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girasollake · 7 months

Note

Hello

Would you be able to write for Theodore Nott with the trope fake dating and the prompt 50?

Thank youu <3

✧ theodore nott x fem!reader x fake dating x "my love language is bullying people." "you bully me. a lot." "..."✧

( this request is a part of my writing event, here is the link to the masterlist of the fics i'll be publishing from said event:) )

❁ i hope this turned out well, happy reading:)

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

Pacing around your dorm and chewing on your thumb, you tried to figure out how to get out of the situation you got yourself into. You didn’t mean to answer the question with his name, it just happened. It’s like you weren’t even thinking and your mind made that quick decision for you.

For the last month your ex boyfriend had been harrasing you to get back together. You dumped him after catching him in the act with a girl from a year below yours. You felt anger, sadness and loath, not because of the relationship he decided to end, but because it hurt to see someone you started to trust - pick someone over you.

Over the time he was stalking you and trying various ways to get back, you had found yourself being more and more drawn towards your best friend’s mate.

“ ‘We’re done Patrick! I don’t know what I have to say for it to get through your fucking skull.’ You hissed at your ex.

‘We’re not done.’ He took a step closer. ‘Do you really think someone else will want you besides me?’ A chuckle escaped his lips.

You stood there frozen, the insult burning itself into your mind.

‘My boyfriend.’ You finally replied after a moment of silence.

‘You don’t have one, love.’ He placed his finger under your chin and made you look up at him. ‘But you can have me again.’

‘No.’ You spat and took a step back. ‘I am seeing someone else.’

That’s the moment where you should have stopped talking.

‘Oh, really?’ He cocked his brow, a mocking expression on his face. ‘Who?’

Don’t say it.

‘Theo Nott.’ “

You sat down on your bed, the finger slightly covered in your blood from the biting. You had only two options, either admit to your ex that you lied to him and still get harrassed by him, or ask Nott out.

You rubbed your temples slowly, sighed and decided to go to the library to clear your mind, hoping that Patrick won’t be able to talk to Theo until tomorrow.

At this time of the day there was barely anyone inside the library. You were slowly walking between the shelfes, looking at each book and reading the title. After a few minutes of strolling you reached the Romance Novels section, very few books there, but it lured you in. Especially one of them, which you have read a long time ago.

‘Of course.’ You chuckled, holding the book in your hands and tracing the cover with your fingers.

The story was about a woman who was a spy and had to make a deal with a member of an organisation they were infiltrating. She promised to get him the safety he needed to escape his boss and he promised her to give her all the information she needed. They started fake dating.

You should’ve thought of this idea earlier, but you were too stressed to even sit in one spot, let alone think of this good of a plan. You put the book back in it’s place and rushed out of the library. While you were running through the halls, you spotted a familiar figure talking with her friends.

‘Hi, can I borrow Pansy for a moment? Thanks!’

You snatched her by the arm and led her to an empty classroom.

‘This better be an emergency.’ She playfully rolled her eyes.

‘Long story short - Patrick thinks I’m dating Theo and I have to prove him that I am.’

She looked at you dumbfounded and then a loud laugh escaped her lips.

‘Is this a joke?’ She asked, laughter still present in her voice.

It slowly faded as she realised how stoic and serious was the expression on your face.

‘Shut up!’ She exclaimed. ‘Merlin, what have you done?’

She put her palm on her forehead and exhaled all the air she had.

‘You know Theo does NOT date.’

‘I know! I don’t even know why I said his name! It just… It just came out, okay?’ You sighed and closed your eyes while throwing your head back. “But I do have an idea…’ you mumbled and slowly opened your eyes to look at Pansy.

‘Good Lord.. I don’t know if I even want to hear it.’ She sighed. ‘Go on.’ She showed a motion with her hand to tell you to proceed.

‘Fake dating.’

She bursted out in laughter.

‘What?’ She finally managed to get out. ‘How on earth do you want to persuade him into that?’

‘I’ll just… I’ll offer him something if he says no.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know yet, whatever he says he’d like.’

‘So like, you’d give him a b-‘

‘Bloody hell Pans!’ You whisper-yelled. ‘I’ll do anything that does not involve sexual exchange.’

‘Alright, just askin’’ She raised her hands in defence.

‘Where can I find him?’

It was Saturday, so you couldn’t catch him in class. Pansy looked at her watch and made a thinking face.

‘Ummm… If I’m correct…’ She sighed. ‘They should finish their quidditch practice in a few minutes.’

You jumped up and gave her a quick hug before running out.

‘Thanks P, you’re the best!’ You shouted just before disappearing behind the door.

‘Course I am.’ She whispered and smirked to herself.

She looked around the room where she was now alone and shook her head.

‘Fingers crossed’ She muttered and headed outside.

You on the other hand, had reached the quidditch pitch in the right moment. Standing outside the boys locker room, you couldn’t help but listen to their faint voices. Unfortunately it was too quiet for you to make out any words. The door swung open unexpectedly and your head shot up to meet Draco’s eyes.

‘Can I talk to Nott?’ You asked and lifted up your chin higher.

Draco looked you up and down and then turned his head towards the boys.

‘Nott, come and say hi to one of your girls.’ He said and everyone started snickering at Theo.

‘Shut up, Malfoy.’ He glared at him and then your eyes met his.

He came over to you and you almost forgot about why you came here because, well, he was shirtless and his bottom was wrapped in a towel, leaving very little to your imagination. You gulped and quickly straightened up to not get caught checking him out.

‘I really need your help with something. Can we talk after you…’ You motioned towards his outfit, or better - the lack of it.

He cleared his throat and nodded, ‘Wait for me on the pitch?’

‘Sure.’ You gave him a soft smile and headed outside.

Thankfully there was a few benches on the sides of the pitch, they were there during practice, but hidden when there was a match. You sat down and buried your face in your hands.

‘What the fuck am I doing?’ You mumbled.

You started playing with your rings and thinking about what to say when you felt him sit down next to you.

‘So, what do you need?’ He asked while lighting up his cigarette.

‘Just don’t laugh at me, ‘kay?’ You said while closing your eyes.

He furrowed his brows in confusion, ‘Okay?’ He replied.

‘I need you to be my fake boyfriend.’ You quickly stated.

He looked at you dumbfounded and then proceeded to laugh.

‘You said you wouldn’t laugh, you bastard!’ You exclaimed and playfully hit his arm.

‘ ‘M sorry’ He met your eyes. ‘That punch hurt’ he held the place where you hit him.

‘Good.’ You replied. ‘So, will you help me or not?’

‘Why? Is it to make your ex jealous?’ He exhaled the smoke. ‘Never liked him, if I’m bein’ honest.’

‘Actually, the opposite.’ You took the cigarrete from him, took a drag and then placed it between his lips again. ‘He cheated on me and now he keeps stalking me to get back together. I’m so sick of him and I just don’t know what to do.. I just want him to fuck off.’ You looked at Theo for a response.

‘Fine.’

‘Wait, really?’ You asked excitedly.

‘Yeah, fuck that guy.’ He finished his cigarette and threw it on the ground. ‘We need some rules though.’

‘Alright.’ You paused to think about some. ‘How about we often hold hands, you kiss me on the cheek sometimes for the effect, and we can sometimes hang out in each others rooms, so no one would get suspicious. Of course we’d like study or some shit, but..’ You started rambling. ‘You get the idea.’ You added quietly.

‘You forgot about the most important one.’ He stated. ‘Don’t fall in love with me.’

‘Yeah, I think that’ll be easy considering your stupid face.’ You chuckled, but inside of you something twisted.

Don’t fall in love with me? Does he mean that, he knows he would never love you? Maybe that’s why he agreed? Cause he knows he won’t fall for you?

Am I this unlovable?

The next morning you were slowly making your way to the Great Hall for breakfast. On the outside you looked calm, but the inside was burning. With questions you couldn’t answer, with plans for what to do, with your hopes for finding someone good to love you back, with your growing attraction to Theo. You knew it was a bad idea, you knew you had a crush on him, but you’d rather hide that somewhere deep than admit it to yourself. You knew you were going to fall for him doing this, but if that’s what it takes for Patrick to leave you alone - then so be it. You can take the pain of Theo not reciprocating your feelings.

‘Hello, love.’ The voice from your nightmares spoke up next to you.

‘Fuck off, Patrick.’ You replied without even looking at the boy.

‘Oh, come on, can you finally stop playing this game and-‘

‘She told you to fuck off.’ You heard Theo’s voice on your other side and then his hand grabbed your waist to pull you closer.

Patrick’s face in that moment was going to be in your memory forever, he was so shocked, so defeated, so small. He looked between the two of you and scoffed.

‘We’ll see about that.’ He mumbled and walked away.

‘Thank you’ You looked up at Theo.

‘For what? I think that’s what boyfriend’s are supposed to do’ He winked at you and intertwined your hands.

‘You read a book or something to prepare for that role? Didn’t think of you as an academic type.’ You snickered.

‘I beg you pardon?’ He chuckled. ‘Am I that stupid to you?’

You waved your head from side to side and smirked at him.

‘Mm, yeah.’ You whispered to which he shook his head with a smile.

‘Come on, darlin’, we’re gon’ be late for breakfast.’

Darling.

For the next month you and Theo had gotten closer than you anticipated, but he was still too far for your liking. You wanted him closer, you wanted this to be a real relationship, but he wouldn’t want that.

“Theo does NOT date.”

Pansy’s words echoed in your ears every time you caught yourself staring at his messy hair. Or thinking about the way his fingers caressed the pages of a book, or the way his beauty spots were perfectly placed on his face, or the way he always knew what to say to you, or the way he cheerfully reacted to your insults and playful smacks on his arms.

‘When do you want to end this?’ He asked one night when you were studying for potions in his dorm.

The question caught you off guard and the air got stuck in your throat for a second.

‘I actually didn’t think about that part yet.’ You admitted, not taking your eyes off of your notes. ‘There is only a month of school left until holidays, so maybe until then? I’ll have those months for myself without Patrick bothering me and next year we’ll make up some excuse why it didn’t work out between us. Sounds good?’ The lack of emotion in your voice was weird for him.

‘Yeah.’ He whispered, his eyes lingering on your form. ‘Sounds good.’

He didn’t want to admit to himself that he started falling for you either. That’s why he asked about this, he didn’t think he could hold himself back much longer. Hold his feelings back.

‘Earth to Nott!!’ You smacked his arm with your notebook. ‘Do the bloody homework or I’ll feed you to my cat.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

There were moments where you thought he might feel the same. Like when he held your hand tighter than usual, when Patrick was passing by. Or when he kissed your forehead to calm you down when you were stressed before classes. Or the subtle smirks and glances between the two of you, when you weren’t next to each other. At first you thought no one would believe in your ‘relationship’, but surprisingly everyone didn’t have a clue it was fake. Were you both this good at pretending or did they just think you look nice together?

‘Probably the first one.’ You thought.

Soon there was only a week of school left and you didn’t want to think about what the end brings. You felt sadness, but you couldn’t show him that, you knew he didn’t feel the same. This was just temporary, he did what you asked for and now you owe him a favor. So now you had to let him go.

You met up near the Black Lake the day before going home. You were playing with your rings again and he was smoking a cigarette, just like in the beggining.

‘We’re still going to be friends?’ You asked.

‘If that’s what you want, darlin’ ‘ He replied, but deep inside he wanted to say no, to protect himself from whatever it was he felt towards you, it was too strong now.

‘Hmm.. No, not really.’ You muttered and then added, ‘I can’t stand looking at your hideous face much longer, but other than that, you’re fine to be around.’

He chuckled at your response.

‘Why are you always like this?’

‘What do you mean?’ You raised one of your eyebrows.

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

You chuckled to yourself, ‘My love language is bullying people.’

He processed your answer carefully and saw the way you stiffened. You didn’t realise you said that out loud.

‘Well…’ He took a deep breath. ‘You bully me. A lot.’

You didn’t want to meet his eyes so you shrugged and turned away, ‘Yeah, I guess I do.’ You whispered.

You heard Theo toss the cigarette on the ground and press his shoe on top of it. But what he did next, even Professor Trelawney couldn’t predict.

He turned you around and pressed his lips into yours, the taste of smoke and blueberry gum made its way into your mouth. His hands were holding your face on both sides, he didn’t want to take them off, scared you’d disappear if he did.

‘I thought you don’t date.’ You whispered with a smirk when you broke the kiss and pressed your foreheads together.

‘I don’t.’ He smiled. ‘I’m already taken.’

He pressed his lips to yours again and you felt like this moment could last forever.

‘By the way, you broke the rule.’ He mumbled.

‘Fuck your rule and fuck you, Nott.’ You replied making him smile to himself.

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

#🤍 - girasollake writing event ☾ ⋆*#theo nott #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #imagine #x reader #harry potter imagine #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x you #fake dating

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kiefbowl · 3 months

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this is going to sound silly but it isn't silly, and I'm seriously saying this. I do think there is a slight feminist concern to alien abduction stories in so far as we can assume that when people, especially women, talk about their abductions and their abilities to communicate with extra terrestrials et cetera, they are someone who is mentally unwell and who has likely experienced something traumatic. alien abduction stories tend to have common elements even if there are details wildly different from each individual. those details are different because they likely didn't happen, but the common elements tend to be things like being taken from home, being violated, being exposed, having things implanted in the body, experiencing pregnancy, having secret knowledge, having a special connection to the extra terrestrials...

you can start putting some pieces together. yes, sometimes these elements are shared because they are what's heard in pop culture. you're more likely to imagine the details of a book you read or a tv show you saw than come up with something so fantastically new and original. you can imagine, for example, if someone is a say a seven year old girl being manipulated into sexual favors by a trusted adult and doesn't understand what's happening to her and has seen alien media and perhaps even has other messaging around her wrt sin, purity, worthiness, karma (what have you), and also perhaps is predisposed to mental illness, it's easier to believe she's a special person being abducted by other worldly creatures who don't truly mean her harm. you can see how a vivid child's imagination could lead to an adult believing memories that never happened.

and so the feminist concern is to not treat these stories as complete jokes and hoaxes and roll our eyes. I'm just reminded today of something I saw years ago. I think it was a Penn and Teller Bullshit episode on aliens, and they had a group of hard core believers talking about their experiences with aliens, and it felt like we were supposed to be laughing at them when at least one of them was a woman who truly believed an alien husband took her way sometimes and forced her to give birth and she had several children she didn't get to see in space, and she was clearly not very well adjusted socially. all I could think was is this a woman who's been raped? is this a woman who has been forced to have abortions? is this a woman who has had multiple miscarriages? is this a woman experiencing domestic abuse from a husband or boyfriend? but the episode wasn't interested in exploring that, and she stuck out as "one of these things is not like the others" when juxtaposed to fake professors trying to sell their weirdo books as a living or whatever else was in the episode.

when we say believe women, that includes "crazy" women. women who say ghosts are trying to kill them, who talk about people living in their walls coming out at night to steal their body parts, women who believe they are married to alien overlords since they were 12 and have birth 50 alien babies. these women are probably telling us something and I think we can say "I believe something has happened to you" rather than make a mockery of them.

#this post probably sounds apropos of nothing but it's been on my mind before #I just went down a rabbit hole not worth explaining that reminded me of this

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joelscruff · 1 year

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for what it's worth (joel miller x reader) 18+

part 3 of the soft!dom joel collection has arrived! this one tackles some backstory; it's time to see how they met and how exactly their little "arrangement" came to be. i hope you guys like it, your feedback means the world to me. i also have a kofi if you'd like to give me a tip (but of course this is completely optional). previous parts: you know i don't mean it & don't think we could help it summary: your relationship with joel has always been complicated, but it's about to change drastically, for better or for worse. rating: 18+ explicit (mdni) warnings: fem!reader, smut, age gap (reader is mid 20s, joel is mid 50s), mutual masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics (joel is dominant but not degrading or aggressive), mentions of porn (specifically magazines) word count: 10k (it's a doozy) | ao3 spoilers: this contains vague spoilers for part two of the video game (and most likely for season two of the show). nothing too major but i figured i should warn for it anyway.

To say that your first day in Jackson is alienating would be an understatement.

You feel like everyone is staring at you (they are) and no one will let you out of their sight (they won't). You understand immediately that there's a lack of trust which will need to be formed as soon as possible, otherwise you'll never be able to create a home here.

"They're wary of you," Maria explains in your brand new living room - you still can't believe you just went from having barely any possessions to having your own house - and gives you a weak smile, "It'll pass, they just need to make sure you don't have any ulterior motives."

You get it, but it still hurts. Especially that night when you join your new community for dinner and find yourself sitting alone in the corner of the room, poking at your food and trying not to let your emotions betray you. You're determined not to show weakness, even though you've never felt more isolated. You can feel their eyes on you constantly, like they're waiting for you to pull out a rifle and start picking them off like a shooting gallery.

There's only one person who seems to be consistently minding his own business, a middle aged man who sits in the opposite corner of the room. He's hulking and broad, kind of intimidating, but there's a softness to his jaw and the grey scruff covering it that makes you see something else, something kind. He takes large bites and seems lost in his own thoughts, eyes fixed on the wall to his left but unfocused, like he's looking through it. He's by himself too, mirroring you, but you can tell by the way people move around him that he's been here for a long time. He must just enjoy his solitude.

"That's Joel," Maria tells you, sitting next to you and following your gaze, "He's my husband's brother, came down here a few years ago."

"He doesn't stare at me like everyone else does," you say, still looking over at him, "Does he just not care or...?"

To your surprise, she laughs, and everyone who's giving you dirty looks suddenly seems to soften. You're grateful for Maria then for bothering to talk to you, to try and trust you.

"Don't ask me to explain the things Joel does, I wouldn't be able to tell you," you notice that she has a full plate of food with her and that she's decided to sit next to you for dinner, an attempt to alleviate the mistrust for you in the room. You can't help but smile, thankful.

"He's a closed book," she continues, "Even Tommy finds him hard to read and he's his own brother."

She changes the subject then, wanting to know more about you and what you've been through, a not so subtle way of trying to get some information for the council. You humor her; you have nothing to lose.

Your eyes still stray to the man named Joel every so often as you speak, but you're not sure why. After about ten minutes he gets up to leave, and you watch him place his empty bowl in the dishwashing area and give the woman working there a small smile. She smiles back, says something to him. He laughs, and you can almost hear it over the bustle of the dining area. You watch as he says something else to her in parting, gives her one more smile, and turns and walks out the door. He doesn't look at you, not even once.

Over the next few weeks, things get better. Less people are looking at you and more people are actually trying to talk to you, get to know you. You have some nice conversations and answer questions about yourself - mostly appropriate, save for the one teenager who kept asking how you got the different scars along your bicep, the long one on your neck, the one on your cheek, stories you really didn't want to recount. After hounding you for a few minutes, her friend had pulled her away with an apology, "She likes scars," she'd said sheepishly, tugging the girl's arm, "Come on, Ellie, leave her alone."

You meet everybody, shake hands and even hug a few people. You start getting invited to things, asked to suggest films for movie night, help set up some games for the kids, Tommy even asks you one evening to help him herd a few sheep that had gotten loose. They trust you, and it feels good.

You still see that man, Joel, every night in the dining hall. But that's the only place you see him. You're not sure where he goes during the day or after dinner; he must just be a bit of a recluse, which you can't blame him for. The people here are nice but a lot are overbearing and a bit too friendly sometimes, plus it's hard to find time for yourself when everyone has tasks to complete and always likes to help each other out. You begin to wonder if he'll ever notice you, which leads you to wonder why it even matters to you that he does.

Your patrols start around the three month mark. Tommy takes you out with a small group beyond the borders of the community and shows you the ropes, points out where most of the patrol spots are with a pair of binoculars and goes over the routine. Your first assignment is simple: manning the watchtower with Maria. You spend most of the patrol getting to know her, hearing about her past and telling her more about yours. You like her a lot, she's easy to talk to and has a strong spirit akin to your own. The conversation gets pretty personal around the seventh hour, and you end up telling her how exactly you got the scar along your cheekbone. She listens deeply, thoughtfully, nodding along as you detail the more difficult things you've had to deal with in the past, the things that have made you stronger.

"You're tough," she says near the end of your shift, nudging your shoulder, "You don't really belong on watchtower, do you?"

You shrug, "I mean, if there's somewhere else I'd be more useful..."

"How'd you like to head out to the ski lodge with Joel next week?"

Your ears prick up at the name and you nod quickly, unsure exactly why, "Yeah, that'd be great!"

"He knows the area well," she adds, then grimaces, "I have to warn you though, he might not talk very much. He keeps to himself, I'm sure you've noticed."

You wonder why she's so quick to put you on patrol with someone who might not even speak to you, but it starts to make sense as you're walking back from the watchtower in the early hours of the morning. Tommy exits the dining hall and walks over to the both of you with a smile, pressing a tender kiss to Maria's cheek.

"How's my girl?" he asks flirtatiously, and she bats him away playfully.

"Was just telling the new recruit that she's gonna go on patrol with Joel next week," she replies, and Tommy stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow.

"Her? With Joel?" he appraises you and bites his lip, "I don't know, honey, wouldn't she be better off with someone who'll actually talk to her? I thought she was on watchtower with you."

"Tommy, I never see you anymore," she gives him an exasperated look, "The weekends used to be for us and ever since the Kingstons left-"

"I know, I know," he looks at you again, twisting his mouth in thought, "I've been, uh, a lot busier than usual lately. We had this family here for a while, big family, they helped out with the patrols. But they decided to go south a few months back, so-"

"So Tommy's been filling in for every shift he can," Maria finishes for him with a sigh, "And I never see the damn idiot anymore."

You smile, "I'm totally fine with taking over for you, really."

Tommy raises an eyebrow, "Seriously? You sure?" Maria slaps his arm lightly and he gives her a look, but then shrugs, "I mean, okay, if you wanna give it a try. It won't be all the time or anything, maybe just every other weekend, but it would actually be a big help."

"It really would," Maria adds, "You have no idea."

"But... you gotta understand, my big brother, he's.... he's complicated," Tommy's expression is serious now as he looks at you, "He's not very talkative these days, not since..." he shakes his head and you don't push it any further, though you do wonder what's changed.

"So you'll do it?" Maria asks, eyes bright.

"Even if he doesn't talk to you?" Tommy adds with a grimace.

You nod, somehow believing it won't actually be that bad.

It is that bad.

The first time you're officially introduced to Joel he doesn't even bother to shake your hand, just nodding vaguely to you as you stand there like an idiot with your palm outstretched. Tommy makes a face at him and then looks back to you with a reassuring smile.

"There's not usually much trouble up at the ski lodge," he says kindly, ignoring Joel's ambivalence, "The trek back and forth is arguably the worst part. The lifts were already damaged beyond repair when we got here so it's a bit of a hike, 'bout an hour to get up there and the same back."

You begin to wonder if maybe this really isn't the best idea, eyeing Joel silently as Tommy explains what you should expect. You've seen this man smile, know he's capable of making some kind of small talk, but it's clear that you're not an ideal candidate as he stands there stiffly and lets Tommy do the talking. Tommy had told you earlier that if the patrol didn't go well he wouldn't make you do it again, and you're already thinking this might be your first and last shift with Joel.

Tommy walks with both of you to about the halfway point, still going over the routine as Joel trudges silently ahead of you. He hasn't said a word, not one word. It's honestly starting to piss you off.

"Well, I gotta head back," Tommy says, giving you another smile of reassurance, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, see how it went, see if we might make this more permanent." He seems doubtful but you can't blame him.

A few moments later it's just you and Joel, hiking in complete silence save for the sounds of nature. The cogs in your head frantically turn, trying to land on something you can say to make things less awkward.

"So, when's the last time you saw infected up here?" you settle on, hoping it'll be enough to start some kind of conversation.

"'Bout a month ago," he replies immediately, voice gruff but quiet, "Weren't too many."

He's got an accent like his brother but it's fainter, less obnoxious, like he's spent more time with non-southern people in the later years of his life. Tommy had said they'd grown up in Texas and lived there 'til he was in his late 20s and Joel his mid 30s, then somewhere along the way they'd separated. You don't know much else about him other than that.

"It's the people you mainly worry about though, right?" you ask, quoting something Tommy had said a few weeks back, "Tommy said you've had more run-ins with raiders than infected."

"Tommy's tellin' you too much," he replies with a grunt, "Don't know what he's even thinking sendin' some kid up here."

You feel anger rise in your chest immediately, "I'm not a kid, asshole."

He stops then, turns around and appraises you with his eyebrows furrowed. It's the first time he's actually gotten a good look at you, his gaze catching on your face for a lasting moment before his eyes fall to your gun. You feel slightly vulnerable, intimidated by his heavy stare.

"How old are you?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Twenty seven."

His brow furrows even more, "Coulda sworn he said you were seventeen."

"Well, I'm not," you reply awkwardly.

"No, you're not," he acknowledges, "I'm sorry," He seems to mean it, giving you the smallest of apologetic nods and then turning around again to keep walking.

"You thought Tommy sent a seventeen year old up here with you? I thought you had to be eighteen to patrol outside the border."

"You do, I just wouldn't put it past Tommy to send a kid up here with me," he grumbles, "Wouldn't be the first time."

"...Why?"

"None of your business."

"Okay, but now I'm just thinking you're some kind of pervert," you say it in a joking manner but he doesn't laugh. Instead, he stops again and spins around, looking at you with what you can only explain as pure rage. You flinch backward, eyes widening.

"Do I look like a fucking pervert to you?" he asks, voice hard and angry.

"I was joking," you say immediately, shaking your head frantically, "It didn't land."

"No, it fucking didn't," he starts walking again at a faster pace, leaving you standing there completely floored.

Yeah, it's bad.

"Ellie's not speaking to him," Tommy explains to you the next morning in the dining hall, hands gripping his coffee mug. You've just told him about your patrol with Joel and the horrible impression you've already managed to make. "I really shouldn't be telling you this but with an outburst like that...I need you to understand why he reacted the way he did."

You look at him, bewildered, "Ellie? That teenager who plays guitar down by the stream?" And the one who'd relentlessly bothered you with questions about your scars, but you keep that part to yourself.

"Yeah, she's...well for all intents and purposes, she's Joel's kid. And she stopped talking to him a while ago, maybe six or seven months back now," he takes a sip of coffee, "Don't ask me why 'cause I have no idea. I've asked both of them and neither'll give me any kind of explanation. All I know is they ain't speakin' and he's heartbroken over it."

"Must've been a bad argument," you say, scrunching your nose in thought, "I mean...seven months? That's a long time to not speak to someone, especially your dad."

"Eh, you haven't met Ellie. She's one of the most stubborn people I've ever met. They both are," he shakes his head, "Anyway, you calling him a perv probably pissed him off 'cause Ellie's real special to him, a surrogate daughter. He wouldn't like someone misunderstanding that, seein' somethin' dirty or wrong there."

"I wasn't-"

He puts a hand up, nodding, "I know you weren't, I get it, no worries. It's partly my fault anyway 'cause he's right, I have tried to send a teen or two up with him, thought it'd do him good to mentor somebody again. But he doesn't want it, I know that now. He doesn't want it if it's not Ellie."

"Well, he doesn't seem to like me anyway, no matter how old I am," you sigh, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms, "I mean, he didn't talk to me once after that, not for the whole shift. It was bad. I don't know if it's gonna work, Tommy. I'm sorry."

He nods and gives you a small smile, thumbing the handle of his mug, "It's okay, I didn't think it'd work out anyways." He tries to hide the disappointment in his expression but fails miserably, and you leave the dining hall feeling bad about your failure.

A few days later you're back in the dining hall finishing up dinner, chatting with a few of the community members who you've warmed up most to. There's not many, but you are starting to find yourself feeling more and more comfortable around people as the days go on, more like yourself. You're caught up in a story about an infected you'd encountered in a gas station when their gazes suddenly divert from you and instead fix above your head. Confused, you slow your words and turn around.

"Oh, hi," you say, voice a bit breathless when you see Joel standing there, hands in his pockets, "Did you need something?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you," he says it softly, kindly, completely the opposite of how he'd talked to you before, "When you're finished, of course."

"Oh, yeah, sure," your words are broken and awkward, "Uh, I'll meet you...?"

"I'll be outside the main doors," he says quickly, "Take your time."

"Okay, I'll be out in a few."

He nods to you and then to your friends, then turns on his heel and walks out through the big double doors at the end of the dining area. You watch him go, bewildered.

"I thought he hated you," one of your friends says, voicing exactly what you're currently thinking.

"Yeah," you reply, furrowing your brow, "So did I."

You finish your story much quicker than intended and shove away from the table, waving goodbye to your friends and bringing your empty dish to the cleaning station. You push past the double doors and scan the outside area for Joel, eyeing the picnic tables where a few people are enjoying their meals in the fresh air.

"Hey," you hear behind you, and you turn to see him leaning against the left side of the building, arms crossed, "Over here."

You walk over, trying to plan out exactly what you're going to say so you don't end up making some stupid joke again that'll push him further away from you. It turns out you don't need to, because he speaks first.

"I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry," he says it seriously, a soft and genuine look in his brown eyes, "I treated you horribly the other day, you didn't deserve that."

You raise an eyebrow, "Did Tommy put you up to this?"

He frowns, "No."

"Are you sure? 'Cause if he did...I mean, I get it. It's nice of him to look out for me like that but you really don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything, I'm the one who said the tactless joke."

"Tommy didn't say anything to me," he seems to mean it, kicking the toe of his boot against the building, "And I know you were joking, I knew it then too but I'd just..." he takes a breath, avoiding eye contact, "I was havin' a bad day. Doesn't excuse my behavior by any means but it...you just..." he finally looks at you again, expression pained, "I wasn't expectin' you to be there. Tommy only told me you were takin' over for him about ten minutes before you showed up. And then I thought you were a kid and-"

You put your hand up, silencing him, "Joel, it's okay. You don't have to explain."

"I didn't even shake your damn hand," he says gruffly, sounding genuinely ashamed.

You extend your hand to him immediately, splaying your fingers out into the cold air, "Here, shake it now." He stares at it, unsure, and you wiggle it a bit in response, "Seriously, it's okay. Let's start over, clean slate."

He slowly reaches up to take it, his much bigger hand enveloping yours completely. His grip is strong and firm and you can feel calluses along his fingers, showing you exactly who taught Ellie how to play that guitar.

"Clean slate," he repeats, and it begins.

He's annoying, but you kinda love it.

He's grumpy most of the time, hates when you don't obey his orders, isn't afraid to give you shit, and gets irritated with you very easily. But it goes both ways. You're stubborn and set in your ways, you hate being told what to do, you dish it just as much as you take it, and it doesn't take much to get you riled up. And somehow, as much as you'd both probably hate to admit it, you work well together.

After your little conversation with Joel outside the dining hall, you'd flagged down Tommy and told him you were willing to try again with Joel on another patrol. He'd looked at you like you were crazy but hadn't shot the idea down, telling you that if it's what you really wanted, he'd keep the schedule the same.

You've been up on the mountain with Joel three times now, and while there's certainly been challenges and a few arguments, it's starting to become a routine. He doesn't talk about himself - it's a bit of an unspoken rule that you dare not break - but in return you don't tell him much about you either. Your main conversation points are usually tied to your interests, not your pasts, and you find yourself discussing movies with him, as well as music and books. He's surprisingly well-read for someone in an apocalypse, but you suppose he could say the same thing about you.

The fourth trip is what sets things in motion.

"Did you catch the movie last night?" you ask nonchalantly as you hike beside him, almost to the ski lodge. It's early morning, around five, and the sun is just beginning to crest the tree line, "I don't think Maria knew about the sex scene."

He groans, reaching up to rub the space between his eyes - you've noticed that he does this a lot, a quirk you've become rather fond of.

"Yes," he replies, wincing, "I heard her givin' Tommy a piece of her mind afterwards."

"The way she was yelling for him to turn off the projector was so fucking funny," you grin at the memory, still fresh in your mind, "And listen, I get it, sex is taboo, yada yada yada, but it's not like there were any little kids there last night, it was just the teens. And it's not like it was a porno or something, it was one little sex scene."

"Oh, I know, but I think Maria's trying to keep 'em as innocent as possible for as long as she can."

"Good luck with that," you snort, "I think we all lost our innocence a long time ago, for better or for worse."

"For worse," he replies instantly, "Definitely for worse."

"You're probably right," you grimace, "Although, you know what? I've actually never seen a porno."

He raises an eyebrow at you, "Seriously? Never?"

You bristle slightly, suddenly a little self conscious, "Well, it's not like there's an adult video store in this town, is there?" You can remember them existing when you were a kid, before everything happened, but it's not like you'd had any use for them at that time.

"No, you're right," he turns away from you, lost in thought for a moment, "They do still exist though. Pornos, I mean. Just in other forms. There's a stack of magazines up at the ski lodge, actually."

Your eyes go wide, "Wait, really?"

"Yup."

"Could I maybe..." you trail off and stop speaking, realizing that you should definitely not be asking what you're thinking.

"Look at 'em?" he finishes for you, not looking behind him as he keeps walking, "And you call me a pervert."

The conversation ends there, and you don't dare try to continue it.

The day is spent keeping watch along the ski lodge balcony, binoculars passed back and forth as you trade shifts and chat here and there about irrelevant things. Your main objective in this patrol spot is to keep watch of the main watchtower's blind spots, keeping an aerial view of the border perimeter in case people - mainly raiders - decide to make themselves known. You'd thought early on in your admittance to Jackson that infected were their main concern, but you've come to learn that's not the case at all. When Joel had said they'd come across infected up here he'd been lying to you; they'd actually come across a group of raiders who'd tried - and failed - to murder Joel and Tommy during their watch. Not the most reassuring thing to hear now that you've taken over, but you needed to know.

"It's why we got the trip wires down near the entrance now," Joel had explained to you during your second patrol with him, "We won't get snuck up on again," he'd made a face, "Not unless someone decides to disobey my orders."

You'd given him a weak smile, remembering how you'd decided not to heed his warning about going outside the ski lodge after light's out and ended up almost getting your leg shot off by a booby trap, "My bad." He'd rolled his eyes and grumbled to himself.

Now that it's your fourth watch you've gotten the hang of things and have learned to enjoy the semi-solitude of being on the mountain with Joel. He's got a battery operated radio and a box of cassette tapes that keep you from being bored out of your mind, plus a few containers of books that he and Tommy had carried up over the course of a few patrols. Now that you really think about it, you don't remember seeing any of the aforementioned porn Joel had spoken of in any of those crates.

It's midday when you decide to glance through them again out of curiosity, handing the binoculars over to Joel and slipping past him as he traipses out onto the balcony. You head for the boxes immediately and start to dig through them, not sure exactly what you're even looking for. Someone naked, you guess.

"They're not in there," Joel calls to you after a few minutes and you stiffen, turning to look at him through the glass where he can very clearly see what you're doing. He's got a shit-eating grin on his face and you feel your skin flush red.

"I don't know what you're even talking about," you call back, walking away from the books and plopping yourself in the chair by the unlit fireplace, which has somehow become your chair via another unspoken rule, "I was looking for a tape."

"Okay, well the 'tape' you're looking for is in the back of the supply closet," he sounds like he's fighting back laughter and your skin burns even more, "Underneath a box of cleaning supplies."

"I'm ignoring you," you yell out, "Get back to work."

You swear you hear a muffled laugh through the glass.

When he comes in from his shift he barely looks at you, just pushes past you lightly and heads for the supply closet. You follow behind him, heart pounding a bit harder in your chest the closer you get to the stash. He opens the closet door and you watch as he yanks out the cleaning supplies, then digs a bit deeper and reappears with six or seven magazines in his arms.

"Here," he leans them toward you and you hesitantly reach forward to take them from him, "They're mostly from the 90s."

"And you know this because....?" you raise an eyebrow and you swear his cheeks go pink.

"I'm a man," he shrugs, trying to be nonchalant as he passes you again to head back to the living room.

"Perv," you call after him, but he doesn't turn around this time.

"You got ten minutes."

You've never seen so much nudity in your life, which is saying something considering you'd seen your fair share of it back in your QZ when life had been a bit easier. But seeing it on paper, in photographs that have somehow lasted through years of this shitty reality, it's something else entirely. You stare with wide eyes at the onslaught of naked bodies, most of which are posed in extremely graphic sexual positions, and feel your heart continue to pound in your chest.

Without much thought you'd opened the first magazine right there where Joel left you standing outside the supply closet, and you now find yourself sitting in said closet with your flashlight aimed at the pages, breathing heavily and trying to comprehend exactly how you feel about what you're looking at. A lot of it feels kind of fake, especially the looks on the faces of the models, but there's enough sexual energy there that makes you start to feel a bit wet in your underwear, a feeling you haven't experienced for quite some time; not since a few a years ago in the QZ when you'd been in your last relationship.

"I gave you ten minutes," you suddenly hear Joel say from the other room, and you quickly scramble to your feet and frantically shut the magazine, "In case you forgot, it's your turn."

"Fuck," you trip out of the closet and dash to the living room, clutching your brand new collection of media to your chest, "Sorry, I got distracted."

He stands by the balcony door and looks you over quickly, eyes scanning from the magazines to your face and back again, "Enjoy yourself?" his expression is unreadable and it makes you self conscious.

"Oh please," you reply, making a face, "Do not start."

"So which was your favorite?" he asks you casually once darkness has fallen and you're both safely settled in the lodge for the night.

"Which what?"

He looks at you from over his book and gives you a look, like he's questioning your sanity. You stare for a moment and then slap your hand over your eyes when you realize.

"Oh for fuck's sake," you groan, "I'm never gonna hear the end of this now, am I?"

He laughs and you look over at him again, laying there on the couch with a smug look on his face. You retaliate by grabbing the pillow behind you and tossing it at him, making him drop the book he's reading.

"Hey!" he reaches down to pick it up again, "I showed them to you, I'm allowed to ask."

"False," you say, flipping your hair, "And for your information, I only managed to look at one of them."

He chuckles to himself and returns to his book, "Okay, okay, I'll leave you alone. I was just kiddin'."

"Joel Miller? Kidding?" you make a faux-shocked face, "I fear we've entered the Twilight Zone."

"Don't even pretend you know what that is," he says it seriously but his smile betrays him, "You didn't know about the Twilight Zone 'til I told you about it last week."

"That's just what I wanted you to think."

He rolls his eyes and keeps reading, letting the silence take over again. You watch his eyes scan the page back and forth, taking in the story - whatever it is - and transporting himself to another world, away from the ski lodge. He does this every patrol once it's too dark to see outside, sets the battery powered lantern to its highest setting and reads until he falls asleep. You wish you had his concentration and focus; instead, you curl up in the red armchair and force your eyes shut until your thoughts quiet down enough to let you sleep. Which is difficult tonight especially, seeing as all you can think about are those damn magazines.

After about five more minutes of silence you take a deep breath, then quietly say, "The one with the blonde girl in the bunny ears."

You don't dare look at him, waiting for his response and focusing instead on the empty fireplace beside you. You hear the crinkling of paper as he dogears the page of his book and then the gentle thud as he places it on the floor.

"That's a good one," he says just as quietly.

Another moment of silence passes, and your skin feels like it's on fire as you whisper, "I like the page where she's like...bent over."

"I can't remember the pages, if I'm being honest," he replies, "I haven't looked at them in a while."

You nod to yourself, "Well, there's this page where the guy has her bent over a table. And he's like...pounding into her from behind." You wait for him to say something else but he doesn't so you continue, "It's one of the only pages where she actually looks like she's enjoying herself."

"Hey, uh, I really was just kiddin'," he says awkwardly, "You don't have to tell me, it's okay."

"Oh," you can't help but sound dejected and embarrassed, your fingers trembling a little bit as you push a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "Sorry."

"I mean, if you want to, you can," he corrects, sounding slightly embarrassed himself, "I know you probably....you probably want to talk about it."

You bite down on your lip and sigh exasperatedly, placing your hands over your face, "Kinda," you mumble against your fingers, "It's all I can think about right now."

"Did it make you uncomfortable?" he asks, voice still gentle, "A lot of people are offended by that kinda stuff, you wouldn't be the first person to find it weird."

"It's definitely weird," you take a shaky breath and drop your hands, "But no, I'm not uncomfortable. It was....I mean, it was hot," you bite your lip, "I haven't even thought about sex for a long time so it made me...uh..."

The silence is deafening and apparently neither of you wants to break it as you sit there without speaking, letting your words hang in the dead air. You suddenly feel like you want to crawl out of your skin for saying anything to begin with, for even asking about the magazines in the first place.

"Wet?" he suddenly says, voice breaking a bit, "It made you wet?"

"Very," you reply, relieved that he's not freaked out and trying to change the subject.

"Well, that's normal," he says, voice stiff.

You can't help but laugh, finally peering over at him and seeing that he's just laying there, staring at the ceiling, "I know it's normal, Joel. It's not my first time being turned on, trust me."

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" he grumbles, looking at you in exasperation, "You can't just say that and expect me to give you a casual response. It made you wet, you got turned on, congratulations."

You stare at him, watching as he reaches for his book again, "Wait," you clamor out of the chair and reach beneath it to grab the magazine you'd looked at earlier. You shuffle over to him, thumbing through the pages until you find the right one, "Here," you open to the correct page and show it to him, "This is the one I'm talking about."

His eyes assess the page, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily in his throat as he takes in what you were referring to. He nods slowly, "Okay yeah, I see what you mean. She's about to come, that's why she looks like that."

Your brow furrows, "You can tell that from a picture?"

He shrugs, eyes still on the magazine, "Well, see, he's rubbin' her clit," he points to it and your face goes hot again, "And he's fuckin' her pretty hard. So yeah, I'd say she's either already comin' or about to." his gaze shifts back to you, noticing that you're staring, and he awkwardly pushes the magazine back toward you, "What?"

"I just..." you swallow, shaking your head apologetically, "Sorry, it just sounded really dirty hearing you say that."

He suddenly looks uncomfortable, shifting on the couch and leaning away from you as he crosses his arms, "Well, you asked."

"I know, I don't mean it in a bad way," you step back and realize you're suddenly throbbing in your jeans, feeling that familiar wetness again, "It just... hearing you say it out loud like that, it makes the picture hotter, somehow."

He looks at you, gaze trailing from your eyes to your lips. You suddenly feel like you've said too much, exposed even though you're fully dressed, and you walk back over to the chair and quickly plop back down in it. You give him another look and see his lips parting like he's going to say something else. Instead he takes a breath and drops his eyes from your face, twisting around on the couch to face the opposite way, "It's late, we should sleep."

"Y-yeah," you breathe, crossing your legs, heart stuttering as your clothed core presses wetly against the denim of your jeans. "You're right."

You curl back up in the chair and try to calm your breath, slow your heart, try not to focus too much on the fact that hearing Joel of all people say the phrases he's rubbin' her clit and fuckin' her pretty hard has made you start falling to pieces. Do you even see Joel that way? Has there ever been a moment where you found yourself thinking about him like that? You want to tell yourself the answer is no, that your body is simply experiencing some pent-up sexual frustration and he has nothing to do with it, but you know you'd be lying to yourself.

He's hot. It's not some shocking revelation or something you've realized over time. There's a reason you'd felt so drawn to him that first day in the dining hall, a reason you'd watched out for him every day and hoped he'd notice you. Hell, there's a reason you're still doing patrols with him despite him being a pain in the ass. You're not an idiot, you know yourself well enough by now to know what these things mean.

You're attracted to him. You've been attracted to him this whole damn time.

You shut your eyes tight and curl up into a ball, holding your knees to your chest. He's rubbin' her clit, his voice echoes in your mind, and your cunt begins to ache.

Stop thinking about it, you shake his words away and try to focus on falling asleep. There's no way you're gonna touch yourself right now, not with him in the room, and you're not gonna excuse yourself either like some horny teenager. You can do this, you can get through it, it'll go away soon.

It doesn't go away.

About twenty minutes later you're still sitting there with your eyes shut, trying your hardest not to touch yourself. But it's so fucking difficult. His words are playing on a loop in your head, over and over, soft yet rough, kind yet sexy, his southern drawl making it all the more hotter:

She's about to come, that's why she looks like that.

He's rubbin' her clit.

He's fuckin' her pretty hard.

I'd say she's either already comin' or about to.

You squirm in the chair, imagining what he'd sound like whispering that in your ear with his fingers pumping in and out of you as you came undone beneath him. Rubbin' her clit, his voice breathes in your mind, fuckin' her pretty hard, she's about to come.

You're ten seconds from breaking your own rule and heading back to the supply closet to find some release when you hear an unfamiliar sound coming from a few feet away. Your eyes flutter open, thoughts stopping momentarily as you try to figure out what it is. You turn slightly in your chair to see if Joel hears it too, and you feel your breath stop completely.

He's turned off the lantern so you can't see him properly, but you can make out the shadow of him in the moonlight, see the long shape of him directly mirrored against the floorboards and his hand stroking himself up and down, quick and rough. Your lips part in disbelief, realizing the noise you're hearing is the sound of his palm slapping against the base of his cock as he jacks himself off.

You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

Here you've been, desperately trying to push away any and all sense of desire so you wouldn't make a fool out of yourself, wouldn't make him uncomfortable, and here he is doing that exact thing. Angrily, almost out of spite, you sit up in the chair and stuff your hand down your jeans.

Two can play at that game, asshole.

Your finger goes straight to your clit and you begin to rub it furiously, eyes trained on the dark outline of his hand moving up and down. You can only vaguely make out the shape of him but it's enough to make you start dripping, the base of your palm getting slick as you stimulate yourself continuously. He's well endowed, that much is obvious, and you watch his silhouette as he releases his large cock for a moment to bring his hand to his mouth and lick a stripe along his palm. You have to bite down on your lip to suppress the moan that threatens to bubble from your throat at the action, watching through lidded eyes as he brings his wet hand back down and fists himself once more.

Without much thought you slip your middle finger inside yourself, eyes trained on him as you pretend it's his cock pushing past your entrance. It's pretty difficult to imagine though, considering his cock is probably five times as girthy as your one finger, but you make do. You can kind of make out the shape of the tip, wide and shiny, disappearing and reappearing over and over. You slip a second finger inside and bite back a whimper.

The only sounds in the room are the slapping of his skin and the sudden wet squelch of your fingers; you don't even bother to try and make it softer, you're getting off now whether he knows or not, the fullness overwhelming you as you lick your lips and furrow your brow. You haven't masturbated in a long time; you know it won't take you long to get what you need.

"Are you-" he suddenly gasps into the darkness, and your head snaps up to look at him again, heart pounding when you see that his hand has stilled on his cock and he's looking over at you with an expression of pure disbelief.

You should probably be embarrassed, apologetic, but instead you can't help but feel a rush of pride, of spite, as he realizes what you're doing.

"Like you're not," you hiss back, practically spitting as you continue to fuck yourself, "I'm not deaf."

"Thought you were sleepin'," he says back, and you can see his fingers clench around his length, like he's doing everything in his power not to stroke himself.

"And that makes it less weird?"

He groans and lets go of himself completely, sitting up slightly on the couch and shaking his head like he's trying to wake himself up from a dream he isn't having. When he looks at you again his eyes fall to where you're still getting off, not bothering to be sneaky about the way he practically bores a hole in your jeans with his gaze.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" he challenges gruffly, eyes coming back up to meet yours, the hint of a cocky smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Oh, he's proud of himself, isn't he?

You glare at him, "I'm not gonna do anything about it, Joel. I'm gonna keep going," you mean it too, fingers not even slowing down as you pant breathlessly in his direction, "And you can stay here or you can go, doesn't matter to me."

It does matter, actually, it really does. If he was to get up and walk out... it would basically be a rejection, something you're not sure you'll be able to deal with. You don't break eye contact with him, staring him down as you give him your own challenge.

He swallows, gives you one last look, and then flops back down into a horizontal position as he reaches for himself again. He returns to his quick strokes, almost purposely more heavy this time as he mutters, "No talking. Let's just do it and forget it even happened, deal?"

"Deal," you reply immediately, and add a third finger.

It doesn't take long for you to find your release, a particularly hard slap of skin from Joel on the couch pushing you over the edge. You don't try to stifle your moan this time, focusing completely on enjoying your orgasm as your hand stills in your pants and you begin to shake in the chair. Your hips buck pathetically, eyes shutting tight as you whimper and cry out in pleasure.

"Jesus Christ," you hear Joel pant a few seconds afterward, followed by a long groan as he starts to come too, "Fuck."

You manage to catch a glimpse of the way he twists his wrist, aims his cock against his button-down and stains it with his release. You wish you had a better view, that it wasn't so dark, but just hearing him come apart is enough. It's exactly what you hoped it would be.

You lay there in silence for a few moments, both of you panting breathlessly from your orgasms as the weight of what you've just done starts to creep in. You're suddenly slightly afraid of what he'll say, what he'll do. Will he get mad? Will he say he doesn't want to patrol with you anymore? You decide immediately that you don't want him to have the first word.

"What were you thinking about?" you ask, barely a whisper.

It takes a few moments for him to reply, and you start to worry that you've already ruined everything, but then he answers.

"Bunny ears," he says quietly.

"What?"

"I was thinkin' about the bunny ear girl," he's still breathless, "From the magazine. Weren't you?"

You figure you can't dig the hole any deeper.

"I was just watching you, Joel," you breathe, feeling butterflies tingle in your belly at the words, "Didn't have to think about anything else."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, then mumbles something to himself that you don't understand. You can't fully make out his expression but you swear you see him frown in the moonlight, not exactly the response you were aiming for. He suddenly turns on the couch again to face away from you, exhaling loudly, "Go to sleep."

The words strike you hard, lips parting in surprise. You obviously hadn't expected him to completely reciprocate, to jump into your arms and kiss you, but that? "Go to sleep"? What the fuck kind of a response is that? You stare at him, hoping against reason that he'll turn around again and apologize, say something different, but he doesn't.

"Yeah, sure," you mutter, curling back up into a ball in the chair and hoping sleep finds you as soon as possible so you don't have to think anymore, "Asshole."

You hope he hears you.

You wake the next morning to the sound of someone rummaging nearby, and you open your eyes blearily to see Joel crouched near the door, packing his bag. You stretch and yawn automatically, momentarily forgetting what had transpired between the two of you last night. His head tilts up to look at you and it all comes flooding back when you see that familiar frown on his face.

"Do you ever smile?" you say, voice rough with sleep.

He rolls his eyes and goes back to his pack, shaking his head, "Like you're so chipper."

"Well, at least I have a good reason to be annoyed," you snap, sitting up in the chair and stretching your legs, "Asshole."

"You love to call me that, don't you?"

"Just calling it like I see it," you mutter, pulling yourself up and heading past him to the door, "I'm taking a piss."

"Watch out for th-"

"The trip wires, I know," you interrupt coldly, "I'm not an idiot."

He doesn't say anything else but you feel his eyes on your back as you walk out onto the balcony and down the steps. You both have to pee in the woods when you're out here - the ski lifts aren't the only things that don't work properly anymore - so you've managed to each figure out your own designated area. You feel relieved once you're out of his eyesight and beneath the thick layer of tree branches that keep your makeshift bathroom secluded.

You really shouldn't be so pissed at him, it's not like he owes you anything. You know you're projecting your own feelings onto him and that it isn't fair, but god, him telling you to go to sleep after you'd essentially confessed your attraction to him makes your blood boil. He'd really had nothing else to say? Couldn't have come up with something a little softer, a little kinder? Let you down easy?

You grumble to yourself on the way back up the steps, questioning whether or not you should keep ignoring him or just get over it. Is it really worth an hours hike of hostility? You already know this is your last shift with him, there's no way you can come back from this in any way that will keep your dignity intact. It's over.

"You say you're not a kid but you sure do act like one," Joel says the second you re-enter the ski lodge, and you stop dead in your tracks. He's got his arms crossed, nose flaring in anger, "I'm sick and tired of the silent treatment, the cold shoulder, all that shit. What happened to people just talkin' to each other?"

You shut the door behind you and shake your head, "I'm not giving you the silent treatment Joel, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," his voice is firm but you can hear some emotion there, something deeper. He doesn't like being ignored and you know why, but it doesn't soften your resolve.

"I'm pissed at you, yeah," you admit, shrugging, "But I think I have a pretty valid reason."

"And what is it?"

You stare, scrunching up your face in confusion, "Are you serious? Jesus, Joel, I thought you were smart."

"Oh, fuck off," he grumbles, rolling his eyes again, "I ain't a mind reader."

You shake your head again, inhaling deeply, "I'm not asking you to read my mind, Joel," you exhale and try to calm yourself, feeling the angry tears begin to sting your eyes. God, you hate how emotional you get when you're angry. You hate showing weakness like this.

"Then tell me," he groans, "Is it about last night? 'Cause I thought we made a deal that we're not gonna talk about it."

You laugh at his words, cold and hard, "Right, yeah, sorry. Deal's a deal, right? My bad," you couldn't sound more sarcastic if you tried, stuffing your roll of toilet paper back in your pack and zipping it up, "Come on, let's just head back and forget about it." Your voice cracks on the last few words and you bite down hard on your lip, feeling the tears spill over.

"Are you crying?" his voice falters, and you hear a twinge of kindness in his tone, something you'd desperately wanted to hear last night.

He crosses the room before you even have a chance to reply, striding over to you and placing his hand on your shoulder firmly, making you turn around. His face softens immediately when he sees the tears streaming down your face, the tears you're already trying to wipe away.

"Fuck," he says, brow furrowing in concern, "I'm sorry."

You snort involuntarily, shaking your head, "I'm just stupid."

"You're not stupid," it's almost a whisper, "I'm the stupid one, believe me," he brings his hand up like he's going to touch your face but seems to think better of it, bringing it back to your shoulder again, "I shouldn't have... I don't know what I was thinkin' last night, I'm sorry. You showed me that magazine and-"

You put your hand up to silence him, "I don't care about why, Joel. I don't even care that you did it, it's not like I told you to stop."

His brow furrows deeper, "Then what...?"

You close your eyes, breathing deeply before putting on your best impression of him and mumbling, "Go to sleep," like he had the night before, opening your eyes again to see if he understands.

He stares at you for a few seconds, confused, but you watch as it suddenly dawns on him, realization spreading across his features. He suddenly lets go of your shoulder and takes a few steps back, eyes falling to the floor.

"You can't... you can't think of me that way," he says it gruffly, swallowing and shaking his head.

You stand there without saying anything, waiting until he finally looks back up at you to speak. When he does, you make sure to look directly in his eyes.

"Why not?"

His hand comes up to touch the back of his neck and you swear you see patches of red begin to bloom along his collarbone, like he's embarrassed...or flattered? You take a step forward and he quickly takes another step backward.

"If it's because of the age thing... I really don't care, Joel," you say earnestly, heart beginning to beat heavily in your chest, "I think you're..." You can't believe the words are even coming out of your mouth, the tears on your face already beginning to dry as you try to process this new situation you've found yourself in, "I think you're sexy."

His brow furrows again, not in anger but in confusion. He doesn't take another step backward when you move toward him this time, staying rooted in place as you peer up at him, waiting for him to speak. He remains silent, his eyes trained directly on your face, lips set in a firm line.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

He shakes his head slowly, "I don't."

"Why?"

He doesn't reply, just keeps staring at you like he has absolutely no idea what to say. You suddenly feel the need to reassure him, comfort him. Your hand moves upward, aching to cup his face in your hand, feel that grey scruff beneath your palm.

He pulls back before you get the chance, shaking his head again, "Don't," it's barely a whisper, voice breaking as he says it, "Just...gimme a minute."

"Okay," you nod, dropping your hand, "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizin'," he breathes, still not breaking eye contact, "Just let me think, please."

You swallow, teeth tugging on your lip as he continues to stand there motionless. He's still looking at you but his thoughts are miles away; you can practically see the wheels turning in his head, calculating exactly what he's supposed to do in a situation like this. Part of you wants him to kiss you, part of you wants to kiss him, part of you wants to wait until he makes a decision. You settle firmly on the third option.

"I lied," he finally breaks the silence, jaw tense and firm, "I wasn't thinkin' about that fuckin' bunny ear model."

Your lips part; you hadn't been expecting him to say that.

"Then...what were you thinking about?" You already know the answer before he replies.

"You," his voice is strained, broken, like he's holding himself back, "I was thinkin' about you and the stupid magazines in the supply closet."

You feel your skin flush, a tingle trailing up the back of your neck as you try not to show him how pleased you are, "W-what?"

"I couldn't stop thinkin' about you in that closet, lookin' at those pictures, getting...." he trails off and swallows, then whispers, "Wet. Gettin' all wet in your panties from that girl getting fucked."

His words send an immediate throb to your core and you can feel your heart in your throat, pounding relentlessly as he continues to speak, continues to say exactly what's been on his mind as you stand in front of him, so much smaller than him, letting his words get lost in the sudden warmth of your body and the buzz of your thoughts.

"I couldn't stop thinkin' about it," he repeats, voice rough, eyes dark, "Your wet panties, your big eyes, your..." he practically chokes then, "Your pussy, all wet and aching."

"Oh my god," you whimper, crossing your legs involuntarily as you feel an immediate surge of wetness in your underwear, "Please, keep talking, please."

"Wanted to see it and touch it," he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your face as he peers down at you with desire in his eyes, "Wanted to fuck it and make you come."

Without hesitation your arms shoot up to wrap around his neck, burying your face in his warm chest and tugging at the collar of his coat, "I want you to," you practically moan, clawing at the material, "Joel, I need you to fuck me right now."

To your absolute dismay he reaches up and removes your arms from him, taking a step back so neither of you are touching. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown wide and that red blush of heat now spread all over his neck and cheekbones.

"I can't," he says, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, I can't."

You're about to protest, whine and beg if you have to, but his eyes fall to your groin. You watch with wide eyes as he goes for his belt, begins to unloop it and remove it.

"Take your pants off," he groans, and you don't need telling twice.

You end up masturbating together again, this time in the light of day. You find yourselves laying on the couch where he'd slept last night, the memory of what he'd done there fresh in your mind as you pump two fingers in and out of yourself steadily and watch him stroke his cock to match your pace. He watches you behind hooded eyes, his lips parted as he pants and gets himself off to your pleasure, watches you do the same thing to him.

"That's it," he murmurs, eyes scrunching in arousal as he scans your face, watches you come undone, "Rub your clit, nice and fast."

You whimper, unable to hold on for much longer as you eye his cock and see the way the fat head of it drips for you, slicking his hand and allowing him to stroke faster and faster. You want to say something to help get him off too but your words are completely lost in the sensation; you couldn't speak even if you wanted to.

He knows you're about to come, can see it in your face the way he saw it in the face of the model in the picture. He swallows heavily and fucks himself impossibly faster, harder, silently asking you to match his pace. You do it, thumbing your clit and feeling the tense coil in your belly snap as your jaw drops and you let out a long and ridiculously loud moan. Your eyes shut tight and you throw your head back, feeling your body begin to shake from the stimulation.

"There you go," he grunts, and you hear the slapping of skin stop as he rides out his own release, coming into his fist, "Fuck." Your eyes open at just the right time to see his jaw go slack, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head from the pleasure. It somehow makes you ache for more, even though you can't possibly imagine being any more overstimulated than you already are.

You both lay there, chests heaving, hearts pounding, completely undone. It goes without saying that you've both just managed to each have one of the best orgasms of your lives.

"New patrol rule," you whisper to him, legs still wide and cunt dripping with your release, "We do this. Every time. Please."

"Yes," he replies immediately, still catching his breath, "I can do that."

"It can't be any more than this," Joel says to you quietly as you hike down the mountain a little while later, the sunrise cresting the trees again the way it had yesterday when you'd hiked up; it's like nothing has changed, but you both know that everything has.

"Okay," you say just as softly, though part of you aches to reach for his hand, loop your pinky through his and have some degree of touch between you. But you can tell he means business, that there won't be any more discussion on the matter today.

"Just this," he whispers, glancing at you with a meaningful look, eyes soft and tender as he peers at you, knowing what he's done, what he's started.

"Just this," you agree, but you don't really believe it.

You hope, deep down, neither does he.

thank you so much for reading! there will be more in this collection coming very soon. i'd like to do some short fics of certain nights they've had, especially the first time he calls her a good girl. that was originally going to be in this part but it was just getting wayyy too long and i have so many ideas i need to flesh out more lol. i'm also going to continue where they left off in "don't think we could help it", and yes, eventually they will do the deed, i promise. among other things....

if you liked it, please let me know! and again, if you'd like to give me a tip you can do so on my kofi 💖

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #*#fic: soft!dom joel

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seichira · 2 years

Note

Hello! If I may, could I please ask for some headcanons of how Chigiri, Nagi, Bachira and Isagi would confess to the reader?

LOVESICK CONFESSIONS — blue lock!

✺ featuring — meguru bachira, hyoma chigiri, yoichi isagi, and seishiro nagi

✺ lumi’s note — this is my first time writing a request and coincidentally, also my first post for the bllk (best) boys! i hope you like it, anon!

MEGURU BACHIRA ༉‧₊˚.

i have a very good reason to believe that meguru bachira just one day wakes up and decides that he loves you and is going to tell you. don’t get me wrong—his epiphany may be sudden, but this has been a long time coming, and it’s high time he tells you.

since this morning, meguru bachira is a man on a mission. he is going to tell you that he has feelings for you, and it has to be today. to be honest, meguru isn’t the type of person to come up with those cheesy and romantic gestures. he finds his own ways to do things, and confessing isn’t any different.

just like clockwork, you approach the school quadrangle with tree boxes where you always sit down on to read books and sometimes watch bachira as he shows you his tricks in football. it has been a routine of some kind to meet there every after class and you both liked it.

as for you, the presence of the boy is comforting after a long day even though you’re both just doing your own thing, but you know that he’s there and it’s enough. of course, who can forget the ice cream he buys you as a thanks for accompanying him while he plays football?

today, meguru is already there when you arrived. as always, his feet are already playing with the ball in some way even if he’s still in his school uniform. he’s cute like this, you think. in his point of view, while you close the distance between the two of you, he gets more and more excited to tell you.

“y/n! think fast!” before you know it, the ball is already flying towards you. although spending a lot of time with him has resulted in you knowing how to at least catch a ball, you opt to dodge it this time.

“what the heck, megs? you trying to kill me?”

he chuckled, “you have to catch it, y/n!”

you looked at him incredulously, “no, thank you. i came here to peacefully read my new copy of pride and prejudice, so if you may—”

“aw, come on! pick it up! pretty please?”

okay, let’s get this out of the way—meguru bachira has irresistible puppy eyes that can get him anything he wants. so, you do it and you picked up the ball.

“tell me what it says, pretty.”

your brows furrowed in confusion, but your instincts guided you to search the ball for whatever he meant. and there, in big, black, bold letters—i love you.

the scoff that comes out of your lips in insincere and the smile that creeps into your face is a telltale sign of how you feel the same way.

he grins, “well?”

“think fast, meguru!”

you aim the ball towards his head and throw it playfully, which he catches without effort. he looks at you expectantly.

“i love you too, idiot.”

he may or may not have kicked the ball so hard it reached the rooftop of the nearest building to the point where it cannot be retrieved, but who knows?

HYOMA CHIGIRI ༉‧₊˚.

oh dear, you have to tell him first or else, your happily ever after with him will end before it even started. he is very well aware of how he feels about you, but the 50/50 chance of you liking him back or not doesn’t sit well with him, and it makes him sick to his stomach imagining you rejecting him. he’d rather die than go through that heartbreak slash embarrassment. doesn’t do well with rejections. so, yeah.

it has been a frustrating month, to say the least, because chigiri has been acting weird. you guys went from basically acting like an old couple to casual acquaintances, and you don’t understand. not too long ago, everyone was expecting you to be together by the end of this year and truth to be told, you thought so too.

in chigiri’s defense, he is freaking out. his friends are pressuring him to man up and tell you how strongly he feels about you, but that is the problem. he feels too strongly and he’s afraid how rejection coming from your end will affect everything.

first, he’ll lose you and your friendship. followed by losing months of proper training because he’ll be nursing his heartbreak seriously. the odds aren’t in his favor, and it’s keeping him awake at night.

obviously, he has been thinking too much about this, that he hasn’t noticed how he’s hurting you in the present. he’s not showing up to your little picnics by the soccer field, he’s not responding to the cutesy sticky notes you hand to him in class, and he’s not even looking at you, much less talking to you.

“bro, you trying to become single forever, or what?” his friend, isagi, who absolutely has no game when it comes to girls as well, asks him.

“what do you mean?”

“just look at your pretty lil y/n,” isagi shamelessly points towards your direction in the cafeteria, and chigiri hurriedly puts his friend’s hand down.

but he sees what he means—you are looking at them with that faint melancholy in your eyes that you’re trying to hide. chigiri can only look away alongside the torturous feeling tugging at his heartstrings.

of course, she’s upset. i’m her friend and i haven’t been talking to her. i’ll just apologize once i sort these feelings out, he rationalizes.

that is only until you corner him as soon as he got out of the comfort room. you look confrontational and it has him terrified. he’s actually alone. with you. the person who he is head over heels in love with.

“spit it out, hyoma,” you demand with venom and hurt laced in your voice it almost makes him flinch.

since he’s backed against the wall and you’re standing inches right in front of him, he figures running away isn’t the right thing to do in this situation.

“tell me straight up and end my agony. i’ll try my best to fix whatever problem you have with me, but i can’t do that if you won’t tell me!”

“w-what do you mean?” is all he could muster because his brain can only process the fact that he can smell your perfume and natural scent from here and it is sending him on a frenzy.

god, he is so damn in love with you.

however, he is pulled out of his reverie when he hears your small sniffles and when he catches sight of your tears.

no, no, no.

don’t cry. not for me. not for anyone.

“y/n—”

“is it because you found out that i’m in love with you, hyoma? is… is that why you’ve been avoiding me? you could have just told me and i’d do my best to fall out of love with you if that’s what it takes for you to remain friends with me—”

a string of patience breaks within him, and with that comes a breath of pure relief as he grabs your nape to pull you in on a kiss.

“but i don’t wanna be friends,” he whispers in between kisses. “i love you too. i love you, baby.”

ISAGI YOICHI ༉‧₊˚.

he claims that he has loved you ever since you were both kids to everyone who asks him who you are (yes, everyone knows that this nerd is in love with you except… well, you). it was only when he had to go away to blue lock for some time that he realizes he needs to confess to you before spending time apart, and also because he is scared he’d lose you to your other admirers.

isagi is restless.

it’s valentine’s day and he just witnessed your locker throw up a bunch of love letters from losers who are confessing their undying love for you. idiots. if anyone here has undying love for her, it’s me.

despite knowing that no one will love you more than he does, he is still all fidgety and nervous because unlike those losers, he hasn’t confessed to you.

it’s ridiculous. you have been together basically since kindergarten and has been inseparable since then. both of you have seen each other in their highs and lows. you have laughed and cried together. you have made plans for a future where the other is present.

isn’t it already a given that he loves you? does he really have to say it at this point? you must know, right? you know him. he doesn’t even have to talk and you already know what he’s thinking. there is no way that you don’t know he loves you.

“oh, wow—this is a lot!” you exclaim, mostly thankful for all the love that literally just poured out of your locker for you. “it’s like twice as many as last year.”

you start picking up the letters and chocolates on the ground, which isagi helps you with. he is the designated eater of the chocolates you can’t finish.

“too bad they don’t got a chance—” he starts, and you interrupt him to disagree.

“i don’t think so, yoichi. we’re in the right age to be dating people. also, you’ll be leaving me alone once you attend that training, so it wouldn’t hurt to give one of them a chance.”

poor isagi deflates upon hearing that. it never occurred to him that you will be with someone else. to him, it will always be you and him. there could be no extras in your story.

oh, boy. was he wrong to be so complacent. apparently, you have no damn clue that your childhood friend has always loved you. and now, he’s on a dilemma and his other friends have to hear about it.

“it’s your fault, though?” nagi states the obvious. “you never told her, so how’d she know? boring.”

meguru nods eagerly, “but it’s fine, yoichi! there will always be someone out there for you. but of course, you’ll have to suffer watching her with someone else first.”

when he realizes that his friends are no help at all, he takes matters into his own hands and put aside his doubts for a while to muster up the courage to finally confess to you after years of pining.

the day before he goes away for training, he offers to walk you home like he always does. the difference of today from all the other days is that he pulls your wrist just right before you disappear into your door.

“wait a minute,” he says.

you face him again, and without a word, he locks a necklace around your neck with a pendant of a small soccer ball with his initial in the middle. your lips part in awe and in realization of what he is about to say, but you find yourself speechless at how he’s looking at you with the softest eyes he could give only you, with the setting sun behind him.

“i never told you this, but i want you to rememember it starting from now. i love you. i want you to be mine, and mine alone. and this may sound selfish, but will you wait for me until i get back?”

you sigh and caress his cheek on your palm. “honey, i have always loved you too. i am yours already. of course, i will wait for you. so don’t worry about me and do your best over there, alright?”

“you’ll be here when i get back?”

“i’ll be here when you get back.”

SEISHIRO NAGI ༉‧₊˚.

the realization hits him in the middle of a football game. he can’t stop thinking about you and it has been affecting his games. there’s no other explanation for that, right? he likes you. and he has to tell you in front of the ocean of people watching because he just can’t wait but ease the bugging feeling in his stomach.

nagi is not playing like usual, and coach ego has scolded him like five times since the game started.

him being himself, he can’t even bring himself to care because his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. he wants to play and see the field on a levelheaded point of view to match with isagi’s tactics, but boy, are you annoying. you are all he can think about, and it is frustrating him!

“what kinda bullshit was that, nagi?!” reo shouts at him from across the field because the white-haired boy failed to catch the ball meant for him. “focus!”

“i’m really fucking trying, man!” he shouts back painfully and truthfully, because he really is trying but it doesn’t seem to be working.

the game continues on and all nagi can think about are your lips and how they move whenever you smile, your eyes whenever you talk about something you love, your hair when the autumn air makes it dance like leaves on trees, or your small pout when he refuses to give in to your whims!

“goddammit!” he frustratingly utters as he tries to steal the ball from the opponent. he is too close to succeeding until his brain once again flashes a memory of you laughing like the beautiful human being you are.

“you got this, sei!” you cheer from the bleachers, and your voice is much too distinct for his ears not to hear it. almost faster than the speed of light, he looks at you. his breath gets stuck in his throat as soon as he sees you in his jersey, waving up a huge banner with his name on it. in that split second, he got tackled by the players running on the field.

“fucking hell! that’s it!” he grumbles. “oh, y/n. you are damn annoying. making me fall in love with you like a fool. annoying! annoying! annoying!”

ego substitutes him out of the game, and he takes that chance to climb up the bleachers to approach you. the game is yet to restart, so a lot of eyes are on him and his annoyed expression.

you, however, know better. he may be annoyed, but definitely not by you, even though he’s staring straight at you ask he walks. you smile at him.

“you okay, sei?” you ask in concern because he just got tackled to the ground moments before reaching you. “you’ve been out of focus—”

“because you’re here, dammit.”

you laugh through your nose, “what? i thought you wanted me to come watch the game, seishiro..”

“can’t focus now. i don’t know what to do. i can’t stop thinking about you. what’re you doing to me, huh? stop it right now! we need to win!”

“i’m not doing anything, though?”

“that! that pout! stop it!”

seishiro nagi looks incredibly cute like this. he is literally towering over you in his 6’3 prowess and yet, he throws tantrums like a little boy.

“what exactly am i doing to you, sei?”

“you make me want to leave the damn field so i can climb up here to kiss you! because i love you! and i can’t stop thinking about you in that huge jersey!”

your heart overflows with the sudden confession from the boy you have liked for some time now, plus the fact that you have an entire stadium before you, but you are not complaining. not at all.

you take the initiative to tiptoe and kiss seishiro nagi in hopes that it will calm him down to last the game.

“i love you too, sei. no need to be so restless, hm? i’ll be watching from here and i’m not going anywhere, so you better focus!”

like the small peck wasn’t enough, he carries you by your waist to press a deeper kiss on your lips that he has only ever dreamed of kissing.

“okay. i guess that helps. see you after the game.”

he scores the winning goal, and everyone can tell that he is impatient. they are right. as soon as the game ends, he runs to celebrate with you in his arms.

#⏳ — lumi’s hcs!#blue lock headcanons #blue lock imagines #blue lock x reader #blue lock fluff #nagi headcanons #nagi x reader #chigiri headcanons #chigiri x reader #bachira headcanons #bachira x reader #isagi headcanons #isagi x reader #seishiro nagi #meguru bachira #hyoma chigiri #yoichi isagi #bllk headcanons #bllk imagines

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disease · 2 years

Text

50 Q’s

1.) describe yourself through the eyes of a stranger? 2.) what is a quality you’d like to change about yourself? 3.) what is your worst potential fear for the future? 4.) which television series do you use as a form of escapism? 5.) share a secret about yourself? 6.) if you could choose any place in the world to visit, where would it be? why? 7.) what advice would you give your childhood self? 8.) describe how you envision your ideal life partner? 9.) what is your favorite environmental season? why? 10.) what’s one book you’d suggest every person should read? 11.) what is one song that’s able to bring you to tears? 12.) describe your best friend? 13.) what was the premise of your last dream? 14.) what’s your favorite warm beverage? 15.) name one musical album that greatly impacted your life? why? 16.) what’s your favorite form of flattery? 17.) what’s your favorite painting? and describe how it makes you feel? 18.) describe your personal style? 19.) what was the last concept that inspired you? 20.) who was your very first artistic inspiration? 21.) how long have you used tumblr for? how has your style changed over the years? 22.) what was your first cell phone? 23.) what is your favorite fruit flavor? 24.) whom would you resurrect from the afterlife? which 3 questions would you ask them? 25.) if you could choose only one meal to eat for the remainder of your life, which would you choose? 26.) which of the 7 deadly sins do you struggle with the most? and which the least? 27.) your latest obsession? and why? 28.) if you could domesticate any animal as your pet, which would you choose? 29.) what’s your least favorite smell? 30.) favorite mythological creature? and why? 31.) name a scene from a movie that makes you cringe? 32.) favorite piece of memorabilia you own? 33.) your personal favorite oddity about yourself? 34.) favorite concert/show you’ve attended? 35.) what’s one thing you would tell to the last person who betrayed you? 36.) your favorite mantra to live by? 37.) do you have any strange habits? 38.) what’s your favorite white-noise to fall asleep to? 39.) what is your favorite gemstone? why? 40.) how do you choose to cope when you’re upset? 41.) what are you currently trying to accomplish? 42.) what’s your favorite item you’ve purchased secondhand? 43.) describe your personality is only 3 words? 44.) how is your relationship with your parents? 45.) an instrument you aspire to learn how to play? 46.) relate yourself to one movie character? 47.) least favorite music genre? why? 48.) which animal would you be the most terrified to encounter? 49.) name a public figure you find to be overrated? why? 50.) what purpose do you get out of using tumblr?

#ask #ask game #questions #get to know me #g

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fru1typunch · 7 months

Text

Here's a little post ranting about the Floridian education system and how it fucked over public school librarians this year, from the adult child of one who spent his whole summer helping his poor mom try and keep up with Desantis's ridiculous requests.

Every school year, the librarian always gets a couple weeks with a "closed" library to take inventory of the school's stock at the end. Normal stuff, y'know, if a bit tedious and boring. Scan every. Single. Thing. See what you have and figure out who last checked out what you should have, that sort of thing.

Well, Ron Desantis, in his genius, decided that concept had to be applied to all the books in the entire school to determine if they're "appropriate" (by his batshit conservative standards).

My mom didn't JUST have to do the usual inventory thing for her own library. She ALSO had to do something similar but far WORSE for her entire school's personal classroom libraries.

The objective of this SCHOOL WIDE requirement was to "approve" every book in the school as "appropriate". Every. Single. Book. In. The. School. Not the school library, no, the SCHOOL. All classrooms.

My mom's an elementary school librarian. There's around 1000 students at her school, give or take, and around 50 or so classroom libraries to sort through. And this was supposed to be done over summer, before the kids came back in the fall. Entirely unpaid.

She had to personally approve around 25,000-30,000 books school wide based on whether or not they're "appropriate for kids" (again, by Desantis standards), entirely unpaid, in about 2 months. Keep in mind these classroom libraries had been pre-existing for many years or even decades in most cases, so it's kinda useless to just now care about whether the books are "appropriate".

Mind you, you can't read that many individual books in under two months and then approve them in the system if you tried, even if most were children's books. She spent every single day of her summer, her only real time off each year, logging into the online portal and manually approving books from 8 in the morning to 8 at night, looking them up and trying to determine if they might be okay by the new standards since she couldn't possibly have the time to read them all and check, and again, entirely unpaid on her own. Teachers were scanning in their classroom's books to the system to be approved by her in real time, so she really never could get very far ahead. At most she'd knock out a few hundred a day, which I think is wildly impressive given the circumstances.

Even with all that work, she couldn't open her library for nearly a month into the new school year this August because she spent every school day finishing that approval thing for the classroom libraries for teachers. At least by that point she got paid for it. She was also way behind on getting her library ready for the school year, she really hadn't had time to prepare like normal. It was a crazy stressful time for her all around, moreso than back-to-school time normally is each year.

I helped as much as I knew how to, which mostly just meant looking books up for her or texting back and forth with my friends that work at Barnes and Noble or Books A Million asking if they could skim through certain books that might pose a threat at times, and coming up to the school with her sometimes while she worked on approving books and I worked on preparing her library for "business" again.

My mom was upset because she didn't have time for a real summer vacation, the most she got to do was occasionally visit the beach a few hours away for a day trip. (On one of the beach days, she even took her blessed laptop with her to work on it in the car ride over.) She was in the thick of it neck deep all on her own for months with hardly any time off and no pay to show for it.

It's frustrating because if she were to have approved a book that a parent later complains about, it could mean bad news for her. Again, no way in hell would she have been able to both read every single book, determine if she thought it was okay by Desantis's standards, and then approve every single book within the system. She did her best, but she's still nervous someone will complain.

All this conservative bullshit around books is hurting so many kinds of librarians and educators in so many ways, so just take a moment sometime soon to appreciate your local librarians and public school teachers putting up with this crap. They could use the love. Maybe some strong alcohol. And a big wad of cash, they do a lot of shit unpaid.

And do vote these assholes out of office that are making these poor librarians' and teachers' jobs harder with no additional support or pay.

#rant post #fuck desantis #ron desantis #florida #library #public libraries #school libraries #librarians #love your librarians #public school #public school system #education #education system #banned books #politics #be nice to teachers

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drawlfoy · 9 months

Text

the benefits of journaling p.1

pairing: diary!tom riddle x ravenclaw!reader

summary: you pick up an unassuming journal in diagon alley during an antiques sale without knowing that it's actually a part of a late dark lord's soul. sort of no voldy AU, set in the golden trio era where voldemort was defeated in the first war and thus harry has parents still.

warnings: she/her pronouns/reader that stays in the girl's dorms, language, eventual discussion of murder and whatnot but not yet!, you being a little femcel-aligned/obsessed, tom being awkward because he's been stuck in a diary without talking to anyone for 50 years, i fumble around trying to explain how to brew potions after taking only one semester of high school biology

please note that this tom riddle is definitely not the same tom riddle that dumbledore describes in canon. i read a few meta posts that rewired my brain and now my tom riddle is ~complicated~ and not just evil and murdery for the plot. so just keep that in mind lol

a/n: whoa is this....something other than draco on this blog? yes. im suffering right now and needed to get this out. hopefully i can get this longfic completed within 2-3 parts! i'm not using my usual taglist because i don't know how many of my draco readers want this

wc: 10k

The day you unknowingly bought a part of the late Lord Voldemort’s soul was like any other. It was overcast, the thick clouds a somber, humid ceiling hanging above you and Lucy as you made your way through the annual antiques sale in a dusty corner of Diagon Alley.

“Y/N,” said your companion for the day—a slight, freckled witch with mushroom brown waves and a perpetual smile etched into her mouth. “Look. This is so you.”

You looked up from the bookshelves of one of the stands. It took you a moment to see what she was holding, but once it came into focus, you rolled your eyes. “Oh, sod off. Not funny.”

Lucy just cackled, tossing the crudely carved wooden snake back onto the pile wearing a wicked grin.

The world is cruel in that you can scream once when you see Draco Malfoy’s pet ball python in third year and no one ever lets you forget it.

You turned away from Lucy, looking back to the old bookshelf that had been moved onto the cobbled street. The rich mahogany wood was close to buckling under the weight of all the tomes stacked haphazardly atop each other—far more than would be advisable.

But it wasn’t just the furniture that caught your eye. No, it was the glimpse of a black spine on the bottom, partially hidden away by an ancient encyclopedia on arithmancy.

You knelt, carefully arranging your robes so that they wouldn’t pick up dust from the street. You narrowly managed to avoid sending all the books on top tumbling into the street by slowly sliding it out from under the stack.

An unimpressively sized black journal laid in your hand, looking entirely unassuming and incredibly boring.

You frowned. A quick flip-through confirmed that it was in fact a journal—and that there was nothing written in it.

Why would someone try to sell an unused journal at an antiques market? You wondered, turning it over in your hand. Though its pages appeared entirely pristine, you could see some wear on the cover. There were no markings detailing when it had been manufactured.

It could very well have been an antique journal, you conceded. But why anyone would want an empty journal made years ago was beyond you.

You went to set the journal back onto the stack, getting so far as to nearly loosen your grip and let it drop from your fingers, when—

You had to buy this journal.

You weren’t sure why, or how. You just knew that this journal was coming home with you today, even if it was the least interesting thing you could’ve come across in your shopping trip.

“What’s that?” asked Lucy, appearing at your side and gently taking the journal from you.

“Just an empty journal, I think,” you answered, staring blankly at it in her hands.

“You know we can just get a normal new one at the bookstore, right?”

“Well, I like this one,” you heard yourself say. “It has…character.”

“Character.” She snorted, holding it up next to her face. “This is the most bland looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Consider yourself blind, then. Surely they’ll charge you twice the cost for this since it’s allegedly ‘vintage’.” Lucy made liberal use of air quotes. “You sure you don’t want to stop by the bookstore before we go? It’ll be on our way.”

“No, it’s really fine,” you said, taking it back into your hands, “I really like this one for some reason. I don’t know. There’s just something about it.”

Lucy tilted her head, giving it one last odd look. “Whatever you say. You go check out, then. Mum’s going to expect me back soon and the queue looks a bit long.”

The journal sat in your bag for the remainder of the summer, nearly forgotten as you went about your day. You opened it for the first time to examine it on August 31st, just a day before you were off to begin your 6th year.

There was writing that you hadn’t noticed before—thin, elegant script on the inside of the cover in black lettering. A simple “Property of Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

You stared, letting your finger trace gently across the parchment. There was a slight indentation at the lower swoop of the last letter “L”, like whoever had written it had pressed a little too hard with his quill.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” you whispered, trying the syllables out on your tongue. You’d never heard of any wizard named that before. You wondered how long it had been since those words had been written. You wondered if Tom Marvolo Riddle was still alive, and if he was, why he saw it fit to mark his property and then swiftly lose its custody to an antiques dealer.

Oh well. Sucks to suck, you thought dryly as you took the quill that you’d been using to finish updating your calendar and lifted it over the parchment. Whatever happened to the crusty old dinosaur that hadn’t even been able to make one full entry into his own journal before croaking or whatever was none of your business.

You’d barely started out how you imagined a normal person would begin a diary—a date, August 31st—when it suddenly became clear why this Tom fellow had been unable to leave a lasting mark.

The ink hadn’t even begun to dry before it sank into the pages, disappearing in a blink of an eye.

“What the fuck,” you mumbled, dumbstruck. You dipped your quill in ink once again and drew a series of short slashes across the first page, using more ink than was strictly necessary.

In a moment it was as if they had never been there.

WHAT??? You wrote mindlessly in the freshly blank page as your mind spun. What kind of magic was this? And what was the point?

No wonder you’d been drawn to it. It was probably dripping in all sorts of charms. Maybe the combination had been unintentionally alluring to particular passerbys.

Before you could think any further, the clean page transformed again, but not at your hand.

Hello.

The word assembled letter by letter, as if a ghost was writing it over your shoulder.

It seems you've found my journal.

You stared. A journal that could write back to you. Huh. A smile caught on your lips as you became glad after all that you’d chosen this one over a plain bookstore version.

How old are you? You wrote, resting your chin in your palm as you waited for a response as to whether or not your new acquisition actually belonged at the antiques market.

Sixteen.

You frowned. That was hardly vintage.

This was made sixteen years ago?

The response appeared quickly..

No. I'm sixteen.

Yeah. You were made sixteen years ago.

This time, the journal seemed to hem and haw at the response.

What year is it? Was the final answer that appeared.

What year do you think?

1943.

A little off. you wrote impishly.

Oh really?

Just a smidge.

Define a smidge, please.

What does it matter to you?

This seemed to stump the journal.

May I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking with?

You may not. Then, because you had nothing better to do, you dipped your quill and drew out a Tic-Tac-Toe board, placing an X in the middle.

The board disappeared into the page, and for a moment you wondered if you’d annoyed your magical journal too much. But then it reappeared, this time with an O in the middle.

You huffed. When you took too long to respond, another line appeared below.

I'm Tom. Tom Riddle.

You stared at the letters, the implications sinking in. If the journal had belonged to Tom—who was presumably a real person at some point in his life—then that would mean…which meant…

In seconds you’d slammed the journal shut and had your wand out, poking at the binding and being careful to avoid touching it again with your bare hands. Stupid, stupid you, buying something that had so clearly been engineered to lure you in, just like it probably had done to Tom back in the 40s.

The antique market rarely had issues with unknowingly cursed objects. They were allegedly thoroughly vetted by the stand officials to ensure that something like this didn’t happen. But perhaps this one had fallen through the cracks.

There was nothing you could do for now except to wrap the journal in a blanket and throw it into your suitcase. As a muggleborn, there was going to be no real magic for you until tomorrow on the train.

Better to investigate then, you decided firmly. With access to spellwork, you could at least cast protective wards around yourself and try to detect what exactly was wrong with it the next time you touched it.

Yes, you thought. That cannot possibly go wrong.

“Y/N!”

“Sorry, what was that?” You blearily blinked in the direction of Lucy and Ishan, both sitting there with an expectant look on their faces.

“I was saying that I’m pretty sure that Parkinson and Malfoy are actually together this time,” said Lucy, frowning. “I just came from the loo and his head was in her lap. Revolting, to be entirely honest. I can’t believe I had to see that with my own eyes. But whatever. Are you feeling alright? You keep spacing out.”

“I’m fine.” You pulled the fabric of your robe over your wrist so you could gently scrub at your eyes. “Just—tough night last night. I barely slept.”

“I totally get that,” mused Lucy, nodding as her gaze fixed itself on the window. “I can normally never get to sleep the night before we leave. I just get so excited for the new year.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

But that hadn’t been your problem. Despite the creepy journal encounter that had left you with your mind spinning, you’d fallen asleep deeply the moment you’d gotten into bed. The issue had been staying asleep after all the dreams you’d had.

You rarely dreamt. When you did and remembered it the next day, it was normally nonsensical and had to do with forgotten final exams or missing a lecture. But last night…last night had been different.

There was a boy. His hair was dark and his face cast mostly in shadow, his voice a tenor that seemed typical to boys in your year. He hadn’t been speaking anything you’d understood, though. The most peculiar, bone-chilling hissing noises came from his mouth as he bowed his head leaned over a vaguely familiar sink.

Even though he wouldn’t acknowledge you, it was as if a channel had been opened between you two, like you could feel his emotions as phantoms within you.

Franticness. Vindictiveness. A thirst for vengeance beyond anything you’d ever felt before.

You sat watching this mysterious dark haired boy from the cobbled floor, feeling the wetness on the stones seep into your robes, climbing up and up until it soaked your skin.

At precisely 4 in the morning, you’d shot awake so distressed that you hadn’t slept a wink after. Needless to say, you were hardly what you’d consider to be well-rested.

The remainder of the train ride and the welcoming feast went on without a hitch. You managed to keep yourself from falling asleep at dinner and even joined in on the cheering for new Ravenclaws. The first years seemed to look younger and younger every year, you noted dully as you cut into the roast on your plate. It was making you feel awfully old.

Sixth year was supposed to be exciting—the year of N.E.W.T.S and figuring out what you’d concentrate in during your final year and getting to go to Hogsmeade without permission. But you hadn’t quite figured out what it was that you wanted to study. Being a muggleborn from a modest upbringing meant that you couldn’t be too frivolous. There was no amateur art or sports or celebrity career in your future. You couldn’t even count on marrying well—or marrying at all, in fact. None of your halfblood or pureblood friends seemed to understand that your family hadn’t already had an engagement arranged for you from the moment you were born. It was hard to look forward to a life that was so cloaked in uncertainty.

That being said, you had more immediate concerns to attend to. Though the journal was tucked safely away in one of your suitcases far away in the Ravenclaw Tower, you couldn’t help but feel its presence. You were itching to get back to your dorm so you could steal away into a corner and begin to inspect it.

Dumbledore finally dismissed the students after a rather uninspiring speech about the importance of dreaming big and staying true to yourself. You all but ran up the stairs, rushing to unpack all of your things.

“Merlin,” noted Padma from her desk. “That excited to move in?”

“I just want to go to bed,” you said, relishing the feeling of casting a spell to quickly stow away your skirts and button ups into your dresser. “Long day.”

“And even longer tomorrow.” Lucy was sitting at her desk, her feet crossed at the ankles. She’d somehow unpacked even quicker than you. “Does everyone have their finalized timetable for the term?”

“I’ve got Potions with Slughorn and Transfiguration with McGonagall on Mondays and Thursdays,” you began, unzipping your last bag and flicking your wand to send your school supplies to your desk. “Divination with Trelawney, Arithmancy with Vector, and Runes with Babbling on Tuesdays and Fridays. And of course the extended lab section on Wednesday for Potions.”

“Which lab section?”

“Morning,” you said. The diary was levitating from your wand now, looking unassuming and very innocent under the golden light of your dorm room. “You?”

“Same,” said Lucy, grinning. “I can’t believe you’re taking N.E.W.T level Divination. Do you hate yourself?”

“It was that or History of Magic.”

She nodded emphatically, turning back to make a marking in her planner.

With the dorm settled into a comfortable silence, you brandished your wand again, peering at the diary in front of you.

There was nothing outwardly sinister about it. When you’d gone over to Ishan’s manor over Easter break last year, he’d shown you some of the (potentially unlawful) darker artifacts that his old pureblood family had in possession. They’d felt dark. This journal didn’t have that syrupy thick feel around it. Its aura felt sparkly, magnetic. Surely it couldn’t have been dark magic. Because all dark magic felt dark, right?

You gulped. You wouldn’t touch it with your bare hands anymore, you reasoned. Just spellwork and using the tip of your wand to maneuver it. Just in case.

Your 5 years of Hogwarts education had left you sorely deficient in useful diagnostic spells, so you dug around in one of your Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks from previous years and found a section on spells to examine magical objects.

Revelo you whispered, feeling the slight jolt of magic as the charm left your wand.

Nothing, It didn’t even glow blue, a sign of magically active objects.

Huh.

You frowned. The slightly more obscure spell you’d heard Snape use once on a student’s suspiciously well-written essay didn’t yield anything either.

“Whatcha doing?’

You nearly screamed, clutching your wand to your chest.

Lucy grinned wickedly as she leaned over your shoulder and reached for your journal. “Ooh, is this that thing you bought at—”

“Don’t touch!” You quickly batted her hand away.

“Sheesh,” said Lucy. “Chill. I wasn’t going to read it or anything. I was just wondering why you were waving your wand at your journal. Secrecy spells?”

“No,” you said. Your heart was racing, “Er—not quite. I actually haven’t written in it, you see,”

“Oh?” Lucy’s brows furrowed in confusion, “Explain the theatrics then?”

A half-baked lie formed at your lips that was about to spill when you stopped yourself. Lucy was your friend. She’d been your best friend since the moment you’d met on the Hogwarts Express during first year. There was no reason to lie.

“It’s so weird!” You motioned towards the diary with your wand. “I buy this, right, because I feel this weird draw to it. And I take it home and try to write in it, and suddenly the book starts writing back.”

“A self-writing journal?”

“Not quite. Maybe. Maybe not, I’m not sure. It’s just—something’s not totally right about it, but I can’t tell if it’s dangerous or not.”

Lucy gave a good natured snort. “A journal? Dangerous? And from old Linda’s stand? Please. I see her going through everything in her inventory. The poor shopboy in charge of vetting items has to answer to her if he slips up. There’s no way anything actually powerful slipped onto the stacks.”

You stuck the tip of your wand under the cover and carefully pried it open, pointing at the lettering on the inside.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle?” She frowned. “Am I supposed to know that name?”

“I don’t know,” you responded at the swooping lettering. “But the journal talked back like it was Tom. Like, it introduced itself as Tom and said that it was 1943. And it acted like an….I don’t know. It was like it was a real person talking to me.”

“Huh.” You could see the gears slowly turning in Lucy’s head,

“Do you know any detection or diagnostic spells?” you asked. “I tried all the ones that we’ve learned so far and it doesn’t even detect magic. But it has to be cursed, right? If the last owner of this diary got sucked into it?”

Lucy was just beginning to open her mouth when ink began to appear.

It is rather rude to be casting all sorts of spells in my direction without warning.

You jumped. “Jesus Christ. Do you see that?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Lucy, but her eyes were crinkled. “Girl. Don’t worry. If it was dangerous, you’d probably know by now. You’ve had it around you for, what, two months? And you’ve already touched it. It doesn’t feel dark. I don’t think there are any slow burning curses that gradually trap you inside an object. If you’re still alright, you’ll probably stay that way. Maybe you should just ask Tom how he got there?”

“If I start disappearing, do try to keep me in this plane.”

“Noted.”

Nervously, you dipped a quill on your desk into an inkwell, waiting for a moment before thinking up how to word your request. In the meantime, a drop of ink fell to the page. It was quickly swallowed up by the parchment.

Sorry you began. Just wanted to make sure you weren't going to trap me in there with you or something

An understandable concern

“Just ask him the bloody question,” said Lucy, hitting your shoulder. “I want to go to bed.”

“Right, right.”

If you'd like me to stop with the spells, maybe you could tell me how you ended up in here in the first place

“Nice,” said Lucy. She was nodding thoughtfully. “Very smooth.”

It took a long time for Tom’s answer to appear despite the fact that your writing had almost instantly disappeared. Finally, black ink began to rise.

It was an accident. Nothing that can be replicated by you, however. There's no need to worry. I fooled around with the wrong book in the school library.

“School library?” Lucy leaned closer so that the locks of her hair dangled over your shoulder. “Ask him if he went to Hogwarts.”

Hogwarts? You wrote quickly.

Yes.

In your sixth year?

Yes.

“Ooh.” Lucy hit your shoulder. “Maybe you can use this to get comfortable talking to boys, Y/N.”

You scoffed, blushing a hot red. “Excuse me! I’ve told you. I’m too busy for that.”

“Uh huh.” She twirled a piece of her hair around her finger. “Well, I think you should just keep it. It’s harmless. Like I said, it’s from one of the tamest parts of Diagon Alley. And you wouldn’t be able to get anything genuinely dark into Hogwarts. The wards would’ve detected it. Have fun with it.”

“Have fun with it?”

Lucy shrugged, bouncing once as she settled down on her bed. “I dunno. Think about it. I think a responding diary could be fun. Let’s say I’m not around to gossip one day. You have another outlet. Or maybe you could use him to help you study or something. Really, the possibilities are endless.”

“True.” You mulled over the thought as you let your wand sit on its stand on your desk. Tentatively you grasped the soft leather of the journal and pulled it nearer to you. Tom was waiting for your response, after all.

Me too you wrote.

And you still won't tell me your name?

“Do you think it’s a bad idea to tell him my name?” you asked Lucy, whipping around.

She set down her book and shook her head. “What’s he gonna do with it? He’s stuck in there.”

Y/N.

A splotch of black appeared on the other end, but it was quickly crossed out.

How did you find me?

Antiques sale in Diagon Alley

I'm an antique?

Given that 1943 was over 50 years ago, yes

Nothing from Tom.

Is that not what you expected? You added.

I'm not sure

Just as you were about to close the journal and head to bed, Tom wrote again.

And how are you liking your time at Hogwarts?

It's nice. Fall term starts tomorrow.

You thought about leaving it there, but for some reason the words began to spill out of you.

It does feel weird being so close to graduating, though. I don’t know quite what it is that I want to do yet.

Oh? But surely you must have some idea.

You pressed the end of your quill to your lips, debating whether or not to share it with this mysterious Tom. In the end, Lucy’s previous comment was what made the scales tip. What did it matter? Tom wasn’t going to tell anyone.

I would really like to go for a cursebreaking mastery abroad, but that hinges on what happens in my N.E.W.Ts this year. I need an O in Potions.

I was taking N.E.W.T Potions at the time that I was trapped, Tom wrote. Perhaps I can be of assistance.

I can’t ask that of you.

Please do. It’s terribly boring being all alone in here.

You swallowed, watching the ink slowly sink back into nothing.

What do you mean? What’s it like being trapped?

It took a while for a response to form.

Quiet. You’re the first visitor I’ve ever had. I’m still in Hogwarts, technically, but there’s no one else here.

I’m sorry you found yourself writing before you could stop yourself. That sounds very lonely.

I don’t mind being lonely. It does get a bit dull, though.

“Luce,” you said, leaning over the back of your desk chair. “He just offered to help me with Potions.”

“See? Useful.”

I've got to go to bed now. First day of classes and whatnot.

Best of luck

Can you sleep where you are?

I don’t need to but I can

The words chilled you somewhat, but you pushed the feeling away.

Well, goodnight you wrote.

Goodnight

How were classes?

The ink appeared the moment you flipped open the journal. It was already two weeks into term, and you’d written to Tom nearly every night. You were curled up in bed, your blankets pulled heavy around your lap and your pajamas clean and smelling of lavender. A mug of tea lay steaming on your bedside table, its tendrils barely visible in the dim golden light of the candle you’d lit.

As expected you wrote, yawning. How was your day?

Oh, you know. Thrilling.

You snorted.

“What are you giggling about?” Lucy’s voice snapped you back into reality. You looked up to see her peeking over the textbook in her lap, a smirk etched deeply into her lips.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, but the way you slammed the journal shut gave it away.

“Talking to your fake boyfriend, huh?” teased Lucy.

“I’m not even going to answer that.” You rolled your eyes. “He’s a fucking journal. It’s not like he’s real.”

“Didn’t he say he was trapped in there?”

You huffed. “I guess. He seems to have accepted his position in life, though. It’s not like he’s begging for help.”

“No,” agreed Lucy. “But just think about it. What if you did manage to get him out? How romantic would that be?”

“Oh my god, shut up!”

Lucy ducked away from the pillow you lobbed in her direction, cackling maniacally all the way.

There you are. I thought I’d bored you.

The words reappeared within seconds of you reopening the journal. You tried to smother the way your lips turned upwards at the sight.

Sorry you wrote back, hoping that Lucy was sufficiently distracted with her textbook and would give you a rest for the night. A friend wanted to talk.

Does this friend know about me?

You held your quill to your lips for a moment before you wrote back.

Yes. She loves to tease over how much time I spend writing to you

I take it she doesn’t understand

Quite the contrary. She’s the one who encouraged me to write to you in the first place, in fact.

How so?

Something about how it would be nice to be able to tell my secrets to someone who could never tell anyone else

Tom’s response took a bit longer to appear this time around.

Oh? Any you’d like to share now?

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at the drying ink.

You first.

For a minute, you thought that maybe Tom had disappeared. The parchment remained blank and clean. Maybe he’d gotten bored with you and had gone off to…whatever he did in his empty version of Hogwarts.

Then the lettering appeared again.

I used to have a pet snake when I was a child. I was an orphan, you see, and the other children thought that I was too strange to play with. I was terribly lonely. The matron took us to the beach once, and I found this little grass snake in the weeds. I stuck it in my pocket and took it back to the orphanage with me.

You lived in a muggle orphanage?

Yes. Obviously. Once I was amongst magicfolk, people did find me quite charming.

Why’d you pick a snake?

I liked having someone—or something, I suppose—to talk to.

You stared as the ink sunk back into nothing. Talk. Snakes. Talking?

Are you a Parselmouth?

I’ve already given a secret Tom wrote. Your turn.

Will you answer if I give you one?

That’s only fair.

Secrets—you barely had those. You’d grown up sharing nearly everything with Lucy since you’d been paired up in first year Charms class.

Not losing your nerve, are you?

I’m just thinking you quickly wrote back. I don’t have many secrets.

Surely you do.

This isn’t a very exciting secret. Heat rose to your cheeks as your quill scratched against the paper. But I haven’t told anyone this.

Go on.

I can’t tell anyone this because they’ll think I’m annoying. I do really well in classes. But I feel like I’m never going to be smart enough. It seems like nothing that I ever do will be enough to stand out

I understand more than you know

What do you mean?

I was sorted into Slytherin. Coming from such a modest background meant that I had to prove that I was worth the space I was taking up

A swell of…something rose in you as you stared down at the paper. You tried to imagine this mysterious Tom in the familiar green robes that you saw every day in Potions, scrunching his nose up over a book and studying hard. All alone—motivated by the knowledge that no one was rooting for his success—knowing that there was no name he could depend on to cover even one misstep—

You blinked. Whoa. That was some serious projection.

I can’t really tell this to anyone else. All of my friends come from influential pureblood families, so they just don’t get why I don’t get to make mistakes or slip up. They think I’m so uptight

Exactly. They all have safety nets. The grades, the house points, the prefect badges—those are all just surface level. It’s your name that gets you anywhere important

“You’re looking mighty serious over there,” said Lucy from over her textbook. “Trouble in paradise?”

You laughed tightly. “Er, no. Just talking.”

“Uh huh.”

I always feel like it’s evidence that I don’t belong when I don’t immediately understand something in class you add into the journal. To your horror, tears started pricking at your eyes. None of your friends were muggleborns. You’d never been able to voice these things out loud—or on paper, in this case. Writing it all out seemed so sad now. Like today in Runes. It took me longer than usual to understand a translation technique for this ridiculous slate from the Middle Ages. I had to talk myself down from believing that I’m faking it and that everyone else doesn’t even need to try

Is Babbling still there?

Yes. She’s still teaching

She was already too old to be coherent when she was teaching me wrote Tom. Tell me, do you have to rennervate her throughout the lesson to keep her present?

She was old back then???

Ancient.

I can’t believe she’s still alive. You chewed on your lip as you thought. She’s practically a fossil.

Do you think of me like that? Old?

Would it make you feel better if I said I considered you vintage?

I’m wounded

“Fucking get to the library and start researching ways to pull that poor boy out of there,” said Lucy from her bed, “Or stop giggling like that. Merlin. You’re killing me. You’re practically twirling your hair.”

“Shut up!” Slowly, you opened the journal back up after slamming it closed.

Your friend again?

Yes you scribbled back. She’s teasing me again about how I should try to get you out of here. Which I’m assuming is impossible, since I’m doubtful you’re even a real person

I’m very real

Your blood cooled.

Then why haven’t you asked me to get you out?

A pause—just long enough for you to feel suspicious.

I’ve gotten quite used to my little home in here wrote Tom finally. And forgive me if I believe it a bit forward to immediately demand the first person to which I speak to orchestrate my extraction.

Extraction. Interesting word choice, you thought.

How polite. Part of you was beginning to feel the slightest bit uneasy. And what would this so-called extraction entail?

That I haven’t quite figured out yet. The response was instantaneous. Ever since we’ve met I’ve been returning to the library in hopes of finding an answer.

Which book trapped you in here?

Another pause.

I sincerely doubt it’s still in print wrote Tom. It was a very dangerous book with dark, terrible magic. I had no business digging around in it. I paid the price dearly.

He refused to elaborate.

You spent the entire weekend digging through the Restricted Section, paging through every book you could imagine that had anything to do with Tom’s situation.

Nothing. Nada. Zero. You tried every querying spell you could think of. You were desperate enough to recruit Madam Pince by telling her that you were writing a paper for a class and needed to find anything there was on getting yourself trapped in magical objects. What she did dig up was at best irrelevant—tales of ill-executed Animagi rituals that resulted in the wizard getting stuck in their animal form and reports of interactions with cursed objects sending the users into a different dimension, never to be heard from again.

But as you were leaving the library on Sunday night, feeling downtrodden and profoundly disappointed, you saw something that caught your eye: the Alumni section.

It was one of those things that you always passed by without another thought. No classwork required students to reference previous Hogwarts attendees. It existed largely to appease the old families by nodding to their longstanding presence in Hogwarts, and the only friends who you had ever seen in this part of the library were purebloods curious about their ancestry. As a muggleborn, this was predictably unrelatable. There’d been no person of interest waiting for you in the old, dusty books that were shoved neatly into chronological order, no long-lost ancestor or namesake.

Not until now.

The click of your oxfords against the dark hardwood echoed as you came to a stop in front of the stacks. Every yearbook was the color of that school year’s House Cup winner, and the one with 1943-1944 on the thin spine was a rich, loud red. It slid easily from the shelf—which was a relief, because occasionally older books required permission to handle and were thus unremovable—and settled gently in your hands.

For a second you pondered leaving the aisle and finding a table to crack it open and savor the moment, but the thought of having to explain why you were looking at the 1943 class yearbook would be embarrassing. Doubly so if Lucy found you—she’d never let you hear the end of it. So, case closed. You’d open it here.

Oh god. You swallowed and used the cuff of your free sleeve to wipe the bead of sweat that had formed on your forehead. This was a terrible idea—or was it? Maybe he wouldn’t be your type. Yes, maybe he’d look just like someone who annoyed you in class or he’d have poorly kept hair or he’d have a creepy smile. Then you could stop thinking about—that.

And that shouldn’t even matter! You squeezed your eyes shut to dispel the thought. It was all Lucy’s fault for teasing you so much about him being your sort-of-weird-ghost boyfriend—part of you was starting to pretend like that was real. And it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It didn’t matter that no boy before had managed to make you this excited to talk to them. It didn’t matter that he got you like no one else in this castle seemed to. It didn’t, because as of present he was actually a journal and not a corporeal being.

In short, you reminded yourself harshly, you were checking this yearbook to verify that a Tom Marvolo Riddle did in fact exist and attended Hogwarts during the time period he claimed. That was it—nothing more.

Nervously, you let the cover flip open and began to card through the thick pages. Moving pictures of entirely unfamiliar students greeted you, flashing past your eyes. First years, second years, third years, fourth years…

You paused before turning from the fifth year page to the sixth, overwhelmed with the thought that whatever you saw was going to change the way you saw your interactions with the diary. If he wasn’t there, you’d need to re-evaluate how safe this whole diary scenario was. You’d need to go back and reconsider if anything you’d heard from him was ever the actual truth. And if he was…

You swallowed. You couldn’t pretend like you hadn’t been imagining what he’d look like on nights that you struggled to fall asleep. There was never a face you could settle on. Whenever you’d spin up something in your mind’s eye, the features would shift and morph into something entirely different before you could enjoy it.

But it didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter, because it was crazy that you’d even been fantasizing about a potentially make-believe boy who only existed in a worn diary.

You turned the page, and Tom Marvolo Riddle stared right back at you.

Tom looked every bit of what you’d expect a Slytherin prefect to be like. Everything about him was neat, orderly, and intentional, from the tidy robes to the obediently shaped dark waves atop his head that looked tragically soft. The only thing out of place was a single piece of black hair, dangling temptingly in the middle of his forehead.

His lips were drawn into a polite almost smile, his image almost entirely still save for the slight bob of his throat that repeated as the image replayed, over and over again.

Tom was pretty—much prettier than you ever could’ve thought up on your own. He looked unreal, like he’d been sculpted by some higher being’s hand with the express purpose of being devastatingly ethereal.

And he’d been talking to you. Connecting with you. And he was real. The weight of your satchel over your shoulder reminded you that he was right there. All it’d take was a quill and some ink to speak to him again.

The picture had repeated its loop one final time before you closed the book shut and pushed it back onto the shelf, hearing the pounding of your heart the whole way.

When you wrote to him that night, you tried your best to keep yourself imagining how he’d look writing back. Would he smile when he saw that you’d opened the journal? Would he laugh at your (admittedly stupid) jokes?

September turned into October which tilted into November with such speed that you could barely breathe. Time barreled ahead as classes sped up, assignments piled on, and each day became just another challenge to survive.

Tom remained one of the few constants in your life, alongside Lucy and Ishan. It was concerning how much you’d come to confide in him, telling him things that you’d never dare to share with anyone else. You told him about the little accomplishments that you could never bring up to your friends, like Professor Snape insulting everyone’s potion except yours and what McGonagall wrote on your most recent paper, calling it one of the most well-researched essays she’d gotten from a N.E.W.T level student. You even told him how Lucy occasionally got on your nerves and how it made you feel like a bad friend.

He was a good listener and an even better conversationalist. When he wasn’t being your confidant, he was more than happy to indulge any academic topics of interest. You spent hours going back and forth, debating the content of the news headlines that you’d tell him about each day.

With time, the memory of Tom’s face and intimidatingly good looks faded to the back of your mind. You’d barred yourself from going back into the Alumni section in the library lest you felt inspired to crack open his yearbook again and remind yourself just how attractive your imaginary friend had been when he’d been alive. If you did that, then you’d start fantasizing about a future where you invented some sort of way to pull him out, and that was just silly. You had exams, and Tom didn’t seem particularly rushed in leaving his journal—or he’d at least come to accept that he’d never leave.

Despite this new normality you’d built around the strangeness of the journal, some things still felt tense. You’d grown comfortable with Tom—arguably more comfortable with him than nearly anyone else, save for maybe Lucy, since you couldn’t ever imagine opening up the journal and telling him all about the fact that it was your time of the month and detailing exactly how your cramps were making you feel—but there was this underlying sense of anticipation. For what exactly, you weren’t sure. You just knew that things couldn’t be like this forever. Something had to give.

In the end, it was Professor Snape who started it. He’d looked down at your cauldron and said something about how your Draught of Living Death base was the most elementary thing he’d ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes upon and that you were lucky to even be allowed into the class, and something inside you broke.

You’d tried so hard on that potion. You’d followed the instructions to a T. You’d diced everything evenly and stirred it with the precision of a muggle performing brain surgery. Potions had never been your best subject, and you tried to make up for it by trying harder than everyone else. Normally it worked, but N.E.W.T potions was something else.

Tom was taking longer than usual to respond to this particular soliloquy that night, a few letters surfacing before he scribbled them out.

I know this might seem scary he finally wrote. I’ll understand if this frightens you too much. But I think that I may be able to help.

What do you mean, scary? Are you a mean tutor or something?

I mean that I can show you how to brew that Draught Tom replied.

Show me?

If my research is correct, it’s possible that I can temporarily cross you over into my world.

Your heart thudded, your hands suddenly clammy.

“Lucy?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” Lucy tossed her book onto her desk and turned to face you. “Oh no. Did something happen? You look awful.”

“Gee. Thanks.” You swallowed. “Er—sort of? I was writing to Tom about how crazy Potions class was today and he told me that he could help me. Like actually tutor me.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

Your mouth was dry. “No. That’s not it. He means like, tutor me tutor me. In person. He says he can cross me over into his world temporarily.”

Lucy froze.

“I have to say no, right?” It was so, so stupid that you were asking that. Of course you had to say no. There was no telling what he could do to you if you said yes. Maybe he was actually a demon that was attempting to possess you. Maybe he was going to eat your soul and use your body as a husk to feed on the other students and—

“I mean, probably not.” She thoughtfully pressed the top of her quill to her mouth. “Think about it. You guys have been in contact for months and nothing supernatural has happened. We already came to the conclusion that the journal isn’t dark magic because the wards would’ve kept it out.”

“But what if I get stuck with him? I haven’t been able to find anything about this type of magic before. I don’t know how it works.”

Lucy hummed. Then realization flickered across her features. “Hang on. I think I have something that might help.”

She dug around in one of her desk drawers until she produced a small spool of half-used thread. It was golden in color but so thin it was nearly iridescent.

“What’s that?” you asked, squinting at it.

“It’s Invisible String,” said Lucy, already rolling it out and pulling it around your wrist. It was pleasantly warm against your skin, like it’d just been sitting out in the sun. As soon as it made contact with your body, it disappeared. “It used to be used for Ministry Employees who used Time Turners. Whoever is on the other end of the thread is able to pull the wearer back to this reality and this timeline. It’s very useful in avoiding nasty time related incidents. My dad took home a bunch of spools when Time Turners were officially outlawed. He taught me how to apparate with them since it can also work over long distances in the same reality—just in case I did something stupid.”

“Wow,” you breathed, staring down at your wrist. There was nothing to stare at, of course. It was already gone. But it was an ingenious little contraption, probably charmed so many times with such obscure and rare spells that it would go for thousands of galleons if you tried to buy it yourself.

The perks of having a rich pureblood best friend, you supposed.

“As long as I’m holding the other end, I’ll be able to bring you back,” explained Lucy, holding the spool up demonstratively. “So, go for it. If that’s your only hold-up, I think you should go meet him. If anything, at least it’ll help your Potions grade.”

You turned your attention back to the journal, worrying your lip for a second before you dipped your quill in the inkwell and wrote out Ok.

“This is so exciting,” said Lucy from over your shoulder. “You have to tell me everything when you get back.”

“If I can come back.”

She dangled the spool in front of you. “I’ll make sure of that. If you’re not back by curfew, I’ll yank you back to this reality by myself.”

“Right.” Anxiety began to build in your middle, bubbling up until you were sure you were trembling.

This might feel a bit uncomfortable was all Tom wrote before you were suddenly falling into a void.

When the inertia faded and light slowly bled back into your vision, you were sprawled on the floor of a Potions classroom that you’d been in when you were a second year. Tom Riddle stood tidily a few feet away from you, wearing the same formal school robes you’d seen on him in the yearbook.

“Hello.” His voice was proper and measured. It fit him perfectly, but the fact that you were finally hearing him speak for the first time made you feel something that was highly inadvisable.

“Hi.”

For a moment, you just stared right back into his eyes as the silence closed in around you and the gravity of your situation sunk in. You’d really done it now, hadn’t you? As if to comfort you, the thread around your wrist warmed against your skin.

“Don’t worry,” said Tom, like he could already tell what you were thinking.“You won’t be trapped. It’s me who’s bound to this world.”

“And how are you so sure of that?”

“This is a prison for my soul,” he said casually. “Not yours. You have nothing keeping you here.”

“Right.” You slowly made your way from the ground to your feet, brushing off your robes and casting a few cleansing charms to dispel the dust clinging to you. At least your magic seemed to work fine here, you noted. It was a small comfort to know that you’d be able to defend yourself if shit went left.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes.” Now that he was speaking more, you couldn’t help but admire the way he sounded—silken and smooth and entirely unbothered, like he did this every day. “I was sure that I’d scared you off.”

“You underestimate how much I want that Potions O,” you offered.

“Never,” he said dryly. “Now that I see that you’re a Ravenclaw, I wouldn’t endeavor to make such ill-informed assumptions.”

You blanched, your head whipping down to take in what you were wearing. You weren’t sure why you were so shocked to see that you were wearing exactly what you’d had on moments ago at your desk—a midnight blue jumper with the Ravenclaw emblem stitched into the left breast, pulled on top of the white button up with the bronze and blue tie tucked underneath. That, and the standard-issue Hogwarts skirt and tights. Hardly dungeon attire—if you didn’t start brewing something soon, you’d be shivering.

It all looked very silly compared to how many layers Tom was wearing. His prefect pin glinted under the dim lighting of the Potions classroom, and you tried your best to keep your heart from swooning.

“Did I not tell you that I was a Ravenclaw?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “I don’t believe so. I would’ve remembered.”

“Are you surprised?”

He cast his dark eyes up to the ceiling and scrunched his nose in a way that you thought was meant to convey a serious bout of thinking. “Not quite. I was stuck between that and Slytherin.”

“Slytherin?” You couldn’t stop the way you grimaced at this.

“I thought we had enough in common for it to be plausible.”

A thrill shot through you. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“I suppose I can't be too taken aback,” he said mildly, stepping neatly back and conjuring a cauldron to appear on the tabletop to his right. “You are a muggleborn. I don’t know of any who have been sorted into Slytherin.”

This wasn’t news to you, but Tom’s delivery stung more than usual. The implication hung heavy in the air that you were somehow in the inferior house, only placed in Ravenclaw because of your blood. As an afterthought—as a convenient place for you to be put away.

“That’s true,” you said, stepping closer until only the brewing table was in between you two. “But I doubt that I’d have been sorted there, even if I had been born a pureblood. The whole glutton-for-knowledge thing about Ravenclaw has always been me.”

“I disagree.” Tom summoned over a few jars of ingredients with a nonverbal wave of his wand. “If you’d been born with purer blood, you wouldn’t be so desperate to find a way to compensate.”

You flinched. Ouch.

“I’m very aware of why I feel the need to work so hard,” you snipped. “But I really don’t think that has anything to do with my genuine academic curiosity. If I was so single-minded in using knowledge for compensation then perhaps I would have been a Slytherin.”

For a moment, his dark eyes flashed with something that you couldn’t quite catch before his face ironed itself into something impassive once more. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to offend.”

You frowned, watching as he placed familiar ingredients on the table and began lining them up. “It’s fine. Just a bit of a sore spot, that’s all.”

He gave you a look that made you feel like you’d just pointed out the obvious. Which you had, clearly. But it was offensive regardless.

“I’ve assembled all the ingredients for a Draught of Living Death,” he announced, stepping back from the table and waving one pale hand at the spread in front of you. “You said you had trouble with brewing the base. This makes sense, since more complicated potions require more stable bases. I’m not wrong in assuming that you’ve always been adept at following instructions and brewing perfect potions before this year?”

He waited for your nod to continue.

“N.E.W.T Potions is different in that it challenges your intuition. Before this, you’ve been able to coast by relying on the guidance of others. But with potions like the Living Death, you need to be able to think on your feet. Even the slightest variation in your ingredients—the age, the quality, the place of origin—can be what ruins an otherwise perfectly good brew. Every potions recipe you see in school textbooks makes implicit assumptions about the quality and age of your ingredients. If, say, it’s an unusually hot day when a supply shipment arrives and the gillyweed oxidizes, the instructions for a more difficult potion won’t anticipate that you need to temper it with volcanic salt.

“That’s where you come in. When you’re preparing your base, you need to have an intimate understanding of the properties of each ingredient and how they interact with each other. This way, when you notice something isn’t quite average with your supplies—as is common in a school where ingredients are shipped in bulk—you can adjust.”

Tom paused, his eyes meeting yours. You blinked once, then broke the contact to look at the cauldron.

No one had ever explained that to you before. No one had ever taken the time. Snape certainly hadn’t been interested in lecturing about why so many students were incapable of producing viable potions—he was far more content with insulting his pupils for being inadequate.

“I never knew that,” you admitted, finally looking back at him. He hadn’t moved an inch. “That makes so much sense.”

Though your words were far from creative, honesty dripped from your voice.

“Right then,” said Tom, nodding tightly and stepping back to gesture to the ingredients. “Try to prepare the base again. This time pay attention to the state of the ingredients.”

You got the work, thinly dicing the beetroot while you set the moon water to simmer in the cauldron.

“This was bruised,” you noted, motioning to the cubes you’d just cut.

Tom nodded, looking at you rather expectantly.

“...which means that part of it has already oxidized,” you continued cautiously. In truth, you hadn’t spent much time learning about the different chemical properties of the ingredients. That felt too concretely muggle, too blatantly biological. “Which means that the enzymes have, uh, had their bonds ruptured?”

“And…?”

“And that means I need to…” You squinted down at the vegetable, trying to conjure up any knowledge you had about enzymes and potion making. It probably wouldn’t be volcanic salt. Would it? “I don’t think that I can use volcanic salt as a binding agent this time. If my memory serves correctly, moon water becomes unstable in the presence of pure minerals. So that means…acid? Lemon?”

Tom slid a vial over to you, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Mix a little into the beetroot before adding it.”

You uncorked it and let the citrus juice sink into the purple cubes, running slightly down the cutting board and pooling in the wooden crevices.

The rest of your base preparation went just as smoothly, with Tom offering up the odd helpful comment while you nodded and committed it to memory.

You finished with a base that looked nothing like the disaster you’d created just hours ago. You were just barely able to keep yourself from grinning and throwing your arms around Tom’s neck as you both began to clean up and vanish the contents of the cauldron.

“Well done,” said Tom, spelling the cutting board clean. The vibrant pink marks from the beetroot vanished. “Consider me impressed.”

You nearly exploded with giddiness.

“Thank you,” you said very normally. He was standing so close to you now that if you reached out, your fingers would skim his robe-clad arm. But you wouldn’t do that, because that was weird. Because he was living in a journal and he was somehow bound to this strange alternative reality. Because you weren’t even sure if it was possible to touch him. Because even if it was, Tom Riddle did not seem like the type of person who would be partial to physical affection—especially not from someone like you. “Do you—have you found anything out about how you can escape?”

Tom’s fluid motions as he tidied the table only stuttered for a moment. “Some. Nothing concrete, though.”

“If you told me exactly what it was you did to get stuck in here, I’d probably be able to offer a lot more help,” you pointed out in a way that you hoped didn’t sound too cajoling.

He didn’t say anything.

“Come on,” you pressed, putting your hands on your hips. “I’ve aired out all my dirty laundry to you. You can tell me. I don’t think there’s anything you could say that I haven’t already guessed.”

“Really?” drawled Tom, his eyes locking on yours. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” you affirmed.

“So why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Men could be so frightfully dull sometimes.

“There’s a book,” said Tom with a deceptive casualness, “That should be in the Restricted section. It’s called ‘Secrets of the Darkest Arts.’ Read that. If you’d still like to know afterwards, I’ll oblige.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine.”

The work table was all cleaned up, no trace of your previous potion brewing except for the lingering scent in the air.

“Well,” said Tom. His hands were folded neatly behind his back as he remained a respectable distance away from you. “I suppose I should be sending you back.”

“I suppose,” you echoed. “Will I—do you think I’ll get to see you again?”

You regretted it the moment the words left your mouth. Hopefully the blush on your face could be written off by the excuse that you were just brewing.

This time when he looked at you, it felt like he was re-evaluating something. “Whenever you’d like. I’m not especially occupied.”

Before you could stop yourself, your face was splitting into a bright smile. “Of course. I was definitely asking because of your busy schedule.”

He blinked twice. Then he opened his mouth, closed it, and fidgeted with his tie. It was the most obvious sign of discomfort you’d seen from him the entire evening.

“Right,” he said stiffly. “Ehm—yes. It was pleasant to have you here.”

“Pleasant?” you echoed, your eyebrows raised.

“I mean that I’ve enjoyed the time that we’ve spent in correspondence,” he said, waving a hand like that made what he said any less awkward.

“Tom, I was teasing you,” you said. “I don’t need some sort of confession about how you can actually stand being around me. I can tell.”

“Right,” he said again. “I’ll send you back now.”

Before you could add another remark about how weird he was being, you were catapulted out of the dungeons and back into your desk chair.

“Merlin’s Beard!” gasped Lucy from behind you.

You blinked, letting your eyes adjust to the bright lighting of your dorm.

“You literally came out of nowhere!” said Lucy, coming around to put her hands on your desk and stare at you. “I was getting worried, too. Padma is coming back soon. I thought that I’d have to devise some sort of plan to keep her out of the room so she wouldn’t ask why you materialized out of thin air.”

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes unfocused.

“So what happened?”

“I—” You exhaled. “Lucy, I’m so fucked. He’s actually really cute.”

“I knew it,” said Lucy, shaking your shoulders.

“He helped me brew the base for the Draught of Living Death,” you elaborated. “He’s a really good tutor. He spoke for like 5 minutes about the properties of different ingredients, and I swear I’ve learned more from him than from 6 years of Snape’s lectures.”

“And did you guys talk?”

“A little.” You frowned, thinking back on the interactions you’d had. “He was really odd when I asked him about what I needed to do to get him out. Even weirder when I asked if I was going to see him again. He made some comment about how he wasn’t exactly busy and I said something that implied that I knew that but wanted to know if he liked seeing me, and he was super awkward.”

Lucy cringed. “Well, I mean, if I’d been stuck in a diary for 50 years without talking to someone, I’d probably be a little strange too. Tell me how he is when he talks—or writes, I guess—to you next.”

The next time Tom responded to a diary entry, you had news.

Tom you wrote. Are you there?

Yes.

Can you bring me back to you?

Why? Do you need another Potions lesson?

You rolled your eyes. Not quite.

Well, no. I won’t let you back until you’ve read the book I told you about.

That’s why I’m asking! I’ve tried looking for it everywhere. When none of the querying spells worked, I went through the entire Restricted Section by hand. Nothing! I asked Madam Pince and she told me that that book had been banned since before she’d gotten the position as librarian. I’m probably on some watch list now

That is troubling.

So if you’ll be so kind, please let me back in so I can use your library. Thank you in advance

There was a long pause that you imagined Tom took to sigh and run his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Then:

Very well.

You were falling through space once again.

final a/n: thank you for reading! let me know how you feel about it! this is my first time writing for tom so im kind of nervous or whatever

#tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine

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writingquestionsanswered · 4 months

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Hello,

I need your help. I am a young writer and I want to write a novel. I have written the plot, characters, outline, etc. and when I start writing, it goes well. Then afterwards I lose motivation in what I write. I have written over 10+ drafts with new characters, plots, and outline, but it seems impossible to pass 50 pages of writing. My novel is very similar to a very popular and beloved book and I look at the responses and everyone loves it. I feel like my book isn’t going to be good (writing and plot) and I am afraid to start writing again. I really want to write with motivation. I also write the same beginning and I try to change it but it’s a really essential thing for my plot but it’s really hard to write. What can I do?

Young Writer Struggling with First Novel

First, know that this popular and beloved book that's inspiring you isn't something a young, inexperienced writer sat down and instantly wrote. Most really popular and beloved books were written by writers who had some level of writing experience under their belts, whether it was years of writing complete stories, years voracious reading, years of writing-related education (school or self-taught), or years of industry-related reading and writing experience. And even then, they didn't sit down and type out a flawless first draft.

What you're going through right now is writing practice. Every single one of those 50-page drafts has made you a better writer. But, not being able to get past those first fifty pages tells me that there's something about your story that's not working. You may have a plot outlined in the sense that you've mapped out a bunch of things you want to happen, but if your story doesn't revolve around a conflict that's trying to be resolved, and if your story doesn't have some kind of structure or hit the important story milestones, you're probably losing momentum because your story engine ran out of gas.

So, it's important to spend time filling your brain with the necessary knowledge to help you understand how stories work... reading books and articles about writing, watching videos about writing, reading a variety of books, even watching movies and playing story-centric video games all can help your brain understand how to tell complete stories.

Here are some posts to get you started:

Guide: How to Turn Ideas into a Story Guide: Starting a New (Long Fiction) StoryGuide: Filling in the Story Between Known Events Guide: How to Outline a Plot Basic Story Structure Beginning a New Story How to Move a Story Forward Plot Driven vs Character Driven Stories Understanding Goals and Conflict 5 Reasons You Lost Interest in Your WIP, Plus Fixes! Guide: How to Rekindle Your Motivation to Write Have Plot, Can’t Write Concentrate on Quantity at First, Not Quality Advice for a Young (Very Young) Writer Things to Remember When You’re a Frustrated Young Writer…

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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the-offside-rule · 3 months

Text

Jude Bellingham (Real Madrid) - Moving

Requested: yes

Prompt: Moving in with Jude Bellingham (this came at a good time cuz my fyp is FULL of Jude)

Warnings: cutesy shtuff

"Jesus, whys there so much books?" Jude asked as he unpacked a third black box filled to the brim with various schoolbooks. "University. I don't think I need to explain further." Y/n replied as she stacked the books onto the newly constructed shelf. "Yeah, but why so many? I thought everything was online nowadays."

Jude couldn't hide his excitement as he helped Y/n move into their new place in Madrid. The air was filled with a mix of anticipation and laughter, creating an atmosphere of warmth and joy. Jude grinned as he lifted another box, "You sure you want all these books in our room, babe?" Y/n chuckled and took a few, placing them on the Shelf above their bed. "Absolutely! They're part of the charm. Plus, they'll have a good view from the shelf." AsAs they unpacked, memories unfolded. Y/n held up an old photo, "Look at us here! Can't believe it's been that long." Y/n stumbled upon another photo of them in the Camp Nou. Their first holiday as a couple. "Remember that trip to Barcelona? Our first adventure together." It was....ironic how he ended up going to the rival team but that was a funny story to tell in the future. She grinned, handing it to her boyfriend. Jude chuckled. "Yeah, and now we're making a new chapter right here in Madrid. Who would've thought?"

They set up a cozy reading nook, and Y/n teased. "Imagine the adventures we'll have in this little corner." She winked. "Behave. I won't bother you when you're there. I'll wait until you get out." Jude said, undoing another box. "We both know you're impatient." She smiled. "You're awfully rude, you know." He muttered. "You love me really Jude."

Amidst the unpacking chaos, they found a quirky souvenir from a past vacation. Y/n held up a miniature flamenco dancer. "We got this in Barcelona too, didn't we? Jesus, I nearly forgot all of these." She turned to see Jude holding a cinema ticket and a receipt. "What's this?" He asked. "Remember our first date to the cinema? I kept the ticket." Jude nodded. "Ah yeah. How could I forget? I spilled popcorn and pretended it was intentional, just to hold your hand." Jude chuckled. "You were quite the romantic back then." Jude held her closely and smiled down to her, just centimeters from her face. "I still am, especially when it comes to you."

"You still know how to make me blush." Jude chuckled. "You'd swear we were married for like 50 years with how you're going on." Jude laughed. "Oh but I love these little tokens. It reminds me of how we got here." She said, holding the ticket in her own hand now. "Our own little museum of love." He joked. "Oh shut up." They shared a playful laugh, turning mundane tasks into moments they'd remember forever.

In between assembling furniture, Y/n looked at Jude with a mischievous grin. "Remember when we tried to build that IKEA shelf? It took us hours!" Jude shook his head. "I still blame the instructions. They're like a secret code only IKEA employees understand." Jude said trying to connect the leg to the new desk. "Or the Swedish." They both burst into laughter, turning the furniture assembly into a lighthearted competition.

While setting up Y/n's study space, Jude couldn't help but express his pride. "You're going to nail uni, Y/n. I'll be right here cheering you on." Y/n playfully tapped his nose. "We cam be eachother's cheerleaders. Go team us!" She smiled. "But I haven't exactly been the best cheerleader, have I?" Jude said. "It's understandable." Y/n replied. "I don't think it is. It would have been understandable for you to not come to my games and support me but you still did. But it's my turn now and I promise I'm going to cheer you on louder than anyone else." Y/n reached out her hand and he took it, interlocking their fingers and kissing them. "I am so happy you're finally here." He whispered.

They shared a sweet moment, realizing that every challenge they faced only brought them closer together. "Come on, last box." Y/n said, handing the heavy box to Jude. He obviously underestimated how heavy it was because he nearly dropped it. "Don't you deadlift at training?" Y/n teased. "Come here you!" She giggled as she ran from Jude around the house, further delaying them actually finishing up the moving process.

As the day unfolded and the furniture set up, the items and memorabilia all set in their place, the couple sat by the pool with the fireplace ablaze, sipping on coffee, and enjoying the peace and quiet of eachother's company. "This is home now, isn't it?" Y/n said, leaning into Jude. He nodded. "Our safe haven. Here's to new beginnings, love." They clinked their coffee mugs, sealing the promise of countless more memories Madrid, in what would now be known as their home.

The day ended with laughter echoing through the halls, love lingering in the air, and the anticipation of countless tomorrows in a city that now held not just their dreams but their shared adventures and cherished moments.

#football #football imagines #football blurbs #laliga #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 9 months

Text

Keep Your Distance (Request)

Pairings: Travis Kelce x Reader

Words: 2,094

Warnings: Angst, Language, Fighting

“What time is your family getting to the stadium?” Travis asked you as he got ready to head to Arrowhead for the game against Green Bay. You were getting ready at your bathroom vanity, finishing up your hair and makeup. Your parents flew into Kansas City the night before, excited to get their first NFL game experience. “My dad set up a private tour of the stadium, so they might already be there.” Travis walked over and placed a gentle kiss in your hair. “Is your dad excited?” You turned quickly in your chair, making Travis laugh. “Are you kidding me? He wouldn’t shut up about how excited he was to see you play and how thankful he was that you got him these tickets on the 50-yard line. He called you son, baby, multiple times.” Travis couldn’t hide his smile if he wanted to, beaming with excitement. He knew the moment he met you he wanted to be with you forever, so your parent’s love and acceptance meant the world to him.

“Mom, Dad, over here!” you called your parents over to the entrance of the stadium, both of them looking lost in the crowd. They were small town folks who rarely left their home, so this was a new experience for them. “Love, there you are!”, your mom pulled you in for a tight hug, planting kisses all over your face like she’s done since you were a child. “Your dad had no idea where to go so we’ve been walking around the outside of the stadium for the past hour.” Your mom rolled her eyes as she looked back at your dad who was approaching. You took in the sight of your father, who was dressed in head-to-toe Chiefs gear, including a red and white knit beanie, even though it was a good 72 degrees outside. He was nose deep in the team program, reading the stats of all of the players. You chuckled when he bumped into another spectator, his eyes looking down at the book in his hands. “Hi Dad!” you wrapped an arm around him, laying your head on his shoulder, peering into the program. “Did you know Travis has 110 receiving yards, the third most receiving yards in the league? Is he here? I’d like to talk to him. I’ve got some ideas on how to improve his game.” You patted your dad on the back, trying to direct your parents to their seats. “I did Dad, he’s the best Tight End in the league. We’ll see him later tonight, he’s already getting ready.”

Once your parents were settled in their seats, you were finally able to enjoy your favorite part of the game: warmups. You and Travis had been dating for two years already, but every time he ran out of the tunnel to warm-up with the team, you felt like the giddy girlfriend of the quarterback in High School. Getting to see him in stretch in those tight pants was just an added bonus. Your seats were right behind KC’s bench, so when Travis was finished warming up he ran over to you to say hi.

“Hi, baby.” You leaned over the railing to give him a sweet kiss on the lips. “Hi, baby. You look amazing.” You blushed, grabbing his bicep. “Travis, you nervous?” your mom asked him. “No ma’am, just another game for me.” You gave Travis a look knowing he had told you last night that he was a bundle of nerves. He felt his play had been off the last two games, and the Packers were known shit talkers, so he wasn’t looking forward to this game at all. “Travis, I’ve been watching you play, I’ve got a couple of pointers-“, “Dad!”, you cut your dad off, Travis giving him a nice smile, and shaking his hand. You looked at your boyfriend, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ to apologize for your dad. He squeezed your hand. “I’ll see you guys tonight, I’ll take all of the pointers I can get.” He gave you a wink before running back on the field. “See?” Your dad bumps you in the side, “you think I’m embarrassing him, but I’m only trying to help.” You rolled your eyes. “Dad, how would you feel if Travis came into your office and told you how to be a lawyer? You wouldn’t like it.” “The difference is I know something about football, Travis knows nothing about law.”

The first quarter was over pretty quickly, the Chiefs winning 14-3. Overall, the game was going well, but you could tell Travis was getting frustrated, the Packers defense all over him. “You got this baby!” you yelled out to Travis when he sat down on the bench as defense went out, KC turning the ball over after a field goal. He rolled his shoulders back, hanging his head low. Shortly after, Travis was back on the field, one minute counting down on the clock before the end of the quarter. He tried to catch his breath, his chest feeling tight. Quay Walker had been on him all game, running his mouth. It was usual football trash talk, but God he wanted him to just shut the fuck up. “You ain’t getting this one 87. Ain’t getting this one.” Walker called out to Travis trying to get into his head. Mahomes snapped the ball, looking for Kelce, but Travis was completely blocked, the ball thrown offsides. “Fuck!” Travis was slow to get up. You noticed immediately, your heart beating fast, hoping he wasn’t injured. Luckily, the only thing bruised was his ego.

Travis usually waved to you as he jogged off the field at half-time, but you weren’t expecting that this game because he was playing terribly, and sure enough he was one of the last people off the field, skulking slowly back to the locker rooms. “Come on, let’s go get lunch.” You led your parents up the stairs toward the private elevators to the suites. You were trying to distract them, so they didn’t see Travis like this. You knew what their impression of him meant to Travis, and this one game didn’t represent the man you loved at all.

The suite was filled with player wives and family, as well as some benefactors of the football program. You introduced your parents to some of your friends before grabbing a bite to eat. “Is Travis okay?” Brittany, Patrick’s wife sat down next to you, whispering in your ear. You shook your head, truthfully not sure. Appearances were everything, and the wives could be a little cliquey and mean, so you were careful about what you said. “He’s fine. He’s coming back in the second half.”

“Good! Patrick told me that Travis was getting blasted on the field, the Packers LB has been laying into him all game.” You scrunched your eyebrows in surprise, quickly changing your demeanor. “Where did you hear that?”

“Christina’s husband is the PT on the field, he’s been texting her all game.” You stood up from the table, gathering your empty plate. “Well, I don’t like to talk about rumors. I’m gonna go get my parents. Have a good night.” You hustled out of the dining room, grabbing your parents and heading back to the seats.

The third quarter was a lot more hostile, the players getting flagged left and right for small infractions. Travis needed to turn it around or KC was going to lose this game, tied up 21-21. “What the fuck is going on, man?” Patrick ran up to Travis on the field before they got into formation. “Nothin’, man. Let’s go” Travis ran to his position before any more questions could be asked. “Come on bitch, you might as well go home.” Walker was leaning into Travis’ body, planting an elbow into his ribs. “Shut the fuck up.” Travis retorted, his focus on the ball. When Patrick snapped the ball, Travis grabbed Walker’s jersey to steady himself, Walker losing his footing. The referee blew his whistle, his yellow flag in the air as soon as Walker hit the ground. “Unecessary Roughness. Number 87. Half the distance to the goal. 1st down.” You sighed at the ref’s call, keeping your eyes on Travis on the field. When it rains, it pours. “What the fuck was that call?!” Travis yelled toward the ref, but his teammates pushed him away before anything else was said.

Walker and Kelce went at it for the next few minutes, every hard push and foul word going unnoticed by the ref. “Man, you know what? When this game is over, I think I’ll give your bitch a call. She’s got a tight ass, I wonder what else is tight.” Travis whipped around, grabbing Walker by the jersey, their helmets knocking together. “What the fuck did you just say?!!” he threw the LB to the ground, seething as he stood over him. “My bad man, I meant to say I bet she’s got a tight pussy.”

You didn’t see much from your seat but a sea of players rushing over to Travis and Quay, a two-person interaction quickly turning into a brawl. The crowd was in a frenzy, cheering for the Chiefs as the refs tried to separate the players. Once the dust had settled, Travis was removed from the field and ushered to the bench, a bruise already forming on the left side of his face. The ref’s microphone echoed over the loudspeaker. “Unsportsmanlike conduct, Number 87, offense. Unsportsmanlike conduct, Number 7, defense. Both result in automatic ejection.” The crowd groaned and booed at the call, with one of their best players in the locker room, they were certain to lose the game. Your parent’s looked to you, worry blanketing both of their faces. “It’s alright”, you assured them. You weren’t really worried. This wasn’t the first time Travis had been ejected, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. You just hoped he was alright.

After the game you took your parents to the family area so they could sit and relax. You waited about an hour, watching all of the players exit the locker rooms. When you were sure he was alone, you headed back. Travis was taking his time getting dressed, sitting at his locker, his hoodie hanging around his neck. Sadness aside, your boyfriend was still the sexiest thing you had laid your eyes on. When he noticed you walk in, he sighed. You sat down on the ground in front of him, your legs criss crossed under you. He looked you in the eye, waiting for you to reprimand him. “I know what you’re going to say.” You shrugged, messing with the shoelace on his left shoe. “I’m not going to say anything.” He slipped off his seat, settling down the floor in front of you, his knees to his chest. “I don’t care why you did it. I know you had a good reason.” He grabbed your hand, massaging your fingers.

“You’re not mad about your parents seeing me act like an ass?”

“Are you kidding me? My dad loved it! He’s going to grill you with a hundred questions tonight. Be prepared.” Travis laughed, the tightness in his chest relaxing for the first time all day. You both stood up and Travis pulled you in close to him, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, giving his booty a squeeze. You rested on his chest, and he placed a kiss in your hair before resting his chin on your head. “My parents love you. You could fight the entire Packers roster and he’d ask you if you needed backup.” You felt Travis’ deep laugh in his chest. You looked up to give him a deep kiss, and you both headed out of the locker room.

“Travis!” Your dad jumped as soon as he saw you guys walking toward him. “Hey, Mr. Y/L/N.” Your dad pulled his program out of his back pocket, waiving Travis’ formalities off. “Please, it’s Alan. Listen, I’ve got some ideas for your game.” He turned the book to reveal that he had scribbled down various plays in pencil. “Dad, please, can we just do this later? I’m sure Travis is tir-“. Travis cut you off, reaching around you to grab the book out of your dad’s hands. “Is this a ‘Rollout Throwback’?” Your dad nodded his head fervently. “Babe, your dad might be onto something.” You rolled your eyes, releasing your hold from Travis’ waist. You and your mom walked away as the guys continued to talk strategy.

#travis kelce fluff #travis kelce fic #travis kelce imagine #travis kelce x reader #travis kelce #nfl fan fic #nfl fic #nfl fluff #nfl imagine

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