like a cozy embrace. Once it’s cooked, you help yourselves, stuffing your faces with perfectly grilled meat and whatever else you desire. Several bites in, you all decide to do another round of shots, first bottle almost finished.

“Good idea to do KBBQ tonight!” Sasha mentions. “I haven’t had it in a while. I forgot how much I love it.”

Connie chimes in, “Same! Which side dish is everyone’s favorite?”

Sasha immediately points to the potato salad. “Is there any doubt that mine would be this?”

“Of course we all know that potato girl. I like kimchi. What’s yours?”

You pick out your favorite. “This one, for sure.”

Eren makes an unapproving noise. “Of course you’d pick that. So basic.”

To keep the peace, especially on this night of celebration, you ignore the temptation to reply with an equally sassy comment. Instead, you ask, “Well, what’s your favorite, Eren?” 

“The steamed egg. It’s delicious and packs an extra serving of protein.” He flexes his bicep with a smug expression. “Not that I really need it.”

Connie and Sasha laugh, while you take a deep breath, using every ounce of willpower to keep your cool. You crack open the bottle, downing the remaining alcohol to help you get through the rest of the night.

“What’s everyone’s plans after graduation?” Connie asks.

Sasha answers first. “I’ll be working with my dad for our family business.”

“I’m sure Artur will appreciate all the new, high-tech engineering skills you have! If I’m still unemployed in two months, can you please hire me?”

“Of course!”

“What about you, Eren?”

“I got an offer in Marley,” he reveals. “It’s a pretty good gig, but I don’t know about moving overseas. I got another in Stohess to work for their weapons warehouse, so maybe I’ll accept that instead.”

“I’ve never been overseas,” you comment. “Sounds interesting if you do decide to go.” 

“Well, you’re wrong. It doesn’t sound interesting at all.”

Even your attempt at being polite is met with malice. “You always argue with me for the sake of arguing.”

He turns to face you, brows furrowed. “No I don’t!”

“You’re literally doing it right now! I was just trying to be nice.”

“Well, try harder,” he grumbles, picking meat off the grill.

“My god, you two are exhausting!” Sasha intervenes. 

Connie nods. “Seriously, don’t you get tired of fighting all the time?”

“Honestly, you two should do it and get it over with.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Eren leers at Sasha through the smoke. 

“I’m saying get all your anger out by fucking each other. Hate sex is the best medicine for situations like this,” she explains, matter of fact.

“No fucking way,” Eren says. “It’s not like that.”

“Definitely not,” you reiterate, cheeks warm. You pour yourself another shot, already on the second bottle, not offering a serving to anyone else. Desperate for liquor with the direction this conversation is going.

“Wow, you two actually agree on something for once!” Connie teases. “See? Isn’t this nice?”

The duo giggle together, finding enjoyment from your current state of misery. Eren clears his throat, muttering something unintelligible. He reaches for the soju in front of you, avoiding your gaze as he tips it into his empty shot glass, instantly downing it. Before the silence gets awkward, you change the subject, mentioning some idle gossip you heard around the engineering department, to which Connie and Sasha have plenty to contribute to. 

An hour later, the four of you manage to finish most of the food, only a few pieces of charred meat left over. Sasha and Connie rub their stomachs, satisfied by the feast. You and Eren end up finishing the last bottle between the two of you. Since the comment from earlier, neither of you have spoken directly, avoiding each other. 

Connie slumps into the chair, patting his belly. “Let’s play a game while we digest! Truth or eat. If you don’t answer, you have to eat these burnt pieces of bulgogi.”

Eren laughs. “That sounds fun. I’m down.” He looks to you, brow raised, challenging. “You in, princess?”

You bite your cheek, holding in the clever retort at his annoying nickname for you, also relieved he’s back to normal. “Sure, why not?”

“I’ll go first,” Sasha volunteers, sitting up in her seat. “Eren, who’s the freakiest brother in Alpha Tau?” 

Without hesitating, he states, “Armin, for sure.”

“Armin?! Really?”

“Yup. He’s one kinky motherfucker,” he grins. He turns to face you. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“You want the whole essay, or an abridged version?” you reply, smirking as you sip on your water.

Sasha giggles while Connie mutters under his breath, “Oh boy.”

Eren doesn’t let up. “Give me one reason.”

Contemplating which of the many grievances you should expose about him, you finally decide on one. “You always disagree with me, no matter what. Whether it’s something about the project, or something as simple as a side dish preference.”

“We already know that, though. What else?”

“Hey, you wanted one reason, and I gave it to you.” You think for a few seconds, adding, “And to be fair, hate is a strong word. I don’t hate you.”

It’s true. While he annoys you beyond your wit’s end, you don’t hate him. He’s a quarter of the reason you all achieved what you did. You focus back on the table, avoiding Eren’s expression. “Connie, have you two ever hooked up?” you question, pointing at the duo.

“Gross! No!”

“Absolutely not. We’re practically twins. That’d be illegal.”

“Yup. We’re basically two halves of a whole idiot.” 

You laugh with them, taking another sip of water as Connie poses a question to Eren. “Why do you give her such a hard time?” he asks, referring to you. 

“Here we go,” you mumble, ready for an onslaught of ridiculous reasons.

It’s silent for a few moments, then he takes his chopsticks, grabbing at the charred meat on the grill, placing it into his mouth to eat quietly.

“What?!” Sasha yells. “You’re not going to tell us?” 

Connie smirks. “Must be pretty bad, then.”

You watch him slowly chew the burnt food, a small smile on his face. As if there’s a secret he’s keeping from everybody else at the table. Why would he refuse to answer the question that he basically asked you? Is his hatred for you that intense that he chooses not to say it, to save you from humiliation? What could you have possibly done to him to warrant this kind of treatment? Maybe it’s the liquor leading you to jump to conclusions, to be slightly offended by his choice. Maybe even a little hurt. 

When he’s done, he chugs his whole water. “Alright, my turn again.”

“Wait, really?”

“We’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen?”

“Yup,” he responds, nonchalant. 

“Why?”

“Hey, I ate that shit, right? Let it go,” he states, more aggressively this time.

You remain silent, mind racing with all types of ideas. You pay no more attention to the game, contemplating all the possible reasons Eren Jaeger would hate you so much. To be fair, he’s the one who starts it first. All you do is defend yourself. Why would he have any bigger reason to dislike you more than you dislike him?

Connie yells out your name, breaking you out of your reverie. “Hey, are you in?”

“Huh?”

“Karaoke! There’s a bar down the street.”

After paying the check, split evenly, the four of you head to the karaoke bar, booking a private room for an hour. You all sing your hearts out while sobering up from whatever buzz you developed from the soju. Any strange concerns you had about Eren evaporate. The two of you even seem to get along, performing a few duets together.

On the train ride back near campus, the four of you share more laughs, enjoying possibly the last time you’ll be together. With everyone graduating and off to their own paths, it’s hard to tell when, or if, you’ll ever see each other again.  

From the station, you start you trek home, pausing outside Eren’s apartment to chat a bit more, until Sasha says, “I guess this is goodbye!”

“Yeah, thanks for all your hard work. This was really fun,” Connie adds, smiling. 

“We should all try to keep in touch.”

Eren hugs Connie, then Sasha. The two of you look at each other, contemplating if you should embrace also. Suddenly, you blurt out, “Actually, can I use your bathroom? I have to pee.”

You really do have to pee, but surely, you could have made it the extra ten minutes to your own apartment to do so, right? For some reason, your mind convinces you to stay with him just a little longer. There’s a pending task you have to complete before you part ways for good. You hope for closure, to end things on a good note. 

You, Connie, and Sasha exchange hugs, leaving with a final wave, disappearing into the distance. Despite the pleasant warmth of the summer night, there’s a noticeable chill in the air. Not from the weather, rather, from the growing tension surrounding you and Eren. His voice is quiet when he says, “Alright, I guess we can head in now.”

You nod, following him through the entrance. At the elevator, he swipes a keycard, pushing the button to go up to the third floor. The doors open and you step in, still not speaking a word. Arriving at his door, he unlocks it, holding it for you. 

“Bathroom is down to the right,” he points, removing his shoes at the entrance.

You copy him, sliding out of your sneakers. “Okay cool. Thank you.” 

Once you find the bathroom, you swiftly close the door, fully aware that you are inside Eren Jaeger’s apartment. Naturally, curiosity gets the best of you. With a quick glance around the room, you can tell he’s tidy. Towels hung properly, actual floor mats on the tiles, toilet seat down. Is he anticipating a visit from a friend? Maybe a lover? You can’t help letting your imagination run wild. 

Finished with your business, you walk out of the bathroom to find him sitting on the couch, television playing a show you’re familiar with. “Have you seen this episode yet? The new season just started,” you mention, stepping towards him.

He stands up, turning to face you. “I haven’t. Was planning to watch it tonight.”

“Cool,” is all you manage to utter. 

There’s another moment of awkward silence until he asks, “You want to watch it with me?”

Without thinking, you agree.

The two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch, watching in silence. About halfway through, with a soft chuckle, he admits, “That strawberry soju wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good.”

This catches you off guard. You look at him, grinning. “Wow. It took you this long to finally come clean about it.”

“Better late than never, right?” He keeps his eyes forward, smirking. 

You adjust, completely facing him. “Since you’re being honest about that, can you tell me why you didn’t answer Connie’s question?”

He plays dumb. “What question?”

“Why do you give me such a hard time?”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You’re still thinking about that?”

“Yeah, I am,” you confess. “Seems a little odd to me that wouldn’t just say it.”

Finally, he matches you, repositioning himself to set his gaze on yours. “Why do you care so much?”

“I’m curious. Since we’ll be graduating soon, we’ll probably never see each other again. I figured we should put everything out there. Get some closure. Make amends.”

He scoffs. “I wasn’t aware there were any amends to make.”

You’re getting annoyed now, impatient with his round-about comments. “Seriously? You think our relationship is normal?”

“I don’t think we have a relationship at all.”

You stand up, regretting being here in the first place. He’s the same asshole he’s always been. What we’re you expecting? Why would he be any different tonight? 

“Fine. Forget it. What a waste of time. Good job on the project, and I hope you have a great life.” You stomp towards the exit, not bothering to look at him.

Suddenly, his hand shoots out, gripping you loosely around the wrist. “Wait. Don’t go.”

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in frustration, skin tingly from the physical contact. Waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he stammers. “I’m not…I can’t really…” he trails off, not finishing his sentences.

When he doesn’t proceed, you ask, “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then why do you treat me this way? Why me?”

He swallows hard, the truth difficult for him to spit out. “It’s dumb.” 

“I don’t care. Just tell me.”

He lets out a sigh, averting his gaze to the floor. “It’s because I like you, okay?” 

It takes a moment for you to process what he’s saying. Eventually, you stammer, “You like me?”

“Yeah, I like you,” he reiterates, still staring at his own feet. “You’re cute. You’re the smartest person I know. And you’re also a fucking pain in my ass. But I like you.”

That last part would normally have you on the verge of swinging; however, it’s almost endearing the way he says it. Your sudden change in heart has you questioning if you’re drunk from the liquor you consumed hours ago. “Why would you treat me like this if you like me?”

Another deep sigh as he explains, “I don’t know. Because I’m a fucking idiot and I’m immature. I told you, it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb. I just…I didn’t expect this.”

More silence falls between you two. You look down at his big hand still holding you, racing heartbeat reverberating through your chest. You’re not sure how to react. So, you go with your instinct. 

You kiss him.

~~~

Eren doesn’t know why he started it months ago at the beginning of the semester. If he’s being completely honest, he’s got the body of Greek god, the intelligence of a genius, and the maturity, or in this case, immaturity, of a fifth grader. That being said, whatever it is that he has going with her, he’s decided to classify it as a schoolboy crush. Like a kid on the playground picking on another kid, doing everything they can to garner all their attention, no matter how annoying it is. 

It began with snide remarks here and there, nothing ever too cruel to be considered bullying, but enough to make her bite back. He’s not sure why he kept it up so long, especially after realizing he actually likes her. In his mind, negative attention is better than no attention at all. He can’t be normal around her; being a nuisance is what he’s comfortable with.

Another reason is that he’s intimidated by her. She could see right through his cocky demeanor. Break him down into the vulnerable little shit he really is. The grief he caused her is some bizarre defense mechanism, a way to deny his true feelings for her. All to protect himself and his heart. 

He was supposed to go to a frat party tonight after hanging out with the team. Instead, he finds himself alone with her in his apartment, everything revealed, his confession hanging heavy in the air. 

Even more unexpected is her leaning forward to kiss him, lips soft and gentle against his. Hesitant and uncertain. Sweet and tangy from the lingering essence of the strawberry soju from earlier. Before he gets carried away, he pulls off, whispering, “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” she admits. “But I can’t deny that I’m curious.”

“We shouldn’t do this then. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Just…shut up and let me check something.”

He obeys, closing his eyes, waiting for her move. She kisses him again, more confidentially this time, hand sliding to his nape to pull him closer. 

“Fuck, are you sure this is okay?” he breathes out, slowly losing his composure.

She nods, smiling. “Yes.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely certain?”

“If you ask me one more time, you’re really going to piss me off,” she warns, grazing her mouth along his neck, sucking at the skin of his throat.

He nods erratically. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Fuck.”

She pushes him back towards the couch, falling into the cushions. He watches in awe as she strips her sweatpants, revealing pink lacey panties.  She sits in his lap, legs spread wide with him between, clothed pussy against his pulsating cock. His hands are to his sides, clenched to the cushion of the couch. With her lips brushing his ear, she whispers, “You can touch me if you want.”

His cock twitches, erection growing by the second as she straddles him. Carefully, he slides his palms around her waist, moaning a trembling, “Thank you.” Hands at her bottom, he squeezes her ass cheeks in a firm grasp, fingers slipping underneath the fabric, dangerously close to her arousal.

Without thinking, he blurts out, “Use me. Do what you want with me. You’re the leader.”

There’s a wicked smile on her face as soon as he says it. “Eren Jaeger is going to let me use him?”

All pride is thrown out the window. He doesn’t care anymore about giving into weakness. With graduation only two weeks away, and no promise of ever seeing each other again, he decides fuck it. He’s going to do whatever he can to fulfill this fantasy of his. And if that means submitting to her, begging and groveling at her feet, he’ll fucking do it. 

“Yeah,” he growls. “Use me as your fuck toy. I’ll do whatever you want. Just fucking use me.”

“Didn’t think Alpha Tau’s frat star would behave like this,” she murmurs, sucking on his ear lobe. 

“Does it turn you on?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. Fucking wreck me apart then. Don’t hold back,” he demands. There’s already precum leaking from his tip, soaking through the cotton of his briefs. “Consider it payback for this semester.”

She responds by grinding her hips on his lap. He’s desperate to feel her without fabric separating them, but he knows what he agreed to. He can’t do anything without her permission, without her initiating. She rides him for another minute, his palms on her ass, following her motions. His cock throbs beneath her, aching for release from the confines of his pants. There’s an audible whine developing in his throat, needy for anything.

On cue, she swings her leg over to kneel beside him, tugging at the waistband of his sweats and underwear. He lifts his hips as she slides them off simultaneously, freeing his stiff cock. He watches her marvel at his erection, noticing desire in her eyes. Before he knows it, she’s bent towards his lap, mouth hovering his dick, licking at the slit. 

“Fuck,” he moans. “Goddamn.”

She continues to tease him, leaving the shaft untouched, tongue swirling the tip, lapping at his precum. 

“Fuck, please. Touch me,” he begs, legs quivering from arousal. 

Without warning, she wraps her fist around him, surrounding the tip with her mouth, bobbing up and down in sync with her strokes. She starts slow, increasing the pace with each guttural moan that emits within his chest. The temptation to buck his hips into her warm, wet heat is tantalizing, but he reminds himself that she’s in control, which only turns him on more.

She uses her other hand to fondle his balls, causing him to swear loudly. “Fuck!”

He feels the vibration of her giggle through his cock, clearly enjoying the way she’s unravelling him, his orgasm approaching fast. “Can I please come?”

She shakes her head, still working his dick. 

“Fuck. I can’t…I can’t hold it.” 

She releases him from her mouth, stroking him, face close to his. “You think you deserve to come now?”

He nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“Apologize first.”

“Huh?”

“Apologize. Admit that you’re a fucking asshole.” She nibbles on his ear lobe, dragging it down between her lips, still jerking him off. 

“I’m sorry. I’m a,” he chokes on his spit before he can finish. “Fucking asshole.”

“Tell me your desperate for it. That you need it.” 

“Fuck, I’m so fucking desperate, I fucking need it. Please.”

“Good,” she whispers, pumping him faster. She kisses him on the lips, grip tight around him as his cock swells, hanging by a thread at the edge of his climax. “Go ahead. Come for me, Eren.”

At the sound of his name on her sultry lips, he does, hot cum shooting straight onto his t-shirt. “Fuck!” he yells, eyes shut tight, riding out one of the best orgasms of his life. She strokes him until his balls are completely drained. Finally, he opens his eyes to inspect the scene, shocked by the mess painted across the bottom of his shirt, spilling onto his abdomen. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters, smiling at her.

She grins back at him. “Not bad, right?”

“Not bad at all. Really fucking good, actually.” He kisses her, fingers drifting down to her arousal, rubbing the fabric against her clit. “Come here. Let me eat this pretty pussy out. Please. I want it so bad.”

“Since you said it so nicely, I guess I can let you have a taste.” 

~~~

You stand up, leaving room for him to lay down on the couch. He doesn’t need to be told. He expects you to ride that pretty face of his. When he’s flat on his back, shirt stripped off and completely naked, he turns to watch you slip out of your panties.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he praises, reaching down to rub his balls. “I think about this a lot, you know.”

You toss your underwear to the floor, watching him play with himself, removing your remaining clothes. “What do you think about?”

“This. You, naked in my apartment. Riding my face till you come. Fucking your wet pussy right after.”

“I guess tonight’s your lucky night,” you tease, lifting your knee across him, straddling his face. 

“Yes, it is,” he replies, licking his lips, eyes wide with lust at your pussy above him, already wet with arousal. He cranes his neck upwards, tongue out, desperate for a taste.

“Not yet.” You lift up enough so he’s out of reach. “Watch me play with myself first.”

“Fuck,” he swears, salivating.  

You wet your middle finger with your slick, rubbing circles around your clit. He watches in a daze, biting his lower lip, brows knit together in concentration, focused on you pleasuring yourself right above him. He squirms beneath you, thrusting his hips into the air, in an effort to feel anything. “Get it fucking juicy for me, baby. I want to fucking drown in it.”

The little nicknames you’ve grown accustomed to hating has a very different ring to it now. For the first time all semester, you don’t mind it. You actually like it. With your free hand, you run your fingers through his hair, redirecting his gaze on yours. “That’s right. I’m your baby. And what are you?”

He swallows hard. “I…I don’t know.”

“You’re my fuck toy.”

“Fuck yeah. I’m your fuck toy, baby. I’m your fuck toy. Use me, please.”

With your grip firm on his hair, you sink lower, your pussy pressed to his open mouth. He licks your clit, swiping his wide tongue over it, moving side to side. You moan at the glorious sensation, rocking your hips across his face to feel more. He latches onto your swollen bud, humming in pleasure as he suckles on it. His hips rut into nothing again, arms at his sides, clutching hard at the cushions, letting you be in total control. This power he gives you turns you on more than you imagined. Maybe because all semester, he always acted as if he had the upper hand. Knowing how desperate he is to be beneath you, to please you beyond any other desire he has, it only spurs you on. 

You grind yourself on his face, the squelching noises indicating how sloppy he’s eating you out and how wet you’re becoming because of it. He’s relentless, alternating between licking, slurping, and sucking at your clit. You blissfully indulge in it until you climax on his tongue, bud over-stimulated, pussy soaked with his spit and your slick. 

“Fuck,” he muffles, slurping the cum from your sleek entrance. Legs wobbly from your orgasm, you lift off him, shifting to reposition yourself comfortably on top. His cock is hard beneath you, sticky with his cum from earlier. Through shiny lips, he whines, “I’m so fucking hard again. Fuck me. Fuck me with that wet pussy.”

Reaching behind you, you align him with your slit, sinking down on his shaft. He lets out a gasp, “I’m so fucking sensitive, fuck.” Concerned, you attempt to lift off, but he shakes his head fervently. “Don’t. Please baby. Fuck me till I come. I need it. I need it.”

You ride him, bouncing your ass on his lap, thrusting his cock deep inside you. He moans loudly, babbling filthy words from his needy mouth.

Use this cock, baby. Fuck me like a toy. 

Make yourself come on this dick. 

It’s all fucking yours. Take it, baby. Take it. 

I’m all yours. I’m all yours.

You moan with him, another climax approaching. Grabbing his wrist, you guide him to your clit. He caresses your puffy bud with his fingers. “I’m going to come,” you whimper.

“Can I come with you, princess? Please, can I come inside you?”

You nod wordlessly, pumping him in and out of you faster as he rubs your clit relentlessly, determined to make you orgasm. When you cry out in ecstasy, he joins you. “Fuck, I’m coming. I’m coming, baby.”

For the second time tonight, both of you come, this time together. He spills inside you, filling your cunt with his warm, creamy load as you coat his dick with yours. Your body is spent from the euphoria, throat dry from whining in pleasure, and your curiosity satiated. It’s a lie to say you’ve never imagined being fucked silly by Eren. No matter how much he annoyed you, irritated you, aggravated you, there were moments this semester when you thought about it. How good it would feel to ride him, fuck him dumb until he’s begging for release. 

“I’m exhausted,” he giggles, limp on the couch, softening cock still inside you, wrapping you in a snug embrace.

“Me too.” You settle into his arms, relaxed and comfortable against his chest. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, caressing your back tenderly. “Thank you.” He doesn’t elaborate, repeating it a few more times as he nuzzles his nose into the top of your head.

You cuddle together in a comfortable silence. “Sleep here tonight. I have an extra toothbrush and you can wear my clothes.” 

Accepting his offer, the two of you start tidying, picking up strewn wardrobe from the floor, wiping away the sticky aftermath of sex. You hop in the shower, rinsing your bodies clean, exchanging passionate kisses while the water splashes you. After you dry off and brush your teeth, you change into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers he lends you, jumping into the bed beside him. He smiles at you. “You look good in my clothes.”

You give him a smooch, getting yourself cozy under the covers. He spoons you, arm sliding over your waist, interlacing his fingers with yours. His breath is pleasantly warm on your neck. “I know we’re probably past this already, but I want to formally apologize. It wasn’t right the way I treated you, and I’m sorry. Genuinely.”

“Apology accepted,” you respond, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry too. For saying anything that hurt you out of anger.”

“You don’t have to be. I deserved it.”

“Still, I’m sorry. And no one deserves that.”

“All is forgiven then.” He chuckles softly. “For two smart people, we sure are dumb.”

You laugh with him. “If only we were a tad bit smarter, we could have started this months ago.”

“Yeah," he says, nestling his face against your neck. "You’re right.”

Nothing else is said as the two of you drift into sleep. It’s nice, having closure on a previously volatile relationship. However, something else lingers after tonight. Another door opens, leading to the unknown. He confessed his true feelings for you. You didn’t have time to process it, too focused on settling your truce through sex. While there’s no doubt that you find him physically attractive, can you really move on from the past and give him a chance? 

~~~

The words are on the tip of his tongue, and he decides to keep it that way, not wanting to disrupt this moment of peace. Not wanting to complicate it any further. He knows that this is the beginning and the end of whatever this fling is. She hasn’t reciprocated his feelings and he won’t pressure her to, not tonight. Maybe not ever. No matter how badly he wishes to see her again, keep in touch, make it official, he won’t ask that of her. At the end of the day, it’s his own fault for waiting too long, for being too late. Time has run out, and now he’s paying the price.

They stay in each other’s arms, Eren listening closely to the sound of her steady breathing. Cherishing how her fingers fit seamlessly in his, the small smile on her lips as she drifts into a tranquil slumber, the warmth and weight of her body against his.  

The next morning, he wakes up, alone. If not for the stack of clothes he let her borrow folded neatly at the end of the bed, he would have thought last night’s events were all a dream. He vaguely recalls her waking up beside him, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead, sneaking out on her tippy toes at the crack of dawn. Still, he searches the apartment, calling out her name to no response. 

Throughout the week, he’s constantly on the verge of texting her. He never goes through with it, though, scared to be rejected. Afraid of having the final memory of her be one of heartbreak. 

As a last-ditch effort, he devises a plan. Eren hosts a party at his place to celebrate the upcoming graduation. He invites the Alpha Tau brothers, plus some sorority girls for good measure. However, his main objective is to invite her. He ends up sending a group text to his senior project team, casually informing them of his little gathering. Sasha and Connie both reply, announcing their attendance, but she doesn’t.

At the party, he tries not to think about her, distracting himself by socializing with the crowds of people already filling his apartment. When Connie and Sasha arrive together, he decides to try one more time before he consumes his sorrows away. After exchanging polite greetings with them, he asks, “Have you guys heard anything from her?”

“Nope. I don’t think she even texted back, right?”

Eren’s ready to reach for the closest container of booze he can find. The duo walks past him to enjoy the party while he remains standing, watching the door for another minute. Just as he’s about to turn his heel, he sees it open slowly. 

She walks in, her favorite drink in hand, a happy expression on her face as soon as she spots him. In the background, someone yells out, “Eren! Tequila shots?”

Waving the familiar bottle at him, she smiles.

“Nah,” Eren responds, gazing at her with a grin. “I’m sticking with strawberry soju from now on.”

--------------------

Taglist: @liliorsstuff-blog @batafuraikisu @bloompompom @belovedackerman @wtfiswrongwithme1

#eren jaeger #eren smut #eren x reader #eren x y/n #eren x you #eren x fem!reader #attack on titan #attack on titan smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager #aot smut #strawberry soju

[misserabella]

Filthy Rich

Spencer Reid x Fem! reader PT.2

☆ pt1!! pt3!

✧ Synopsis;; Spencer Reid was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 22. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty! inspired by bridgerton!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

WARNINGS PART TWO: cursing, blood, violence and a nude scene(?)

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WORD COUNT;; +2,5k

REPOSTS AND COMMENTS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!<3

‘Because from now on you belong in this castle.’

You stepped back at his words, his smile never dropping as you amused him with your fighting against the maids that had returned in a clap of his hands. “You shall let them help you with your clothes and washing, I promise you you’ll feel better once you’ve found yourself clean.” he tried to convince you, his hazel puppy eyes glistening under the lights and his voice soft as a caress.

“I can take my clothes off myself.” you spit, your hands making your way to the back of your dress to unbuckle the single button that was left, among those who had fallen off through the years, and undo the bow that molded it’s skirt to your waist, letting your clothes slip to the floor and around your feet, leaving you completely naked to their sight since no petticoat had been given to you by your old family.

The maids gasped, as you had dared to undress yourself in front of the prince, whose eyes never left yours, not really budging at your actions for he was a ‘gentleman’. His smile only grew up more, which you’d started finding pretty goddamn annoying.

“Then, I shall excuse myself… Ladies.” he bowed to the maids, who did the same and said their goodbyes.

“Oh, bless my soul!” Gideon exclaimed as his eyes accidentally took a glance of your naked body once the door had opened, quickly adverting them to his right.

You gave them your back as he closed the door with a mocking smile towards his right hand, your feet, and later on your whole body, being surrounded in clear warm water for what you thought it was the first time in your life.

You sighed in relief and sank deeper into the bathtub, letting your eyes close once a pair of hands started washing your long hair, getting lost in the feeling of it all, in its warmth.

“I won’t put that on.” you shook your head at the dress that was currently being showed to you. Starting from the fact that it’s skirt was way too big for you to freely and comfortably move around, the puff on its sleeves looked ridiculous and seemed really troublesome and the corset which strings stood in the back really threatened your ability to breath. It was a simple and definite no for you. And the color! That shade of yellow won’t flatter you, that’s for sure.

“It seems that the dresses that Lord Gideon sent are no good…” one of the maids sighed, tossing the last one of them aside.

“What a pity…” you falsely pouted, adjusting yourself in the padded chair you had been forced to sit on so the women could take care of your hair.

“Well, there’s still the one that the prince sent! Let’s give it a try.” a brunette one smiled, to which you huffed, you hair being combed by another maid that simply giggled, really entertained by your reactions. “Where was it…, ah, yes!” she seemed to find it, her gentle fingers taking a grip on the strip sleeves of the dress to reveal it to the rest, who let out a delighted gasp.

“Crumbs*! It’s beautiful!” the maid that combed your hair exclaimed, her eyes shining as brightly as the rest of the ladies’.

It was a really simple dress, though it looked more like a nightgown. It was made out of the most beautiful lace you’ve ever seen. It was light blue, and large, enough to cover your thighs, ending below your knees. It had different layers of silk and lace of all types with little ruffles and decorations. The chest was made out of two triangles of silk with lace surrounding them in a soft-looking way that made you…, not hate it. In fact, it was really beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on, miss?” they all inquired, hoping for a positive answer since they seemed to have fallen in love with the dress.

“Well, it’s the most… pleasant to the eyes,” you muttered, trying to not show your true feelings about that piece of clothing, winning excited smiles from the ladies, who helped you to stand and took off your body the towel that embraced you to help you get on the dress.

You felt free in it. It moved with you and it let you breath, and it was so soft. You jumped and twirled, testing the waters. Nothing seemed to get exposed, what made you really happy. Your incredibly long hair caressed your almost bare back, falling to your waist. Your fingers went through it in awe, no knots being found. You smelled like pure lilies and you felt so clean and soft that you almost felt the urge to cry once you’ve taken a glimpse at your reflection in a mirror the maids lent you. You touched your clean face in disbelief, your cheek was bruised and stung when touched, the same as your lips, but your wounds had been cleaned and your skin looked so pure you felt unrecognizable, always being greeted by your reflection full of dirt, cuts and bruises in the pond’s water you used to visit when the mistress’ clothes needed washing.

“You look truly wonderful, miss.” one of the maids said, the rest nodding and agreeing with her, and just when you were about to thank them for their help with a smile, two knocks at the door caught yours and their attention, the prince stepping in after a short minute just in case you were still getting dressed.

“I apologize for my intrusion, ladies. Is everything alright, here?” he asked as he stepped in, along with Gideon, his eyes quickly finding your back and later on when you had turned to face him, your eyes. He simply stood there, silently staring at you, his eyes capturing every single detail in your body and sinking deep in the way you looked…, with the dress he had chosen himself. “You chose it…” he smiled, his eyes finding yours once again, his soft voice reaching you.

“Well of course, it is the most comfortable amongst them all.” you said, looking down at the dress, catching him staring as you did.

He cleared his throat before bringing his hands from his back to the front, letting you see a couple of, really low heels, almost flat silk shoes. “I brought these, though I couldn’t find anything more comfortable, I’m afraid.” he awkwardly smiled, stepping closer and kneeling in front of you, what caused you and the maids to step back in astonishment and Giddon to whisper-yell a ‘Your highness!’. “May I?” he inquired, one of his palms facing upward as he signaled to your feet. You slowly and unsurely nodded, surprised by his actions, but allowing him help you put on the shoes.

You could guess what everyone was thinking at the moment;

Why in the world was the prince of the realm, no one else than Spencer Reid, kneeling and helping a slave like you put on some shoes?

You slightly bent down to take a better glimpse at them. They were white with a little piece of lace surrounding its collar. They were beautifully simple, and they looked really comfortable. When you put your feet back down on the floor you could agree on your judgement by their appearance. Compared to your wooden ones, this shoes felt like walking on clouds. When your sight drifted from them, your eyes met the prince’s once he had gotten off the marble floor once again.

“Well?” his eyebrows rose in anticipation, wanting to know your opinion on them. Everyone seemed to.

“They are not too bad.” you shrugged, your pride making him smile and let out a soft and short laughter. The tension inside the room seemed to dissipate with that sound.

“I’m glad to hear that.” he nodded, making his way back to the door. “Then? Are you ready to go and eat supper?” he offered you, opening the door whilst his eyes looked into yours.

You glared at him for a couple of seconds, still not truly trusting nor liking him, but still decided to take your first step. And after the first one came a second, and later on; a third.

His eyes never left your body as you exited first, waving your hand to the maids as a quick goodbye, which they returned. He bowed at them before closing the door. You awaited next to Gideon in the corridor, which was carpeted with crimson velvet carpets and glistened under the candles of the chandeliers above your heads.

“Shall I fetch the cooks and maids to set up the table, your highness?” the brunette spoke, his hands intertwined behind his back, which stood straight, awaiting for an answer.

“You shall not.” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t like them to work so much this late at night.” the singing of the cuckoo clock hitting midnight catching your attention as your eyes met with the wooden cuckoo that jumped in and out of its home. You wandered through the corridor, your fingers detailing the marble and wood of the oak chest you found on your left, plagued with porcelain decorations and flowers. There were multiple of them through the interminable corridor, perhaps for embellishment. “Though I would appreciate it if you could fetch something for her. I could wager all the gold I have in my hands that she hasn’t eaten for days.” he seemed concerned, his smile fading for a couple of seconds before appearing once again when he saw you twirling around a porcelain doll sculpture of a ballerina.

Not even his friend could understand his actions nor read whatever wondered inside his mind. But he thought he could just wait for whatever the future would offer.

“Sure, your highness. I’ll make sure to send it to her room in no time.” he nodded, after a ‘thank you’ from his friend and prince heading the other way.

You were about to place down another sculpture that you had picked up when his voice startled you.

“It’s Greek.” you felt your heart plummet to your stomach when it slipped from your hands, his being quick enough to catch it in the air. “Almost a was.” he mocked you with a smile, putting it back down on the chest amongst the others.

“Didn’t know the prince would be into collecting porcelain.” you winded him up.

“That would be my mother, the queen.” he chuckled. “Along with the king she has parted to the east to meet Rembrandt and discuss about his new works of art.” he explained, making you now understand his announcement at his ball, asking forgiveness for the monarchs’ absence. “Though I must admit, I take pleasure in pretty things.” his eyes met yours and for a moment you felt as if you were frozen in place, the only warmth you felt being the touch of his fingers gracing yours on top of the oak chest, after his hand had fallen near yours. Your eyes met his hand and later on his eyes again, pulling away from his warmth after a couple of seconds.

“And what does beauty mean to you, your highness?” you inquired him, giving him your back and taking a few steps away from him. “Perhaps gold? Diamonds? Maybe castles?” your hair softly fell on your shoulder as your turned back to face him once again, your dress beautifully dancing along with you.

He just silently stared at you, his hands once again on his back as he took a couple of steps closer to you, a smile tugging on his lips. “I guess I still have yet to find out.” his brown eyes found yours once he stood by your side, the amber of the candles shining on them. There was something in them that you could not read. “Then, shall we?” his eyes left yours just to show you the way in which you supposed you should head to to meet ‘your room’. You seemed unsure for a couple of seconds, to which he decided to taunt you a little bit more. “After you, sweetheart.” he moved aside, giving you a little bit of space.

“Don’t you dare call me that again.” he laughed at your rudeness.

You gave him a side look before taking a step forwards, and then another, and another, the moonlight of the windows hitting your skin, perfectly matching with the color of your dress.

He took a deep breath before following you.

What beauty was…, huh?

“I hope you find the room to your liking. If you are in need of more pillows or sheets just ask for them, alright? You can ask one of the maids to light up the chimney for you if the night gets too cold too.” he said while opening the door and letting you step inside. It was spacious and beautifully decorated. As you stepped in, the very first thing you could see was a huge window that met the gardens of the castle, to your left a chimney with red velvet sofas and a central tea table with books on top of it, you could find more of them on the willow bookcases on both sides of the chimney. And to your right you could find a queen size bed with puffy white sheets, a white dosel and an incredible amount of pillows of all kinds, along with oak nightstands with candles and a big white closet. When you looked upwards your eyes met with the shiniest of chandeliers.

Once you’ve turned around to meet his eyes once again, these caught a glimpse on a food trolley.

“The maids discussed that since you’ve probably not eaten in days it would be better for you to eat something soft so it wouldn’t upset your stomach.” he said, while taking off the top of the plate cover, the smell of chicken stew along with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables making your mouth water. But that was not really what caught your attention. “I apologize if you find it too-”

And before he could even finish his sentence or take a hold onto your actions, his back was slammed against the half-open door from which you’d entered the room, closing it in a very harsh slam exactly when Gideon seemed to be back to check on the prince.

“My prince?!? My prince!!” he desperately knocked on the door, trying to open it but finding it imposible due to the weight of both your bodies on the other side. “Guards!” and as he called for the guards that rounded the corridors…

“Give me a single reason for which I shouldn’t kill you right this moment, my prince.” your breaths intertwined as you stood completely pressed against his body, a knife that you’ve snatched from the trolley threatening to cut his throat as you pressed it against the skin of his pale neck.

He seemed astonished at first, his hazel eyes staring into yours as your heavy breath caressed his lips, which parted as he spoke.

“You wouldn’t dare.” he pressed against the knife to get even closer to you, its edge sinking into his skin and the vermillion of his blood making its way to his collarbones like a river flowing down the hills.

“And what makes you think that?” he smirked at your inquisition, his fingers brushing delicately your arm, its pads descending. From your shoulder to your elbow and later on to your free hand, which stood slightly hidden behind your dress. You gritted your teeth as he slowly and carefully rose it up ‘till both of you could clearly see it. You were trembling, so much it was actually impressive that you could hide it so well.

“Your body speaks to me, sweetheart.” he answered, caressing your palm with his thumb as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on its back.

And before any of you knew, more blood spilled as you rose the knife.

To be continued…

*Crumbs;; used for expressing surprise.

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!readr #spencer reid cm #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader

[matan4il]

IDK how to write today's update post. There were so many things I meant to include info about, but now everything pales in the face of the terrible news we got this morning.

At least 24 Israeli soldiers were killed in the last 24 hours in Gaza.

Here are the faces of some of them:

The terrorists responsible for most of these deaths, attacked in a spot just 600 meters (0.37 miles, with the border breached on Oct 7 in the middle) from a southern Israeli community, Kissufim.

[this paragraph is for the people spewing hate, on and off anon : if you read the news and smiled to yourself, or felt any kind of joy, I want you to know that's vile. It's devoid of any morality or humanity. You can tell yourself and others that you're for human rights all you want, but if you feel joy at the death of human beings, human beings who had the right to live (and would have lived, had it not been for the terrible massacre Hamas carried out on Oct 7, which the terrorists promised to recreate repeatedly, targeting Israelis and Jews alike), then you're not for human rights. It's just an excuse you use to be able to publicly celebrate the death of Jews, and of non-Jewish citizens of the Jewish state who defend their fellow Jews. It's just the same, age old antisemitism under a new guise]

IDK how to explain what that number does to me, as an Israeli, as a Jew, as the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors.

I still remember the morning of Oct 7, as the news started pouring in. First, just talking about the rockets, they had no confirmation of casualties yet. Then, we got the news of one elderly woman, killed by a rocket as she left her home to open the communal bomb shelter for others to use. Then suddenly it was 5 dead, then 10, then 22, along with the news that Palestinian terrorists from Gaza have invaded Israel's south.

And I knew then that the number is going to be higher. The way it normally goes with news of terrorist attack, is you first get a big number, those killed immediately or shortly after the attack, and then there are a few more wounded who don't make it. Basically, there's a big number, and then a small adjustment. Something like... first hearing about the 10 immedaite casualties of an attack, then the number is adjusted to 12 or 13 in the following hours, or days. But here, the jump in the number of dead from 10 to 22 told me we're not in the "small adjustment phase" yet. We're still in the "counting the initial big number phase."

That was so hard, because 22 was already hard to deal with. Up until Oct 7, if I remember correctly, we had lost 38 people in 2023 to Palestinian terrorism. That was already considered the bloodiest year in terms of terrorism victims since the second intifada. People were already grieving, asking questions about what was going on, talking about how the renewal of certain (American) funding to Palestinians (such as the Palestinian Authority's Pay for Slay program) was causing this surge in murderous activity, and what can be done to change the situation. To lose 22 people in one day meant that the number of 2023 terrorism victims was almost doubled already... and we were not yet done counting our dead. The grief and loss of almost 9 months and change almost doubled in a day... and it was likely about to grow.

The number of dead kept rising. We jumped from 22 to 50. From 50 to 100. Then 200. Still no sign of getting to the "small adjustment phase" and it was hard to breathe with every new update. We got to 300, and it was almost unbearable. Then 450. A jump of 150 dead. There was no way to process it, no way to really comprehend it, and the worst was always that the jumps in numbers between updates meant we're still in the "counting the initial big number phase." Somewhere after 600 and before the next update, I realized from an interview (nothing official, just the implication of what one person, who was in the know, said) that it was not going to be less than 1,000 people killed. And I no longer felt like I could contain any of it. The horror, the grief, the shock, the struggle to comprehend that this is real, and not the worst nightmare I've ever had.

At least 1,200 people were murdered during Hamas' massacre. It's been over 3 months, and when I write that I didn't know how to contain everything I was feeling back then, I still don't. So you might think, what's 24 people in comparison to 1,200 dead? But that's not how it works. The death of one person does not pale in comparison with the death of the many.

When I work on Holocaust research, and I work on the testimony of one Jewish girl, who had to watch her father being beaten in front of her eyes by Nazi-collaborating Italian fascist soldiers in a concentration camp in Libya, in northern Africa, when I try to process what the murder of just one parent, just one person means to her, I know it's the destruction of her whole world. It doesn't lessen the pain, that the number of Jewish Holocaust victims outside of Europe is "just" in the thousands, while in Europe it's in the millions. One death can in itself be impossible to bear.

And here's the thing. Those deaths and their impact accumulate. We didn't just learn today that we lost 24 soldiers. We lost 24 worlds (because as the Jewish saying goes, "He who kills one person, it's as if he killed the entire world, and he who saves one person, it's as if he saved the whole world," Mishna Sanhedrin 4.5) and we lost them as a part of now over 220 soldiers we lost in this war (see below a map of Israel with a red dot for every place where at least one soldier was killed), which was forced upon us with the murder and destruction of over 1,200 worlds, which comes after 75 years of a conflict we didn't want, in which we lost 28,000 worlds, and that followed a genocide in which we lost at least 6,000,000 worlds, and that in itself is the peak of almost two thousand years of persecution, during which the full and total number of Jews lost, of worlds destroyed just because of antisemitism, will never be known. All I know is that the Jews we know today, we're not the Jewish people. We are what's left of the Jewish people. And we will live. Am Yisrael Chai. Always. In the face of countless attempts at our destruction, we're still here. But we remember them all. Every single soul lost. Every world destroyed. Every child that had been murdered, every child that will never get to be born. We have lost 24 worlds today, and the fact that we have lost so many before, only makes the loss worse.

And we would not have lost a single person in the fighting in Gaza if we had actually been guilty of the crimes they accuse us of. We could have wiped out all of Gaza from the air, without risking the life of a single soldier on the ground. Every one of the Israeli soldiers killed, died to protect Israelis, as well as to save Palestinian civilians.

The way I feel right now, I think about the words of one member of Kissufim who I heard today: "We are broken, but strong."

May the memory of those lost be a blessing, every single one of them, every Jewish person, and non-Jew killed for standing with Jews, in every generation.

You're all still with me, I carry all of you in my heart, always.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

[leandra-winchester]

The Tommy timeline is making me insane

We know the 911 writers are REALLY crap about timelines. I mean, just within the Eddie Begins episode there are several dates that just don't add up. I love those writers, but they can't even count to 10, lol.

Tommy was never supposed to come back, so him being in his late 20s-ish in 2005 when Chim joins the 118 was of no consequence, but now that Tommy is back, that makes it really difficult to say how old he really is.

Some people have speculated that he's 45, but I find that too old. Lou was born in Nov 1984, which makes him 39 currently. I could see Tommy being 1-2 years older than that AT MOST.

So let's say Tommy was born in early 1983 and go from there.

He would have started school at 6.5 and finished HS at 18 years old in 2001. Which means he could have joined the army that year and started training to be a helicopter pilot.

There's a program called "From Street to Seat", also sometimes called "High school to Flight School", so that is a possibility. Training would have been around 2 - 2.5 years until he'd achieved the rank of Warranty Officer and be a fully trained helicopter pilot in late 2003. After that, you have to enlist for TEN years at minimum to repay them getting you through flight school.

At that point, the US had entered the war in Afghanistan and just started the one in Iraq.

Tommy could have been stationed anywhere in the US, or been deployed to one of those countries, or at first, as a still very young officer, been deployed to an allied country like Germany. In the early 2000s, there were many bases in Germany where US soldiers were stationed, only serving short missions in Afghanistan or Iraq. So that's an option if we don't want him to be permanently stationed inside a war zone.

Now, how did young Tommy leave the army early so he ended up being a firefighter just two years later?

Well, there's always medical discharge, but if it was for any injury, him already being a member of the team (and by the looks of it no longer a probie) in 2005 is a bit tight. He'd have to recover from his injury, then apply, then be accepted, do the basic training at the academy (18 weeks) and his probie year... so yeah, that's really a very tight timeline.

Another option would have been Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Back then, army members could not be actively asked if they're gay and therefore fired for it, but if they voluntarily disclosed/confirmed it, they would be kicked out.

If he was lucky (and probably the version I'm going for in my fic), and had a very lenient superior officer, he might be offered medical discharge for depression. Usually, that can get you out of the army pretty quickly.

So, to recap:

Born between Jan/June 1983

Finished high school summer 2001, joined the army

Finished flight school in fall 2003, was deployed somewhere or in service in the US

Found out/discharged in early 2004

Started LAFD academy in summer/fall 2004

Started his probie year end of 2004

Just finished it when Chimney joined in (should be late) 2005, at now 22 years old.

Still an incredibly tight timeline, and I wish Chim joining had been more like 2007 or so, but alas. It works.

You are welcome.

And I need to lie down. God I hate inconsistent timelines, lol.

Oh and I just looked it up, and apparently you're only a probie for 6 months at the LAFD, so I guess that makes it a little easier.

I mean, if you shift things around a little, you could even make him only 40 now, born in summer 1983 instead of early. Maybe he was initially gifted and able to enroll in school at just barely 6 years old.

#Tommy Kinard #911