#Wizard Tower Recordings | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

caesium-55 · 9 months ago

Text

—everything is orange. [ iv ]

pairing: lando norris x kpop idol! reader

summary: a racecar driver who needed a fake girlfriend to dispel rumors and a kpop idol who needed publicity for her song. somewhere in between orange cars and orange sunsets, stands something they're afraid of naming.

note: omg im so sorry for not being online lately. i got a writing part time job now so... i may not be as active as before. hope yall are having a great day! not edited. not beta read.

masterlist.

Everything inside your studio is gray. The walls, the couch, the floor, the instruments. It's the kind of room that will make a sad beige mom over the moon.

But when you open the door and the sight of one Lando Norris greets you, looking devilishly handsome in his dark blue button up shirt and black pants and Nike sneakers with his curls concealed underneath his dark blue bucket hat, the studio suddenly doesn't feel as gray as it usually is.

“Lando?” Your brows rise towards your hairline. Truthfully, he’s one of the last people you expected to see inside HAN Ent’s building, much less outside your studio.

“Hi,” he smiles charmingly at the shock in your voice, showing all teeth and smile lines. “Do you mind if I come in?”

You stammer, still not over your shock, “S-Sure.”

You step aside to grant him space and allow him to enter your magic shop. Lando’s eyes curiously roam around the studio and you close the door behind him, nudging the houseplant further to the wall using your foot to avoid getting tripped on it in the future.

“Take a seat. Please,” you invite, gesturing towards the couch. Lando takes the invitation and sits down. He looks too big on the couch, you note. He has long legs and an athletic build. Perhaps, it’s time to buy a bigger one.

“Nice place,” he compliments.

You want to snort out loud but refrain yourself from doing so.

Lando is saying things out of politeness.

Your studio is shit.

You know that.

It used to be a stock room that was converted into a studio when Yoon PD-nim offered you that deal, that's why the room is graciously small. They soundproofed the walls, painted everything gray, shoved in a few pieces of recording equipment and called it a day.

It's still quite nice of Lando to compliment the place though. You might hate this place but this is your wizard’s tower, your witch’s hut, your magic shop, and you feel pride swell in your chest when someone thinks your little corner is cool, even if you think he’s lying.

“Thanks,” you say sincerely. “How did you know I was…”

“I asked Jinnie,” he says simply.

“Ah,” your tone falls flat.

A moment's pause.

“So this is where you’ve been working?”

You nod. Suddenly, you feel conscious.

Your studio isn't really in the best state right now. When you work in a creative fever, you tend to make a mess. Being messy enhances your creativity. The sprawled papers with lyrics, the empty styro cups of coffee lying around, numerous pens and pencils (you don't even know why you feel the need to bring a lot of them) and rubber erasers, and your snacks. There's a mountain of crumpled paper in your trash can.

“Sorry, the place isn't really….” you trail off, making vague gestures with your hand. “I didn't know you were coming.”

“It's okay,” he chuckles. “I called, you know. And texted. You didn’t return any of it.”

“Oh, my phone’s charging,” you say, beginning to feel bad that you accidentally ignored him. “And my notifs are silent.”

“That explains it.”

“Shouldn't you be resting?” you asked. “You have a flight tomorrow.”

It's currently the 19th. Lando is set to leave for Japan on the 20th. His team wants him in Suzuka by September 20 and not later than that. They already had a field day when Lando announced that he's flying with you. At first, he wanted it to be just you and him. His team wouldn't let him because he can be a PR nightmare if given enough freedom so they let his manager, Kyla, tag along.

You’ve mistaken Kyla as a member of the PR team. Turns out she’s his manager.

“Is it a sin to want to spend a few hours with my girlfriend before I go?” he flutters his eyes innocently. You snorted.

“Fake but okay.”

“I’m being sincere here, girlfriend,” he pushes his lips into a pout. “Did you eat already?”

“No,” you answer.

“Should we grab something together?”

“Should we?” you humor his suggestion. It's been a few hours since you’ve eaten. You’ve skipped both breakfast and lunch.

“I think I can call a restaurant and make a reservation.”

“It's near midnight,” you point out, glancing down at the Rolex decorating his wrist. Isn't he aware of how late it is?

“So?”

“Restaurants are closed by now,” you state.

Lando shrugs.

“I can make the effort of finding those seafood pasta you like.”

Your brows furrow.

“What do you mean like? I never said I like those.”

“But I thought…” Lando blinks. “I’ve read it somewhere…”

“Huh?”

“You're from Jeju, right? You grew up eating seafood so you like seafood and you once said you have a palate for Italian food. I tried…liking the pasta with seafood. I hated it but I ate it anyway.”

Your jaw hangs open at the revelation.

This is single-handedly the sweetest thing someone has ever done to you.

You don't know whether to be touched about the sincerity or to cry because of his idiocy. You can definitely do both but you refuse to do both. You have an image to maintain.

“Didn't I tell you that the company manipulated my public information?” you ask incredulously. “Yes, I was from Jeju but I didn’t eat seafood much. I have a mild allergy—”

“In seafood?” you see his eyes widen into saucers. Oops, you shouldn't have said that. ��Wait, you had an allergy attack, didn't you? On those lunch dates we had? Why didn't you tell me so early on?”

“I thought you liked it!” your voice raises slightly, panicked. You're caught. He isn't supposed to know about this.

“I didn't?! I loathe seafood but I ate a few bites because I thought you liked it!”

You blink at him. That is the sweetest while simultaneously the most stupid thing someone has ever done for you. You drag a hand across your face, a groan escaping your mouth and yet you’re smiling. You shake your head at him.

Points for Lando Norris for making you capable of feeling frustrated and another feeling you cannot name.

“We’re idiots.”

There is a stretch of silence before Lando speaks up.

“What do you want to eat? And please tell me the real one.”

You began listing the first three things that appeared inside your brain, “I like…. ramyeon, natto, and tteokbokki.”

You have a palate for convenience store food. Food that you can find in busy night markets. Food that is sold by street vendors. The kind of food that tastes like absolute shit if cold but tastes like home if microwaved into the right amount of temperature. If you venture in your imagination hard enough, you can taste your mother’s cooking after a few bites. But you don't tell Lando that.

“We can eat that.”

You raise a brow.

“The ramen, the chicken, and the tteokdokdok.”

“Tteokbokki,” you correct him gently.

“Tteoktokki,” he repeats.

“Tteok.”

“Bokki.”

“Tteokbokki.”

“Tteokdokki.”

You shake your head, “Tteok-Bo-Kki.”

“Tteok-Bo-Kki.”

You snap your fingers, nodding in approval, “Better.”

“I literally said the same thing.”

“You didn't.”

“Where will we eat this tteokbokki?” He says the tteokbokki slowly, careful with his pronunciation.

“There are night markets nearby,” you tell him. “It’s crowded though. I know a good convenience store that’s a good drive away. It’s usually empty. Do you go to convenience stores?”

You suddenly feel stupid for asking.

Do multi-millionaires like Lando Norris go to convenience stores? It’ll make much more sense if he books restaurants or employs a private chef to cook for him at home. Do they even have a palate for instant food? What do rich people snack on? You don't know. You're not rich. Even after becoming famous, you’re still not rich enough to live the life of luxury.

This just highlights the difference of the worlds you and Lando live in.

“I do. Just not frequently,” he shrugs. “We can go to the convenience store if you want. I don't mind.”

“No, it’s fine. We can eat anywhere you want. Jinnie might have a few hotel restaurants in mind.”

“But do you want to eat in hotel restaurants?”

His question makes you pause and Lando immediately takes your hesitation as a no.

“We can eat anything you want to eat. This is your place anyway. Show me around.”

You bite your lower lip as you contemplate. Should you or should you not? That is the question.

When your eyes drag themselves back to Lando’s face, you see that he’s already looking at you intently as he awaits your answer patiently. You want to shrink back at the intensity of his gaze.

“Well then, do you want to go on a convenience store date with me, boyfriend?”

Despite the hesitation he’s displayed earlier, Lando grins at your offer.

You take Lando to your favorite place in all of South Korea. Google Maps says it's a three hour drive away. You arrive there in two hours and a half.

Maybe it's a sign to change careers.

You used your Jeep Wrangler. Lando offered to drive but you shook your head and hopped on the driver’s seat, him taking the passenger seat.

You won't allow anyone to drive your car. It's a rule of yours.

The last time you allowed someone to drive your car, your Hyundai jumped over a sewage canal. Lando might be a professional race car driver and that alone spoke multitudes of his driving skills, but you're so traumatized with the incident with your Hyundai that you physically can't allow anyone, professional driver or not, to handle the steering wheel of any other cars you own.

Cars are expensive. You can't buy another car. You’ll bawl when you see the money departing your bank account.

You palm the steering-wheel with your right hand. Your left hand lays flat on the back of the passenger seat, behind Lando’s head. Your upper body is rotated towards the back, full focus activated as you reverse the car in expert ease. Lando is observing you, you can tell. You can feel his eyes burning holes in your side profile.

“You okay?” You ask Lando. The man has gone uncharacteristically silent when you’ve started reversing the car. You hear Lando let out a breath. Almost shakily. You cannot tell for sure.

“Yeah,” his voice breaks like a boy undergoing puberty and you have to thin your lips into a line to prevent yourself from laughing. “Nice parking skills.”

“Thanks,” you say nonchalantly. “You sure you're okay though?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” you see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he rubs his throat. “I think the seatbelt’s a little too tight.”

Once the car’s perfectly parked, you kill the engine and exit the car. Lando follows suit.

“I don't know why you have to drive for almost three hours just to visit this place,” Lando gestures to the surroundings. “There's nothing here.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Come on, boyfriend.”

You pat his shoulder and lead the way. A bell chimes loudly as you push the door open. You step inside, the British racer only a few steps behind you. You tug down your mask.

“What's this place?” Lando questions.

“24-hour convenience store,” you answer. “But no staff.”

“No staff?” he asks. “So self service?”

“Ah yes, that’s the word. Self service,” You say. “Quite nice, right? We have complete privacy and good food. Two best things in the world.”

“Careful. Your introvert is showing.”

You snort, “First time coming to a place like this?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “No staff? Does nobody attempt to steal things?”

You shrug, “Probably not. Ramen is not worth going to jail for.”

“This shop will make a million dollar loss in an hour if it's in another country,” Lando says, his nose wrinkling. “Like in the UK or US or something.”

You beckon Lando to follow you through the aisles, “This way.”

“You even memorize the places of things,” he comments. “You come here often?”

You hum a yes. You stop in front of the freezer and open it, pulling out two plastic cups.

Lando’s forehead creases, “Just ice?”

“This is an ice cup,” you explain.

“Are we going to wait for the ice to melt before drinking it or….”

You stare at him incredulously before promptly bursting out in laughter.

“What's funny?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Nothing, sorry,” you clear your throat. You don't know why you find that funny. Your humor is broken. “They sell pouches of juice or coffee and you pour it into the cup.”

Lando’s head tilts. He looks like a confused baby owl.

“Here, I’ll show you,” you walk up to a nearby shelf and grab a Kuromi pouch. It's peach-flavored. “This. You pour it here.”

You gesture to the ice cup. Lando’s mouth forms a circle in realization.

“Cool.”

“There are a lot of flavors,” you add, gesturing to the shelf. “Peach, apple, mango, strawberry, orange…”

You read out the flavors for Lando because you know he can't read Hangul. Lando wordlessly picks a grapefruit-flavored pouch. You nod.

“Good choice. Oh wait, we forgot to get a basket. Can you?”

Lando nods and leaves. When he comes back, now with a yellow basket, the two of you continue to browse down the entire store. You explain each of the food. He said no to most of them. Lando is a picky eater, you learn.

The two of you fill the basket near to the brim. You pay for each item, even though Lando insisted that he do it, and you occupy the table that faces that floor-to-ceiling glass window, overlooking the darkness of the night outside.

“Here,” you hand him a plastic fork. Lando accepts it, his brows furrowed. “You were struggling with the chopsticks.”

A shy smile makes its way to his face, “Sorry.”

You wave your hand as if to say it's no problem and plop down on the chair beside him. Lando digs in with his Buldak Samyang carbonara while you stir your Yoppoki Tteokbokki with yours before taking your first bite. You immediately let out a moan of pleasure.

“Is it delicious?” he asked.

“Very.”

You eat until your cheeks fill, chewing slowly.

“Oh wait, you should post something.”

“Now?”

“You took pictures of me earlier, right?” you know he did. He tried to be slick about it but you’d know if someone is taking a picture of you. “Put it on your story.”

“And delete it?”

“No. The world already knows we're dating anyway. Well, fake dating.”

Lando pulls out his phone and shows you the pictures in his gallery. There are aare a total of four pictures. Three are blurry. The other one is blocked by his finger.

“That one is good.”

“What do you mean good? It's blurry.”

“Blurry is an aesthetic.”

Lando shakes his head but opens his Instagram and begins to edit the photo you’ve chosen, “Help me with the caption?”

“I’m not good with them.”

“Me neither.”

“Your first caption was pretty good.”

“You think so?” he sounds hopeful.

You shrug your shoulders.

“Just say something like ‘her’ then put a period.”

That's the limit of your creative powers for the day.

Lando nods and begins typing. He’s typing quite long for a word with three letters and a single punctuation mark. He shows you the caption.

Your brows furrow.

He laughs, “I’m funny.”

“You’re really not,” you shake your head. “Put it in your drafts.”

“So I’m not posting it now?”

“You post it after we leave the place,” you say. “So we’ll be gone by the time the fans see it and decide they’ll come here.”

“That's very smart.”

“That's not being smart. That’s just common sense,” you state flatly.

“You know, I always thought you'd be a cold person.”

You raise a brow, not entirely sure if you're understanding him correctly. Cold is an adjective. It's used to describe temperature. You're uncertain if it can be applied to use as an adjective to describe a person.

Lando must have sensed your confusion that he adds, “Ice queen.”

Oh.

Yeah.

Okay. You understand it now.

“You used to look so cold and cool,” Lando says. “Ice queen. But also an IDGAF attitude. Very intimidating.”

You have no idea what IDGAF means but you nod your head and act like you understand him anyway. You make a mental note to search it up on the internet later.

“But you’re not.”

“I’m not,” you echo.

“You’re actually pretty sweet,” he adds.

“I’m trying to be kind.”

“You don't have to try. You already are.”

“The companies make us act sometimes.”

“What?”

“Like, before debut,” you begin. “There are companies that assign certain images to their idols. They give them parts to play like directors do to actors in movies. Like, oh, you look like this kind of person so you have to act like this kind of person. They take a look at your visuals and decide what role you’ll have. They took one look at my face and told me that I have to be a strict and serious person who is scary and cold and unbothered. I didn't want to do it because I tend to smile really easily before and I just wanted to have a lot of friends, you know?”

You shrug your shoulders.

“When you’re intimidating, you tend to not have a lot of them. Despite that, I followed the role. Many praised me for it and others just….well, they didn't like it. The company was happy, though. They told me I was good at acting. But it's just…sad that the person I am on the screen is not real.”

“Yeah, that's honestly sad. I can't imagine doing that for my team. I’ll suck at it. Imagine me cold and serious,” Lando makes a serious face but he ends up doing a The Rock Smoulder. You have to stop yourself from laughing out loud by thinning your lips and twisting it.

“You're doing it, though. For the team. This whole fake dating thing,” you gesture to yourselves.

Lando mutters something under his breath while stroking his chin. You don't catch it.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I think your eyes are pretty.”

He's changing the subject. He does it so swiftly, too.

“I know, I thank my mother every day for it,” you joke and Lando chuckles softly. “But don't be jealous, you have pretty eyes yourself.”

He turns into a lovely shade of pink. You can see it. You don't speak of it.

“It changes colors sometimes,” you continue, pointing at your eyes. “Like, it’s kind of gray in the dark. But if the sun shines on it, it has three colors.”

“You stare at my eyes a lot, do you?”

“Well, if a certain thing is pretty, you can't help but stare, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess that's why I stare at you a lot, too.”

You laugh, the sound airy, shaking your head. What a flirt. The cute kind.

“I’m quite the head turner, aren't I?”

“You are,” he agrees seriously.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smirks, confident.

“Careful, you might fall for me, fake girlfriend,” he says cheekily. You have the desire to shatter his ego so you did.

“You're handsome but you're not my type.”

His smirk falters. You give a chortle.

“What's your type then?” he asks, leaning slightly forward. His eyes reflect anticipation.

You fall into a momentary thoughtful silence, “For starters, attractive men who can drive very fast cars. With a racing license this time. Not like me.”

Lando smiles at your light attempt at a joke. Good to know that he finds the dark humor surrounding your career-ending scandal funny.

“I am an attractive man,” he gestures to his face. “With a priceless face and I drive a very fast car. Formula one or sports cars. Oh and would you look at that? I have a racing license and a regular driving license.”

“You are an attractive man,” you agree. “But again, not my type.”

Lando dramatically puts his hand against his chest, right above where his heart lies and acts like you just shot him dead on the spot.

“Hmm, what else? Ah, plays golf,” you list another trait of your ideal man.

“I play golf,” he crosses his arms, leans back against the back of his seat, and lifts his hips a little as he adjusts his sitting position on the chair, manspreading a little. This is one of the subtle things men do that women cannot help but find attractive. You’re also a woman. Of course, you find that attractive.

You roll your eyes, feigning annoyance. Lando laughs at you.

“A few years older than me.”

When Lando opens his mouth, you cut him off, holding up a finger, “I’m older than you.”

By months only but still.

“In the standards of your fake birthday, I am older than you.”

You huff, shaking your head. He is right, to some degree. The world thinks he is older than you because HAN Entertainment decided to lie about your birthday.

“Looks good in red.”

“You know, orange is a mixture of red and yellow. Technically, it's still red. So I look good in red. One plus one equals two. I am connecting shit.”

He raises two index fingers in the air and connects them together to put further emphasis on the words he imparted in a sage-like manner.

“You're not connecting anything.”

“Hell yeah, I am. I am so smart, I should just be McLaren’s chief strategist. Maybe then I can finally get my first win.”

You cannot help but raise an amused brow.

“Fine, if you're so smart Mr. Strategist, what's plan A to your victory?”

His answer comes immediately, no hesitation and he utters it with so much confidence in his chest: “Sneak into Red Bull and steal their car.”

You abruptly burst out laughing, the sound filling up the entire convenience store. You cannot hold it in anymore. You have to slap a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself down.

You don't laugh pretty. You're very much aware of that. You sound like a dolphin when you do. But Lando is so funny that you forget to feel conscious of the weird sound that leaves your mouth for a whole five seconds before you remember to compose yourself and stop.

“You don't have to cover your mouth when you laugh, you know?” he says. “Or try to stop yourself from laughing. Just laugh if you want.”

You give him a look. Why is he turning serious all of a sudden?

“Wait, red?” Lando does a double take once you’ve composed yourself. “Don’t tell me your ideal type is….”

His forehead creases. You nod.

He says, “Carlos?!” the same time you say, “It’s Kim Mingyu.” How did he even come to that conclusion?

Oh wait. Red. Older than you. Drives fast cars. Racing license. Makes sense.

You blink at each other.

“Who the hell is Kim Mingyu?”

“You don't know Kim Mingyu?” you pull out your phone, open Google Photos, and search for the folder named: 민규❤️❤️❤️. The folder contains 7659 photos of Kim Mingyu.

“Fake boyfriend, let me introduce you to my boyfriend, Kim Mingyu,” you show your favorite Mingyu photo.

The one where he’s wearing a black fitted shirt, his cheek against the back of his hand, and the veins in his arms bulging. He’s serving major boyfriend vibes.

Lando rolls his eyes.

“He doesn’t look that good.”

“No, Lando, you are not seeing it,” you hold the phone closer to his face.

“I am seeing it and I am saying he’s not good looking.”

“Lies.”

“I'm not lying.”

“It's Kim Mingyu.”

“And?”

You pull a face, retracting your phone. “Come on, he’s quite good looking. And tall. Very tall.”

You once have to stand beside him in an ending ceremony in Inkigayo. You barely even come up to his chest.

“I’m tall.”

“You’re shorter than him.”

“You're killing me here.”

You chuckle. You pat his shoulder in faux sympathy.

“There, there. That's okay. You're my boyfriend anyway. Don't be jealous.”

“Damn right, I am.”

You snort.

“But you have to stan Seventeen though. After your race in Suzuka, we’ll try to binge GoSe.”

When you’re too full to finish the rest of your tteokbokki, you drag Lando outside the convenience store.

“Sand?” he questions.

“Sand,” you state.

“There's sand in my shoes,” Lando complains.

“Take it off and like,” you make the motion of flipping your shoes upside down to remove the sand inside. He does as you’ve told him but he seems to be not fully satisfied with it. There is still sand inside his shoe.

“This won't do,” he says. “I should have brought flip flops.”

“Let's go barefoot,” you kick off your shoes and neatly place them on the foot of a nearby coconut tree. You motion for Lando to do the same, but you’re met with hesitance.

“What if someone steals them?”

It's a valid concern to have, you suppose. You look around you. Darkness is all that can be perceived.

“Who’d steal them? Cheonyeogwisin?”

“I don't even know what that is.”

“Just leave the shoes here, Lando.”

The sand feels good underneath your feet. A bit ticklish. A little too familiar. You turn on the flashlight of your phone and jog up to the shore.

“Wait for me!” you hear Lando scream from behind you.

“Palli!” you yell back, voice almost drowning in the wind.

“I am palli-ing!”

You roll your pants up to your knees and soak your feet in the cold waves, shivering. You turn around just as Lando body slams you and the two of you fall into the ice-cold waves. Your jaw comes slack, eyes wide. The two of you are now drenched from head to toe.

Lando bashfully smiles, “Sorry.”

“Lando!” you splash him in his face.

Lively shrieks fill the silent night sky. The stars twinkle with mirth at the two of you, the line between fake and real blurring.

Lando flies out just four hours after you arrive in Seoul proper. You feel bad for bringing him somewhere far and not giving him enough hours to rest. Then, he tells you: "It's one of the best nights I've ever had."

He sounds so sincere that you have to stop yourself from blushing red.

In the schedule Jinnie gave you, you are only required to make an appearance in the race proper on the 24th. You have the 20th, 21st, and 22nd to work on your single before having to fly out on the 23rd. Regardless, you fly to Japan on the 21st with Jinnie in tow, two days earlier than your original schedule.

Jinnie doesn't question nor protest against your obvious disobedience on the appointed schedule. You're glad she didn't.

"Lando?" you question after seeing the man standing behind your hotel door. It's nearly twelve and you've just checked in the hotel with Jinnie. "What are you..."

"Just checking in," he smiles. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Don't you have a race tomorrow?" Despite your question, you sidestep to let him inside your hotel room. "You should be resting."

"That's okay. I'm well rested. Are you going to watch the FP1 tomorrow?"

You shake your head, "I'm going to work on my song."

"Oh," his face falls. "Why'd you fly in early then?"

You shrug.

Honestly, you don't know either.

It's an act based purely on impulse. Not your finest moments.

"Maybe I can watch?" you say. "I'm not really sure."

You don't want to get mobbed again.

ORACLE has a rather large fanbase in Japan. You know there will be curious fans who'll await your appearance in the race. And while you're glad that your PR relationship with Lando is receiving the right type of attention from the public, you still hate having this much attention on you.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Lando says.

"I'll go," you decide with finality. "I mean this is why we're doing this in the first place, right? Make people believe that we're real."

Lando's lips form a line.

"I suppose."

"Then, I'll be there."

The song making can wait.

Once again, Jinnie takes charge in deciding your clothing. You’ve long since given up on protesting or even suggesting your ideas. You have to get used to it again. Wearing whatever is given to you like a doll. After all, you are to return to the stage of KPop again.

Today’s WAG OOTD is a Miu Miu black dress, a black leather jacket, and Gianvito Rossi strappy sandals. Nothing too impressive. It's just the free practice sessions after all.

Jinnie hands you the McLaren ball cap and you grimace.

“How's the song coming up?”

“I’ve been trying to combine my demos and see how it sounds,” you reply. “But I have a concept in mind and I jotted down a few phrases for the lyrics.”

“I got an email from Yoon PD-nim today. He’s strongly suggesting you use a racing concept for your single.”

Strongly suggesting.

Translation: commanding.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Fuck it.

He’s really going to use the scandal and hope it’ll make you rise from the ashes like a phoenix reborn. The problem is that you're far from a phoenix. You’re human. As disappointing that may be but that is the cold truth. You're uncertain how people will react if you use a racing concept. You cannot afford to risk this over something like this.

You have one chance. And if KNetz reacts badly on your song and your MV, you’re never going to have another chance to go back on stage, to go back home.

Yoon PD-nim is too thoughtless at times. You want to shake him.

Jinnie drives you to the paddock and drops you to the parking lot. You expect that you’ll have to find your way to the garage again alone. Your knees are trembling as you step out of the car.

To your surprise, a staff member of the McLaren team—you assume he works for the team because of the orange polo shirt—approaches you as you exit the car.

“[Name]?”

“Hi,” you offer a polite smile.

“I’m Rick, I’m one of Lando’s mechanics, pleasure to meet you,” he introduces.

“Pleasure is all mine, Sir,” you say, dipping your chin into a small bow.

“Come this way,” he beckons. You follow him.

“Did Lando ask you to pick me up?”

“Well, he insisted on picking you up but the race was about to start so we had to force him to stay put in the livery and he wouldn't stay put until we said we’ll pick you up. Said people might flock over you and you don't like it when it happens.”

Your heart warms.

“That's very thoughtful of him. And sweet.”

“That's Lando Norris for you,” he says. “He’s always treating all the people he’s working with kindly. He only has to be polite but he even exerts effort in helping and making our work easier.”

“That's true,” you agree. “I can attest to that, as his fake girlfriend. He only has to treat me well when there's a camera but he’s even going as far as offering friendship.”

The rest of the walk to McLaren was peaceful. Or at least as peaceful as you hope it can be.

#f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #f1 imagines #fluff #fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris #ln4 fic #ln4 #ln4 x reader #kpop idol! reader

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sitp-recs · 4 months ago

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Part I: hymn to the sea

thank you @eleadore for creating this gorgeous art for @citrusses’ The Isle of Ogygia and for inspiring this rec list!

Sometimes all I want is the quiet. After a year of ups and downs feeling very introspective towards fandom, I found a lot of comfort in contemplative fics featuring the sea. They take me by the hand and get me immersed in a beautiful, mysterious setting in a way that I find deeply soothing, and even cathartic. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels instantly drawn to this theme, so I made a short rec list with some of my favorite titles. May September be kind and healing to us all. Enjoy!

🌊 On The Shore by @skeptiquewrites (T, 3k)

Draco takes up wild swimming. Harry joins him.

🌊 Saltwater Stain by @the-starryknight (M, 9k)

Seven days stuck on a boat investigating a rogue ghost wouldn't be so bad if Harry didn't want Draco so much.

🌊 The Isle of Ogygia by @citrusses (E, 13k)

There is an island, far out in the sea.

🌊 The Oceans They Did Rise by disapparater (M, 18k)

Finding post-war life more difficult than he'd imagined, Harry travels halfway around the world to find some peace.

🌊 if you've changed your mind, orphaned (E, 20k)

The first Draco knows of the whole thing is Harry Potter standing in his broom shed.

🌊 The Isle of Discussion by @shealwaysreads (E, 22k)

Harry and Draco arrive at the shores of Loch Leven to record the magical history of the land. They’re friends now, but up there in the Highlands, amidst the trees and sky and that wild expanse of water their own past is more present than ever; a gap they still can’t bridge.

🌊 Simulation Theory by @starquestingfordrarry (E, 35k)

An offer to test out a new invention for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes turns into a whole lot more when Harry discovers who has the other part of the paired set.

🌊 What Shall Not Be Unearthed by @iero0 (E, 49k)

At the northernmost point of Shetland, surrounded by pointed cliffs, towers the Ootsta Lighthouse on a small isle in the middle of the open sea. Little does Harry know that he's not the only new lighthouse keeper.

🌊 Antediluvia by @lol-zeitgeistic (E, 56k)

Everyone always forgets about the Merpeople. So did Harry until the day his, Lee’s, and Hermione’s Portkeys land at Reagan National Airport’s Arrivals dais. He’s just had to leave a job he loves and pack his entire life—literally—into his luggage. Then Malfoy and his subplots arrive, and suddenly, saving the world again, one Mermaid at a time, sounds like the perfect excuse to do something he’s always wanted.

🌊 I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)

Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography.

#drarry reclist #Drarry and the sea

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sativariddle · 26 days ago

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⤷ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔫𝔢.

other chapters here.

SUMMARY ┆ ↴

the name riddle always made your blood run cold, the malicious surname of a malicious man tasting like poison on your tongue. so when dumbledore declared that mattheo riddle would be attending hogwarts, you felt a chill of dread settle over the great hall

when? why? how could dumbledore allow this? the child of his greatest enemy now strode through the towering doors of the great hall, his presence steeped in an air of menace and cold, unspoken cruelty.

how could someone as ruthless as a slytherin ever find love? it seemed impossible—mattheo was a stranger to the very idea. but everything changes when he meets you. though in his world, love isn’t the light, joyful feeling it’s supposed to be. for him, love means accepting you, flaws and all.

WARNINGS ┆mentions of; torture, mental trauma, physical trauma, violence, characters death, drug and alcohol addiction, sexual themes, parent neglect

"excuse me, i'm just going to slip between you two—oh, sorry! i didn't mean to step on your foot."

apologies spilled from your lips, repeating endlessly like a stuck record as you made your way through the crowd of wide-eyed first years. the hogwarts express was a chaotic mess of moving bodies and luggage, and you were desperate to reach the hufflepuff compartment. "coming through, sorry!"

each compartment was filled.

you just hoped your friends had managed to find one.

as you hurried down the busy train, you passed the blue and bronze of ravenclaw's section before reaching the scarlet and gold of gryffindor. your eyes scanned the compartments and immediately landed on the familiar faces of harry, ron, and hermione.

a gentle smile tugged at your glossed lips as you pulled open the gryffindor compartment door, causing harry, ron, and hermione to look up, their eyes settling on the bubbly hufflepuff.

harry gave them a look that clearly said they would continue the conversation later, as it wasn't over yet.

hermione swiveled to face you, her smile mirroring your own cheerful expression. "good summer?" she inquired, her eyebrows raising expectantly.

"amazing!" you exclaimed, your eyes shining with delight. "the books you sent were wonderful - i couldn't stop reading them! mum said she never would have guessed i'd put the books down, i carried them everywhere." you chattered happily, hermione nodding along with every word, her smile growing wider.

"glad you did," hermione replied cheekily, turning to harry and ron. "told you she would appreciate them more than you two."

ron grumbled something under his breath, his arms crossing slightly.

harry, however, wasn't paying attention to ron's muttering. instead, he turned towards you, his expression curious.

"have you got a clue on what you're going to write for the hogwarts daily Insight?" harry asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as soon as the words left his mouth.

‘hogwarts daily insight’ was an idea you had begged dumbledore to approve for an entire four years. you argued it was only fair to keep people informed about what went on within the castle walls.

after all, witches and wizards were naturally curious—many had children attending hogwarts, so why shouldn’t they know what was happening inside?

not everyone liked the idea, of course.

some professors warned dumbledore it could lead to another rita skeeter, stirring up gossip and trouble.

but dumbledore, in his wisdom, saw potential in your vision. he trusted you completely. if anyone could handle the responsibility of such a project, it was you—no question about it.

your goal was never to create drama or make anyone feel bad. you simply reported what happened at hogwarts and submitted your articles to dumbledore.

if he deemed them unfit for publication, they stayed unpublished. but if he believed your work provided meaningful insight, he allowed it to be shared. so far, not a single one of your articles had been denied.

harry had been skeptical when he first heard hermione praising your article. but his doubts disappeared when you received requests from witches and wizards asking for stories about him. instead of running with the idea, you asked harry directly if he was comfortable with it.

when he said he wasn’t, you immediately dropped the subject.

he respected you for that—and from then on, he trusted you to handle his announcements, knowing your work would reach the entire school via breakfast readings of the daily mail.

as your articles grew in popularity, you noticed a shift in how people treated you.

some students tried to cozy up to you, hoping to get their own feature in your work, but you weren't interested in catering to petty drama or personal agendas.

'hogwarts daily insight' was the opposite of that—an honest look at life at the school. you refused to let it become anything less.

fan mail began pouring in, filled with admiration for your intelligence and the originality of your idea.

many readers expressed how much they wished you had started it sooner. you had, of course—but convincing dumbledore had taken years of persistence.

"not at the moment, harry," you say with a gentle laugh, amused by his eagerness. "we've only just boarded the train. writing about trying to find my friends' compartment isn't exactly daily insight material, is it?"

he glanced over at ron and hermione, both shooting him warning glares that clearly said, ‘don’t even think about it.’

but if there was one thing certain about the boy who lived, it was his stubbornness.

“have you heard?”

your eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, clearly indicating you hadn't heard anything. "heard of what?" you asked softly, a slight frown pulling at your lips, curiosity evident in your voice.

harry glanced past you to the compartment door, double-checking that no one was lurking outside, before turning back to you.

“malfoy being a death eater—”

before he could finish, ron kicked his leg, and hermione shook her head sharply, a silent warning.

your eyes widened in shock. “what—?” you looked over at ron and hermione, their stern glares directed at harry only adding weight to his claim. “are… are you sure? that’s a serious accusation, harry—”

“—and i want you to write about it in your article, to warn the witches and wizards in the castle and—”

before harry could finish, hermione smacked him on the head with the folded article she’d been holding.

“you, of all people, should know what it feels like to be the subject of false accusations—” hermione started, but harry cut her off with a sharp glare through his round glasses, clearly recalling the events of fourth year and rita skeeter’s lies.

“It’s not false!” harry snapped.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “look, i need to find my friends. harry, we’ll talk about this later.”

harry gave you a small, appreciative nod. hermione, meanwhile, shook her head in exasperation but ultimately said nothing more. ron shrugged as if to say, what can you do?

turning on your heel, you opened the compartment door and headed down the corridor, making your way toward the hufflepuff section in search of your friends.

spotting one of them, you slid open the door to the compartment.

genevieve turned toward you with a grin, her sleek black hair swaying over her back. “well, if it isn’t my favorite little journalist,” she teased, laughing when you rolled your eyes playfully. “nice to see you too.”

“where are hannah, ernie, and justin?” you questioned, settling into the seat across from her.

“they’re looking for you. thought you might’ve missed the train,” she said, leaning back in her seat.

you nodded, smiling faintly.

the great hall was silent.

usually, the hall buzzed with the typical teenage drama: excited whispers about daily prophet headlines, eager discussions about upcoming classes, and the usual gossip that filled any gathering of young witches and wizards.

but today... today was different.

the great hall, once vibrant and sparkling, now seemed covered in a dreary, grey pallor, as if the air itself was heavy with unseen dread.

the usual joyful chatter and laughter was replaced by an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional hushed whisper.

tense.

"now, as you know, each of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. you have a right to know why."

shivers ran down your spine, making your hufflepuff robes feel impossibly drafty despite their warmth.

goosebumps prickled along your neck and arms, and you unconsciously hugged yourself tighter, pulling the thick yellow fabric closer around your shoulders.

your quill and parchment were tucked under your arm, just in case you needed to jot something down for your article.

"once, there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very hall. he walked these castle corridors and slept beneath its roof. to the world, he seemed like any other student."

only a fool would dare say the dark lord's name aloud, and dumbledore was known for his foolishly brilliant mind. he didn't shy away from speaking the name that made grown wizards tremble: “his name? tom riddle.”

dumbledore looked at you, then at the quill and parchment tucked under your arm. you immediately spread it out in front of you, quill poised, ready to take notes on dumbledore's words.

"today, of course, the world knows him by a different name."

the great hall hung heavy with a silence so profound that you could have sworn you heard the faintest rustle of your own partchment echo as you gulped down a nervous lump in your throat.

“help will always be given at hogwarts to those who need it,” dumbledore intoned solemnly, his twinkling eyes scanning the room. “and with that, let us welcome our new student, mattheo riddle.”

riddle.

as the murmurs and whispers around the house tables grew louder and more insistent, the massive oak doors of the great hall swung open dramatically, creaking on their hinges and revealing the figure that had silenced the entire castle.

entered mattheo riddle, his presence electrifying the silence.

his eyes, shockingly brown and cold as glass, were fixed unblinkingly on dumbledore, something darker flickering in their depths.

why? how could dumbledore let this happen?

your eyes involuntarily widened as mattheo began his purposeful walk down the aisle, then darted quickly to your friends - hermione's analytical gaze fixed intently on the new arrival, ron's jaw slightly agape, and harry's expression a combination of confusion and something that oddly resembled recognition.

their eyes bulged, jaws slack, as they stared in disbelief at mattheo's confident stride.

dumbledore had allowed him to enter with barely a nod, as if the most notorious dark wizard since grindelwald wasn't his own father, walking down the aisle like he owned the place, his tanned face marred by ominous scars visible even beneath the hood of his cloak.

as mattheo approached, dumbledore didn't even extend his hand towards the sorting hat; instead, it quicly bellowed "SLYTHERIN!"

"did you see his face? it was covered in scratches—"

"—i didn't think the dark lord would name his son mattheo, it makes no sense."

"people say he’s already hexed a first year—"

"he’s kind of cute though—"

"—you’ve lost your mind, hannah—"

you let out a quiet sigh. it’s not that you’re upset with your friends for spending the entire evening talking about the dark lord’s son, but their chatter left you with hardly any time to write. they had been going on and on, leaving you no room to retreat into your parchment.

it seemed like everyone in the castle was on edge about mattheo’s arrival, openly whispering or speculating about him.

as long as your paths didn’t cross, everything would be fine. you really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

then again, the idea of a teenage boy hurting someone felt ridiculous to you. it was such a cruel, unkind thought that you couldn’t wrap your head around it.

you stood up from the couch, feeling restless. the hufflepuff common room was busier than usual, packed with students eager to gossip about the events of the day.

all you wanted was a moment of quiet—somewhere to clear your mind away from the noise and chatter.

your friends didn’t even notice when you got up. they were too caught up in their hushed conversation, deep in thought and whispers. you didn’t want to interrupt them, so you left quietly without saying a word.

you made a point to say a quick ‘hello’ to anyone you passed in the halls.

it was a small gesture, but you believed it mattered. at a place like hogwarts, where some students seemed to drift through their days without close friends, a simple greeting might remind them they weren’t invisible—that they weren’t alone.

you could tell by their forced smiles and averted gazes that they meant well, but today just wasn't their day. their greetings were laced with uncomfortable tension, but you knew it wasn't personal - they were just having one of those days.

you reassured yourself that it was perfectly fine - after all, everyone has off days. people are human, with all their complexities and mood swings. you shrugged it off.

heading towards the library seemed like the safest option since you doubted there was anyone in there at the moment. even if there were, it’s a library—they have to be quiet.

the castle corridors were relatively empty as you walked, the few students you encountered either strolling with a friend or being escorted by a professor.

the sound of your footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone walls, broken only by the occasional murmur of conversation or rustle of robes.

your steps quickened, eager to blend into the shadows rather than stand out as an easy target. being a hufflepuff somehow marked you as 'less than' in their eyes, and you dreaded the inevitable jabs or sneers that often came with walking alone.

the library—a place of comfort. no noise, just the comforting hum of people around you, either reading a textbook or scribbling on some notes.

it truly was a good place to get some peace and quiet.

as you settled into a chair tucked away in the corner of the library, you pulled your legs under the cold wood of the table.

your fingers absently drummed against the cover of your textbook as you tried to focus. but then your eyes flicked upward, and across the vast, quiet library, you saw him—riddle.

he stood in the middle of the library, flanked by a group of familiar slytherins: pansy parkinson, blaise zabini, theodore nott, and draco malfoy.

mattheo lounged in a chair, a cigarette dangling negligently between his fingers, smoke lazily curling around him as if he were the ruler of the room. his expression was arrogant, almost daring, as if he were inviting a challenge.

you frowned slightly, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion. even from across the room, your thoughts began to spiral.

how on earth was he getting away with smoking in a place where ‘no smoking’ signs were practically everywhere?

was everyone else oblivious to the faint trail of smoke curling upward, or were you the only one who even noticed?

as if sensing your gaze, mattheo suddenly looked up, his dark eyes scanning the room.

blaise was speaking beside him, but it didn’t seem to register—his attention had already drifted.

then, his eyes found you.

snake meets badger.

an annoyed smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he locked his gaze onto yours. he didn’t look away, his expression almost daring, like he’d caught you in a private moment you hadn’t intended to share.

mattheo shook his head quietly, clearly not in the slightest amused by the way your gaze snapped back down to your parchment paper, only for you to risk a glance back up again.

you silently cursed yourself for your staring problem—a habit you thought you’d buried long ago. ever since that first-year incident, when you’d stared at snape for too long and he made an example of you in front of the entire class.

“fragile little hufflepuff,” he’d sneered, leaving you humiliated. you’d vowed to fix it after that, but old habits had a funny way of creeping back.

across the room, mattheo leaned closer to his friends, whispering something that made them snicker. whatever he said, it clearly wasn’t meant to stay between them, because within moments, the group of slytherins began to move—slowly straying from their spot and making their way toward you.

mattheo's hands are stuck in the pockets of his robes, his head tilted to the side as he watched you forcefully write down nonsense, pretending as if you had been doing it the whole time, which you should’ve been.

mattheo and his slytherin friends approach the oak table you are sitting at, and they circle you like a pack of hyenas surrounding an antelope.

they all smile wide and mocking, except for mattheo and draco, whose expressions are dark and calculating as they size you up. the others, fueled by their slytherin pride, circle around you like vultures, their eyes roving over your form.

mattheo is the first to break the silence, his voice dripping with annoyance as he flicks his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out under the heel of his dirty shoes.

"looks like we got ourselves here a little rita skeeter," he drawls, running his teeth along his bottom teeth. "fuck are you doin’ snoopin' around." you flinch as he leans in, his breath hot and stale against your face.

you knew the slytherins would inform him about your daily article—they despised it more than anyone. they’d tear it up right in front of you or ‘accidentally’ spill something on your notes whenever you were too focused to notice them lurking nearby.

above all, they knew you were too kind-hearted to write anything terrible about them in your article.

his friends continue to laugh beside him, leaning on each other for support as they all keep their predatory gazes locked on you.

you can feel the weight of their judgment as they circle you.

“i wasn’t snooping.” you tried to sound more clear, but you were so scared that your voice slightly cracked, looking at all of them through your eyelashes. “i just came here for some peace and quiet. i hadn’t got a clue you’d lot be in here, ‘m sorry—very, very sorry—”

mattheo raises an eyebrow at your cracking voice; he found it so fucking annoying. the slytherins around him chuckle, some of them sharing amused glances.

your apology seems to only fuel their desire to mess with you.

“oh, you’re sorry, are you?” he asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “how sorry are you?”

you knew they were messing with you, taking advantage of your kindness. but you couldn’t come back with a good response because all you saw were teenagers scared of their parents—at the end of the day—everyone in the castle are just kids and their first time living.

grabbing the parchment and quill you brought, you tuck it under your arm as you get up off the wooden chair. “i’m very sorry, i’ll be going now—”

as you begin to turn away, mattheo swiftly steps in front of you, blocking your path and forcing you to stop. the other slytheirns chuckle under their breaths, amused at the sight of you trapped.

his tall frame looming over you as he drawled, "whoa, whoa, hold on a second." his hand reached out, grabbing your parchment’s that were bunched up together and sending it clattering to the floor. "i don't think you're sorry enough just yet."

you didn’t want to start a problem; you hated the thought of going to sleep with a target on your back. you had to make sure you were good with everyone. “look, i really don’t want any problems. i’m really sorry.”

you dropped to your knees, desperately trying to gather the scattered parchments, your face burning with humiliation as you willed yourself not to cry, hoping that they would just leave you alone.

mattheo rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed by your apologies.

“sorry ‘s not gonna cut it," he snaps. "you’ve interrupted our discussion. you think a simple ‘sorry’ is gonna make up for it?”

his slytherin friends didn’t utter a single word, only adding a few laughs here and there, but you could tell they were scared shitless of mattheo.

but then again, who wouldn’t be?

you didn’t think twice and started walking away.

mattheo reaches out lightning fast, his hand gripping your wrist and yanking you back roughly.

“oh, no you don’t,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger. “not going anywhere just yet.”

going back and forth made the inside of your stomach twist; you just wanted to be back in the safety of your own dorm walls. “can you guys just leave me alone? i’ll be on my way, swear to you.”

mattheo looks down at you, his grip on your wrist tightening.

“temper, temper,” he mocks, his voice dripping with mockery. “you owe me an apology.”

you didn’t have to be told twice. if he felt he needed an apology, you’d happily give it to him. you hated being on people’s bad side. “i’m sorry,” you say.

mattheo arches an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with your apology. “that’s it?” he quips, his grip on your wrist not letting up. “you think i’m gonna let you go with a little easly ‘i’m sorry’? you can do better than that.”

you nodded, taking this as help rather than insulting. “i’m sorry for interrupting you,” you try again.

mattheo lets out an exaggerated sigh, his eyes rolling. "yeah, i heard you say that," he sneers. "but ‘s not what you said, it's about the delivery. try again, and make it sound like you mean it."

you scrunched your eyebrows together since you had really meant it the two other times.

apologizing was something you’d always do willingly—if you ever upset or offended someone, even by accident, you felt it was only right to make amends.

“i’m very deeply sorry for intruding on you and your friends,” you said, your voice earnest. “i shouldn’t have come down to the library.”

mattheo chuckles, his eyes raking over you. "better," he hums, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "now get the fuck out of here before i change my mind. you’re also infuriating as fuck, shit pisses me off."

#Spotify #harry potter #hp smut #hp fandom #hp marauders #hogwarts houses #harry potter x you #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #fanfic #hufflepuff #slytherin boys imagine #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle #voldemort #the dark lord #h

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ribbittrobbit · 10 months ago

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the wizard Sorrow, apprentice to Sight, seer of the citadel.

They're a divination wizard, a harried magical phd candidate and generally is of the opinion that it's kinda a bummer to seek the omens and portents of the rise and falls of civilizations, but hey, someone's gotta do it.

no but imagine being a reverse history phd so like specializing in a specific time period in the future like the sixth age of the empire and finding + recording all the prophecies pertinent to that time period for future usefulness - thesis in the fall of three towers and the towers havent even been built yet

been obsessively thinking about wbn (im not caught up on arc 2 ok - so idk if this name is taken. it turns out, you can't stay sane while mixing audio and listening to a podcast at the same time) and someone posted about what you think your s wizard name would be and it kinda spiraled into this. my other thought was Sense and maybe i'll draw her too.

(I also think they would not be about Suvi's energy - being in leadership track and leadership famously wants the seers to be more useful now but that's not how it works. yes, my research is important... to civilization three aeons from now)

#worlds beyond number #wbn OC #the wizard the witch and the wild one #wwwo #original character #wbn pod #ribbittrobbit #i could bore you with more details if u want #the wizard sorrow

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months ago

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Robin Sloan’s “Moonbound”

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

Robin Sloan has a well-deserved reputation as a sparkly, fizzy writer, the kind of person who can tell a smart/smartass story infused with fantasy-genre whimsy but grounded in high-tech, contemporary settings (think here of Charlie Jane Anders' gorgeous All the Birds In the Sky):

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/01/26/charlie-jane-anderss-all-the-birds-in-the-sky-smartass-soulful-novel/

In Moonbound, a new, wildly ambitious solarpunk novel published today by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, Sloan moves out of his usual, daffy, high-tech/high-weird Bay Area milieu and catapults us 11,000 years into the future, to a world utterly transformed and utterly fascinating:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374610609/moonbound

Moonbound's protagonist is a "chronicler," a symbiotic fungus engineered to nestle in a human's nervous system, where it serves as a kind of recording angel, storing up the memories, experiences and personalities of its host. When we meet the chronicler, it has just made a successful leap from its old host – a 10,000-years-dead warrior who had been preserved in an anaerobic crashpod ever since her ship was shot out of the sky – into the body of Ariel, a 12-year-old boy who had just invaded the long-lost tomb.

This is quite a move. This long-dormant, intelligent fungus originates a thousand years into our own future, long after the climate emergency had been (miraculously, joyously) averted and has arrived in a world ten millennia years even further down the line. It must orient itself from its position inside the nervous system of a 12-year-old, and we have to orient ourselves to having an 11,000-year-distant future explained by an intelligent fungus from 1,000 years into our own future.

This is doing fiction in hard mode, and Sloan nails it. The unraveling strangeness of Ariel's world is counterpointed with the amazing tale of the world the chronicler hails from, even as the chonicler consults with the preserved personalities of the heroes and warriors it had previous resided in and recorded.

And in this curious way, we learn of the history of the chronicler's world, and of the strange world so far into the future that Ariel lives in – and becomes incredible consequential to.

Start with the chronicler's world: on the way to solving the climate emergency, the human race figured out how to cooperate on unimaginably massive projects (for example, addressing the world's runaway carbon problem). This pays huge dividends, ushering in a period of thrilling innovation, as humans and the nonhuman intelligences they have constructed collaborate to explore out planet, our solar system, and – thanks to a faster-than-light breakthrough – our galaxy.

A crew of seven are dispatched to the ends of space with great fanfare – but when they return, they are terrified and full of grim purpose. Something they met out there in the galaxy has convinced them that humanity must never look to the stars again. They blanket the planet in a cloak of dust and establish a garrison on the moon from which they destroy any attempts to leave the Earth.

This triggers a savage war against these seven "dragons" and their moonbase. The chronicler's warrior – the one who was entombed for 10,000 years before being discovered by Ariel – was shot down on a last-ditch attempt to destroy the dragons and their base on the moon.

Flash forward 10,000 years. Ariel lives in a weird, medieval-type village, albeit one in which the peasant-types all wear high-tech performance all-weather gear…and the animals all talk. It's a very strange place – there's a sword in a stone, a wizard in a tower…and an airstrip.

Even as the chronicler is trying to make sense of this anachronistic muddle, Ariel is marching towards his destiny. In short order, he finds himself in fear for his life, and then – for the first time in his life or the life of any other villager – Ariel leaves the village.

This kicks off the road-trip part of the novel, a real bildungsroman that sees Ariel, the chronicler, and a whole Wizard-of-Oz's worth of road pals (including a rusty tin-man type robot who is part of a hive mind of thousands of other robots all over the world; oh and a talking beaver) (oh, and a dead guy) (and there's an elk with a symbiotic beehive in its antlers that dribbles a stead stream of honey down its muzzle).

My editor Patrick Nielsen Hayden once articulated a theory of how science fiction works: you have the world, which is a kind of grand thought experiment, and you have a protagonist, who is a kind of microcosm of that world. Think of the world as this big, heavy gear, and the character as a much-faster-spinning gear that meshes with the world, spinning and spinning, pushing the world inchingly around a full revolution:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/26/aislands/#dead-ringers

The chronicler is a perfect microcosm of this strange world, where dozens of great civilizations have arisen and fallen – the ruins of a great society of hyperintelligent rats turns out to be very useful on one part of Ariel's quest – and where the dragons brood overall, a menace in the sky that the Earth's inhabitants have all but forgotten, but whom the chronicler can't ignore.

Sloan is really having a lot of fun with his talking animals; his transdimensional gods; his space-maddened, murderous lunar AIs. On the way, he's doing all kinds of really cool tricks – like asking us to really sit with the idea of giving moral consideration to the nonhuman world, including "beings" we currently think of as inanimate objects. This is a great riff:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/07/more-than-human/#umwelt

Sloan's debut novel, Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, mixed the tropes and sensibilities of tech culture with a beautiful, escapist fantasy, a "curious little magic shop" tale that was absolutely delightful:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/11/16/mr-penumbras-24-hour-bookstore-the-perfect-nerdish-fantasy/

And with Sourdough, Sloan's second book, he took that same fascination with the numinous (and with nerdy, obsessive hobbies) to the microscopic plane, with a tale of microorganisms and mystery:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/05/sourdough-a-delicious-story-about-nerdism-and-the-flesh-by-robin-mr-penumbra-sloan/

Moonbound delivers Sloan's third – and best! – fusion of fantasy and science fiction, delving deep into the meaning of personhood, language and moral agency with a road-trip story that visits a dazzling collection of wildly imaginative settings and societies in an epic quest to slay the dragons on the moon.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/11/penumbraverse/#middle-anth

#pluralistic #books #reviews #robin sloan #solarpunk #science fiction #biotech #gift guide #sf #bildungsroman

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slytherinspired · 4 months ago

Text

Yet - A Remus Lupin Imagine (smut)

Following the same story and universe as Tell Me About series! Here I am... 10 years later?

Remus stood before the counter, his hands trembling with a desperation he struggled to suppress. His clothes, worn and faded, hung loosely on his frame. His voice, when it came, was loud yet strained, as if it had been dragged from a place of deep frustration. The clerk in front of him sat behind a towering mahogany desk, her fingers moving in swift, precise gestures, as though casting spells without a wand. Her face was pale and angular, softened only by the shadow of dim candlelight that flickered along the Ministry’s endless corridors. The clerk was dressed in the neat, sober attire of Ministry officials, a crisp grey uniform with silver buttons that reflected the cold, bureaucratic glow of the room. Her brown hair was pinned back tightly, not a strand out of place, except for a thin streak of white that curled at her temple.

“You don’t understand!” he shouted. The words felt twisted, as if they fought to balance on the edge between civility and rage. The witch behind the counter flinched but remained still, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk. She had no more to offer him than the faint apology etched into her expression. “I need to work.”

He needed the money. That need pulsed in the room like a living thing, thickening the air between them. But all she could offer was silence, her eyes downcast, her hands empty. Papers floated softly to her from unseen corners, filing themselves with barely a flick of her wrist. Behind her desk, a charmed quill wrote furiously on a long parchment, recording the day’s tasks with an efficiency that bordered on eerie.

“Like I told you –” she said, “Mr Collins needs help with his books, but I don’t have anything else right now for you.”

Remus shook his head. “Mr Collins won’t work with me. You know it.”

There it was—unspoken but palpable. The reason why each request was met with hesitance, each job prospect slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He didn’t need to say it aloud anymore; the label had been burned into his very being. Werewolf. In the wizarding world, it was more than a condition—it was a curse. Few wanted to hire a werewolf. The fear lingered in every interaction, no matter how mundane. The Ministry had their own discreet policies on “dangerous creatures”.

“I am sorry, Mr Lupin.” Her voice was smooth and low, tinged with the practiced indifference of someone who had seen many come and go from the Ministry’s endless halls. Her brown eyes showed nothing but disinterest. “Just come back next week.”

“I’m here every week,” he sighed, “asking you for work, and each time it is the same. Why don’t you send me an owl if there’s something in the meantime? It would spare me from having to come here and bother you.”

The witch raised her eyebrows and smiled mockingly. “Oh? And to what address should I send it?”

She knew too well he didn’t have an address. He lived in his damn car – had been living in it for months now. The Ministry’s endless red tape, combined with the stigma of his condition, had shut every door before him. Each job interview, each opportunity, crumbled the moment his lycanthropy was mentioned or even hinted at. It was as if the wizarding world had no place for him outside the fringes of society.

He turned away without bothering to say goodbye. There was nothing for him there.

Finding work in the Muggle world had proven just as impossible. At first, it seemed like an escape—no one in the Muggle realm knew about werewolves, and the Ministry couldn’t interfere as easily. But even there, he couldn’t outrun his condition. Each month, as the full moon approached, he would feel the familiar dread tightening in his chest. He couldn’t just call in sick for three days without raising suspicion, and disappearing every month had quickly made him unreliable. Employers grew wary, questioning the strange absences. He had been let go from more jobs than he cared to remember, dismissed for being "untrustworthy" or "inconsistent."

Remus had been careful with the modest inheritance his parents had left him, stretching every Galleon to make it last. For a time, it allowed him to rent a small flat near Diagon Alley, a place where he could be somewhat connected to the magical world. But even that fragile stability crumbled after two years, when Mrs. Daisy, his elderly neighbour, had complained to the landlord, claiming she didn’t feel safe living next door to a werewolf. No one had said it outright, but the eviction notice came soon after.

Afterward, he managed to find a tiny studio in London, outside the magical community, but the rent required sterling pounds, not Galleons, and even without his affliction, finding work in the Muggle world have proved nearly impossible without the proper credentials. He had no Muggle schooling, no tangible proof of any experience, and no one was willing to take a risk on a man with an incomplete story. For a brief spell, he worked at a small café, washing dishes in the back, but his frequent absences around the full moon quickly made him expendable. “It’s just not working out,” his manager had said, barely meeting his eyes as he handed over the final pay check.

After that, it had been a string of odd jobs—cleaning homes, scrubbing cars, whatever he could find that didn’t require questions or paperwork. But even those jobs dried up after a few months, the repeated absences stacking up like a curse he couldn’t escape. It didn’t matter how hard he worked or how much he tried to hide his condition; sooner or later, the same pattern emerged. He’d disappear for a few days, recover in secret, and by the time he returned, the whispers had already started. They always ended the same way: with him packing his few belongings and moving on to the next temporary refuge, the shadows of his secret following him wherever he went.

But then, happier days came. And he embraced them as much as he could.

Mr. Collins had been one of the rare few to take a chance on Remus, inviting him into his home with little fuss or prying questions. The old wizard had an impressive collection of books and papers in desperate need of organization, and Remus had relished the work. The house itself felt like a sanctuary—a sprawling estate tucked away from the bustling wizarding world, with its heart being the grand library that stretched wall to wall with ancient tomes and fragile manuscripts. For six peaceful months, Remus had lived there, surrounded by books, his evenings filled with the quiet companionship of Mr. Collins. They would often sit by the fire, sipping tea or scotch depending on the mood, talking about the wizard’s past adventures and far-flung travels. Remus had almost allowed himself to believe that he had found a place where his affliction didn’t matter.

Everything changed overnight.

The trouble had started with a routine trip to the Ministry to pick up his Wolfsbane Potion. With the full moon only days away, Remus needed it to maintain control during his transformation. But that day, there had been none. The Ministry’s supplies had run dry, and in a rising panic, Remus went to every apothecary in Diagon Alley, pleading for them to brew it for him. The answer was always the same—there was no Wolfsbane to be had, not until a delayed shipment of rare herbs arrived. Desperation clawed at him as the full moon loomed closer.

When the night finally came, Remus did the only thing he could—he locked himself in the cellar beneath the guest house on Mr. Collins’ estate, far away from the main house and anyone who could be harmed. He chained himself tightly, trying to prepare for the agonizing transformation. But without the Wolfsbane, Remus knew that the wolf was savage, uncontrollable. As the change tore through his body, so too did the creature’s instincts, stronger than any chain he had prepared. The bonds snapped, and the beast roamed the grounds, its hunger and rage unleashed. The wolf howled to the moon, its cries cutting through the still night air as it hunted the estate, searching for prey.

Mr. Collins’ housekeeper had been outside that night, restless and unable to sleep. She had been wandering through the gardens when the wolf appeared, a massive shadow with glowing eyes. In a split second, it lunged. Only the quick intervention of Mr. Collins, who had been awakened by the howling, had saved her. He subdued the wolf before it could do any real damage, but the incident left its mark.

The next morning, Remus awoke in human form, bruised, aching, and filled with dread. He didn’t need to hear Mr. Collins' words to know what was coming. When he entered the kitchen, his pay was already waiting for him on the counter, along with a leather trunk packed with his few belongings. On top of the trunk rested a book from Mr. Collins' private collection—Remus's favourite, one he had admired during his long nights in the library. The wizard had even engraved the trunk with Remus’s initials, a final gesture of parting kindness.

Beside it, a note in Mr. Collins’ elegant script read simply: Thank you for your service.

It was over. Whatever peace he had found there was gone, lost in a single night.

When Remus came back to London, the weight of his situation bore down on him like a suffocating fog. He needed a place to live, but the few Galleons he had saved were barely enough to cover the cost of a small studio, let alone food and the Wolfsbane Potion that he relied on every month. He ran the calculations over and over in his head—if he paid for rent, he’d only have enough to survive for a couple of months before everything dried up.

That was when he met a young wizard at the Leaky Cauldron, selling an old, battered car for next to nothing. The decision had been easy. The car was cheaper than rent, and living in it meant he could stretch his money long enough to eat and scrape by while searching for work. So, Remus took it, and for two months now, the car had become his home—an old, rusting shelter parked in the backstreets of Muggle London. But work never came. Not for someone like him.

Each Friday became a routine of survival. Remus would head to the Leaky Cauldron, where the kindly innkeeper allowed him to sit down with a free bowl of soup and a cup of tea. Sometimes, if the inn wasn’t fully booked, he was even allowed to use one of the rooms to take a hot shower, a luxury he was rarely afforded. Those brief moments of warmth and comfort were fleeting, but he clung to them like a lifeline.

After his shower, he’d walk back to the Ministry, heading straight to the Wizarding Work Bureau, where hope flickered and died week after week. Every Friday, he found himself standing before the same brown-haired clerk. And every Friday, her reply was the same: nothing new, no work available. The expression on her face was always tired, indifferent. Remus couldn’t blame her—his situation was just another file in a growing stack. Another life falling through the cracks.

He’d leave the bureau and step into the great hall of the Ministry, watching witches and wizards bustling about their business, oblivious to the fact that his world was crumbling. He wondered sometimes if he could even blame them. After all, his affliction was real, dangerous, and he understood their fear. But understanding didn’t make it easier to live with. He had grown thinner, his clothes hung loosely on his frame, and his face had become gaunt, his eyes shadowed by dark circles that deepened with each restless night spent in the backseat of his car. At just 28, streaks of grey had already woven through his hair, and he looked older than his years—like the ghost of the man he had once been.

He was about to leave the Ministry, ready to disappear into the crowded streets once more, when something stopped him. A glimpse of black hair. For a moment, he thought he was imagining it—his tired mind playing tricks on him—but then he saw her again.

Eliana.

It all came rushing back to him in an instant, as if the past had never let him go. Eliana had arrived at Hogwarts during their sixth year, transferring from an old, distinguished town in Italy. Her beauty had been striking—impossible to ignore—and it wasn’t long before she caught the attention of everyone. Sirius, however, had despised her from the moment he noticed the colour of her tie. Ellie and her younger sister had been sorted into Slytherin. But Remus had seen the look in his friend's eyes, the disdain that masked something deeper.

It wasn’t just the house she’d been placed in; it was the undeniable pull she had over him. She was one of the most captivating girls Remus had ever laid eyes on, and though Sirius never admitted it, Remus knew he felt the same. They had fought constantly—Sirius and Eliana—bickering in the halls, trading insults in class, to the point where even the professors made a point of keeping them apart.

But everything shifted that summer. Sirius had run away from his family, severing ties with the House of Black once and for all. When they returned to Hogwarts for their final year, something about him had changed. Remus noticed how Sirius’s silver eyes lingered on Ellie now, no longer filled with resentment, but something softer. By Christmas, they were holding hands, sitting together at meals, whispering in quiet corners. They were inseparable, and it wasn’t long before everyone was talking about how perfect they were for each other—two rebels who had found solace in each other’s arms.

Everyone agreed they were made for each other—everyone except Eliana’s family. Her parents couldn’t accept that their eldest daughter, heir to an old and revered lineage, was in love with the disowned son of one of the most infamous wizarding families. The Blacks may have been prestigious, but Sirius’s rebellion had tarnished their name in the eyes of the pure-blood elite. Yet, despite the tension, Eliana stood by him. She had promised that one day, she would confront her family, make them understand. But that day never came.

Everything fell apart. Darkness had crept into Sirius’s world, and when Remus told Eliana what he had done, to Peter and James – and Lily, the crimes he’d committed, she refused to believe it. She couldn’t. They fought—terribly, violently—words flung at each other like curses. A month later, she disappeared. Without a word, she left, and no one knew where she had gone. Remus had tried to reach her, sending letters to her parents, even tracking down her younger sister, begging for answers. But there had been no replies, just silence. A year later, he found out her family had sold their house in London. Ellie had vanished from his life, as though she had never existed at all.

She left the Ministry, and Remus followed, keeping his distance, too afraid to call out, too afraid to shatter the fragile image of her that had lingered in his mind for years. What if she wasn’t the same? What if the Eliana he remembered—the one who had disappeared so suddenly—was gone, replaced by someone colder, more distant? Her hurried steps echoed in the quiet streets until she reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron. Remus watched from the shadows as she slipped inside. He hesitated for a moment, then followed.

She made her way to the bar, her movements quick and deliberate. He stayed back, watching, listening, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard her voice, unmistakable even after all these years.

“Fire whiskey, please.”

That voice—it sent a shiver through him. It was hers, no doubt about it. He could have recognized it anywhere.

He stood at a distance, watching as she downed the glass in one swift gulp, her fingers gripping the empty glass as if trying to hold on to something far more elusive.

“One more,” she said, her voice steady, but there was an edge to it—something raw and unguarded.

The bartender frowned but obliged, pouring another glass. She tossed it back just as quickly.

“In fact,” Eliana said, placing a piece of gold on the counter, “just give me the whole bottle.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Careful with that,” he warned. “It’s strong.”

She scoffed. “Strong is exactly what I need right now.”

She grabbed the bottle and turned—only to find herself face-to-face with Remus. Their eyes locked. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, suspended in the charged space between them. The bottle slipped from her grasp, but before it could hit the floor, Remus caught it with a quick flick of his hand.

“Careful with that,” he echoed the bartender's words, offering her a small, shy smile as he handed the bottle back to her.

Eliana stood there, stunned, her expression unreadable. She blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then turned back to the bar, grabbing an empty glass. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and finally spoke.

“Shall we... sit?” she asked quietly.

Remus frowned, feeling a twinge of disappointment. He hadn’t expected her to rush into his arms, not after everything, but he hadn’t expected her to be so... indifferent. They found a quiet, dimly lit corner, away from the crowd, and sat down. The air between them felt thick, like an unspoken question hanging there, unanswered.

“I didn’t know you were in London,” Remus said, breaking the silence. His voice was softer than he intended, as if he feared that if he didn’t speak, she might vanish again.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” she replied, pouring the fire whiskey into two glasses and sliding one toward him.

He took it, feeling the warmth of the liquid as he sipped, the heat spreading through his chest. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I arrived yesterday,” she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Remus frowned. “Do you come to London often?”

Her eyes stayed fixed on her drink. “First time in five years,” she muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to ever come back.”

That, he had guessed.

“So, why are you here?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the years between them.

She took another sip, her gaze distant. “It’s Clara’s birthday. I came to visit her.”

“Clara’s in London?” Remus was genuinely surprised. Eliana’s younger sister had left the city around the same time she did.

“She’s been here for two years now,” Eliana replied, finally looking up at him. “She studied healing in America, but she got an opportunity to be a resident at St. Mungo’s.”

Remus felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t known. He’d never seen Clara in all this time, never even heard whispers of her name.

“Usually, she comes back to Italy for her birthday, but this year she’s on call, so I thought I’d surprise her,” Eliana continued, her voice quieter now, as if the weight of everything was pressing down on her.

“And you?” Remus asked, his voice low. “You’re in Italy now?”

She nodded, but there was no warmth in the gesture. He had thought she had returned to her family after leaving London, but he didn’t know where nor did he have the means to search for her. Over time, he had accepted that she was gone, that she didn’t want to be found.

“I looked for you,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The first year. I wrote to your parents. They sold the house, and I couldn’t find where you had gone. I wanted to write, but—”

Eliana reached out, her hand resting on his. The touch was sudden, unexpected, and he nearly flinched from the warmth of it. He hadn’t felt her touch in years.

She used to be so kind to him. They’d study together when Sirius was too tired to care. They’d spend whole nights in the library, preparing for the next test. Often, they’d compare their answers and have burst of laughs. And when she had guessed his condition, she never pulled back, on the contrary, she used to help him and the boys prepare for the full moon. She took care of him after, bringing him hot chocolate the following mornings after a transformation.

“I left for a reason, Remus,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of something final, something unspoken. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly.

She looked away, her fingers slipping from his hand as quickly as they had touched it. Remus could see the hurt in her eyes, the grief she had carried for so long. She had been mourning—Sirius, their future, everything she had lost—but was it enough to leave without a word? Was the pain of losing Sirius worth abandoning everything else?

She didn’t answer the question burning on his lips, but she took his hand, her touch soft, hesitant. “I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered.

He knew she had been angry—angry with him for not believing in Sirius’s innocence, for standing against her when she had tried so hard to defend the man she loved. Their last conversation had been bitter, sharp words exchanged like hexes. She had called him a horrible friend, accused him of betraying Sirius’s memory, of believing that his best friend could be capable of murder and treachery. And he, in his grief, had thrown her words back at her, refusing to believe that she could still defend the man who had killed Peter, who had betrayed James and Lily’s trust. Who had made his own godson an orphan.

Remus shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. “I didn’t mean to either.”

She laughed softly, but it was a sad, hollow sound. She pulled her hand away, running her fingers nervously through her dark hair. “I didn’t plan on seeing you again,” she admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“You must have known I wasn’t far...” he replied quietly, studying her face, trying to read the thoughts behind her guarded expression.

She shrugged, her lips curving into a faint, almost wistful smile. “To be honest, Remus, I thought you’d have left London by now. You never liked it here.”

She was right, of course. He had always craved the quiet solitude of the countryside, the peace it offered compared to the chaos of city life. But circumstances had tied him to this place. “I don’t really have a choice at the moment.”

Eliana’s gaze flickered with curiosity, but she didn’t push. She could see the weariness in his face, the gauntness in his frame, and he didn’t want to burden her with the details of his life. Not after all this time.

“So,” he said, changing the subject as he poured them another round of fire whiskey, “what are you doing now, back home?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. “I’m a barrister,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady.

Of course she was, Remus thought. She had always had a fierce sense of justice, always fighting for the underdog. It seemed fitting. She studied him with a small, knowing smile. “It suits me, don’t you think?”

She had not been able to fight for Sirius.

Remus smiled back, but there was something faint about it, as if he couldn’t quite summon the warmth he used to feel. “And are you happy?” he asked, his eyes falling to her left hand, where he had noticed the glint of a ring earlier.

Eliana glanced down at the ring, as if surprised to see it there herself. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I am.”

“He’s a lucky man,” Remus said, his tone genuine, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Her expression faltered for just a moment, her gaze clouding over with something unreadable.

They talked for what felt like hours, dancing around the past, avoiding the name that hung between them like a shadow. They didn’t dare speak of Sirius, both too afraid that the mention of him would reignite the pain and bitterness that had driven them apart all those years ago. Eliana tried, more than once, to ask about Remus—how he was really doing—but it was clear she already knew. She could see the struggle etched into his skin.

At one point, she offered to order dinner, but Remus refused, his pride too strong to accept her charity, especially from her. He could feel her pity, and he hated it. The night wore on, and eventually, Ellie glanced out the window, watching as the sky darkened and snow began to fall, dusting the streets in a soft, silent white.

“I should go,” she said, standing up reluctantly.

Remus rose with her. “Let me walk you outside,” he offered.

She shook her head. “There’s no need.”

But Remus reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His eyes locked onto hers, his voice low and serious. “If this is the last time I see you, Ellie, at least let me walk with you. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye last time.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Outside, the air was crisp, the snowflakes catching the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the street. The festive scene felt oddly out of place, the cheerful lights at odds with the heaviness between them. Eliana walked beside him in silence for a while, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“Are you living far from here?” she asked, glancing sideways at him. “I’m just around the corner. Maybe we could walk together?”

“I’m fine,” Remus said, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She stopped, then, looking up at him with concern. Before he could protest, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume, a familiar comfort from a time long past.

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Her green eyes shimmered with tears, and for a moment, Remus felt something in him break.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said lightly, scoffing to cover the ache in his chest. He pointed to the old red car parked just a few feet away. “I’ve got all I need.”

Eliana pulled away from him, frowning as she walked up to the car, her brow furrowed. “Is this... yours?”

“Not bad, eh?” Remus said with a laugh, trying to brush it off.

But it was absurd. She came from a world of wealth and privilege, and here he was, trying to play off the fact that he was living out of a beat-up car.

“Well, it’s got style, I’ll give you that,” she said with a soft smile, but then her expression shifted. She peered through the windows of the car, her face growing serious.

“Remus,” she asked, her voice quiet, “are you... living in your car?”

He sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “It’s just temporary,” he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them.

Eliana stepped closer, her hand finding his once again. Her face was filled with concern, the same look she used to give him at Hogwarts, whenever she worried for his well-being.

All those years, always worrying about him.

And here she was, still doing it.

She wore the same worried look when Sirius would show too much affection towards her in front of him. She always glanced at Remus, a quick look to make sure he was alright. And every time, he ignored it—ignored that pitiful gaze he despised so much.

“Let me show you something,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

She took his hand, and together they walked through the blurry, illuminated streets. The night felt strange, the lights of the city glowing brighter than usual, casting everything in an almost dreamlike haze. They stopped in front of an old Victorian building, its weathered brickwork speaking of better days. Without a word, Eliana opened the front door, and Remus stepped in, his heart heavy but his feet following her without hesitation.

The entrance led through a narrow, dimly lit hallway with a winding staircase, where the sounds of distant conversations echoed faintly from above. Inside, the flat was modest but charming. Tall sash windows framed the streets below, and the living room, with its classic crown mouldings, felt warm despite the unused fireplace. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

“Clara’s rented this place when she came back to London,” Eliana said as she flicked on the lights with a casual wave of her hand. “But she moved in with her partner six months ago, so now she just uses it as storage. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable.”

“It’s nice,” Remus murmured, still standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Ellie frowned and gestured for him to come in properly. “Please, make yourself at home.”

Remus cleared his throat and stepped further inside, still cautious, as if he were afraid he might knock something over or leave a mark where he didn’t belong. Eliana removed her black cloak, revealing an all-black outfit underneath. The simplicity made her seem almost otherworldly in the soft light.

“There’s a small living room here, the kitchen’s just over there,” she said, pointing to a tiny space to her right. “An office through that door, and a decent-sized bedroom next to it. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

As she spoke, Remus couldn’t help but wonder why she was describing all this to him. This was the kind of flat he couldn’t even dream of renting. He wasn’t sure why she had brought him here—until he felt something cold press into his hand. Looking down, he saw a key.

“What—”

“Clara’s moving to France in a couple of months,” Eliana explained, cutting him off before he could protest. “There’s still two years left on the lease, and it’s a nightmare finding someone reliable to sublet. The owner’s a witch who only rents to people like us. It would be a waste to leave it empty when I know you could use it.”

Remus shook his head, immediately trying to hand the key back to her. “I can’t accept this. It’s a kind offer, but—”

“But what?” she interrupted; her tone sharp but not unkind. “It’s almost winter, Remus. You can’t live in your car. I won’t allow it.”

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it. “You haven’t cared where I’ve lived for the last five years. Why now?”

The words sounded harsher than he had intended, but he couldn’t take them back.

Eliana didn’t flinch. She didn’t even seem angry, just... resigned. “I understand why you’d feel that way,” she said softly. “I know I’ve hurt you, but believe me, Remus, I didn’t want to leave you behind like that. It wasn’t just my choice.”

“Then why did you?” His voice was low, but the question cut through the space between them like a knife.

She sighed, running a hand through her long hair. “I was angry. Angry that you could believe such awful things about him.” She didn’t dare speak his name. “I needed you to fight with me, to at least give him a chance, to hear his side of the story. And when you didn’t... I felt like I was losing everything. You didn’t just turn your back on him—you left me alone too.”

Remus closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stave off the familiar sting of guilt. It was the same argument they’d had all those years ago, and yet here it was again, haunting them both.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend you needed. I’m sorry I abandoned you.” He held out the key again, offering it back. “But I can’t accept this, Ellie. I don’t need your pity.”

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Pity?” she echoed. “Is that really what you think this is?”

What else could it be?

“You’ve always tried to protect me,” Remus said quietly, his voice strained. “Even back at Hogwarts. I know you knew... how I felt.”

He hesitated, but there was no need to finish. She knew. She had always known how he felt—how much he wished she didn’t love Sirius the way she did. And how much he wished Sirius didn’t love her back just as fiercely. They were soulmates, and it had always crushed him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“This isn’t pity, Remus,” she said, sitting down on the couch, her fingers pressing into her temples as though she could push away the weight of the conversation. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “It’s care. It’s love. I can’t stand the idea of you being homeless, living in your car. I had no idea things were this bad.”

Remus sighed, his exhaustion overwhelming him. He sat down too, sinking into the cushions beside her, his body heavy with the burden of everything left unsaid.

“Has it been this way since I left?” she asked, her gaze fixed on him.

He shook his head, not wanting her to carry the full weight of his struggles. But he didn’t have the strength to lie, either. The truth was somewhere in between, and as they sat in the quiet flat, the years of pain and silence between them felt heavier than ever.

“It was fine for a while,” he began, hesitating. “But being what I am… you know. People fear me. They’re right to.”

Eliana edged closer, her expression softening as she reached for his hand. “No one should fear you.”

Remus gave a hollow laugh. “I’m a monster, Ellie. Quite literally.”

Her hand moved to his chin, gently turning his face toward hers. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You are not a monster. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever known.”

“Kindness doesn’t matter much when I turn into a wild animal every full moon,” he muttered, eyes drifting to the window. “Even with wolfsbane, I’m just a shadow of myself, too drained to do anything but exist.”

His gaze traced the night sky, as if searching for answers in the stars. “It’s coming again… two days from now. I’m already worn out. Everything hurts.”

Eliana’s voice broke as she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

“It is what it is,” Remus replied, standing slowly and moving toward the door.

“Stay,” she called after him, her voice trembling.

He paused, eyes closing against the weight of her plea.

“Please, Remus,” she said again, stepping closer. “Let this be your home, just for a while. Let me give you a chance to rest, to not worry about where you’ll sleep tomorrow.”

His heart clenched painfully. He turned to her, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “There’s only one thing I want, Ellie,” he whispered. “Don’t leave. I can’t be alone anymore. I need a friend.”

He broke down, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. Eliana was at his side in an instant, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I can’t stay, Remus,” she said softly.

He looked down, his heart sinking further. He knew she had a life elsewhere, with someone waiting for her. Someone she loved.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice hollow.

Ellie gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t want to see you again,” she admitted, her gaze locking with his. “I was terrified of this moment…”

“Am I that frightening?” he tried to joke, though his heart wasn’t in it.

She traced the scar on his face with a gentle touch. “Not at all,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’re everything but.”

Her hand lingered on his skin, their faces now inches apart. Remus felt the pull, the uncontrollable urge rising within him, the wildness that came with the moon. But he fought it, grounding himself in the moment.

When she kissed his other cheek, the rawness of it nearly undid him. Her breath warmed his neck, and before he could stop himself, he leaned into her, eyes closed against the flood of desire.

“Ellie…” he murmured, his control slipping.

“This is the last time we’ll see each other,” she whispered against his skin. “Don’t ruin it.”

Her hands found his bare skin, fingers tracing the edge of his shirt, moving lower. His mind spun. He felt as though he were betraying the memory of his lost brother, but the weight of her closeness, the tenderness he had craved for so long, was too much to resist. If pity was all she had to offer, then maybe… maybe it was enough.

The memory of one past night haunted him—one of those memories that never faded, no matter how much time passed. It was their last year at Hogwarts. The entire school had descended on Hogsmeade for one last wild celebration, all the houses mingling, no divisions, no rivalries—just freedom and exhilaration. Remus had felt it too, for a while, but exhaustion caught up with him before the night was over. He decided to return to the dorms early, slipping away unnoticed, or so he thought.

He hadn’t realized that Sirius and Ellie weren’t with the rest of the group when he made his way back to the Gryffindor Tower. He had planned to take a long bath and go to bed, hoping to escape the noise and chaos that usually drained him.

But when he opened the dormitory door, something stopped him cold.

There, pinned against the wall, was Eliana. Sirius was with her, moving against her, his breath heavy. Her hands had been tangled in his hair, her back arching into him as if seeking more. Remus had frozen. Sirius’s trousers were bunched around his ankles, his shirt barely covering his body, and Ellie—her clothes had been dishevelled, exposing enough for Remus to know what was happening.

He had been wanting to turn around, to give them their privacy, but something held him in place. Ellie’s eyes met his. For a heartbeat, he was sure she saw him. Her lips parted, and for that brief moment, he swore there was something more than surprise in her gaze. Was it… desire? For him?

No, he had imagined it.

Shaken, he had flown back to the common room, trying to focus on a book, anything to erase the scene from his mind. Half an hour later, Sirius and Ellie had reappeared, laughing as though nothing had happened. Sirius joked about Remus turning in early, while Ellie said nothing, avoiding his gaze completely. He had never brought it up. He convinced himself it was a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. Surely, she hadn’t seen him at all.

And now, with a broken heart and trembling hands, he gave in.

She was kissing him, and as he pressed his body against hers, he couldn’t help but recall that night—couldn’t help but recreate the image of her against the wall, except this time, it was him pinning her there. His breath came ragged in her ear, and he fought to keep control. He had imagined this for so long—what she might taste like, how her body would feel wrapped around him.

Ellie unbuckled his belt, her hands steady, as his trousers fell to the floor. When she pulled off her shirt, revealing herself to him, he couldn’t breathe. She was perfect. More perfect than he had ever dared to imagine.

For so long, he had envied Sirius, envied him for knowing her in ways Remus never would. But now, with her in front of him, he felt a shame deeper than anything he had known.

But the desire, the wildness in him, wouldn’t be silenced. He bent to kiss her skin—her lips, her neck, her collarbone—his breath hot and uncontrolled. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was something primal, something desperate. Ellie tilted her head back, and he slid his mouth lower, removing the last barrier of clothing between them.

When his lips found the warmth between her legs, her quiet moan broke the silence, sending a shiver down his spine. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue moved between her folds, tasting her. She moaned again, her fingers gripping him tighter, and for a moment, he forgot everything. Forgot who he was, forgot who she was. All that mattered was the taste of her, the feel of her skin under his tongue.

He could stay like this forever, he thought. But the ache between his own legs, the pressure building inside him, refused to be ignored. He stood, lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the couch. Ellie’s legs parted without hesitation, inviting him in. He saw that same look in her eyes—the one he had seen all those years ago. Perhaps, he hadn’t been imagining it after all.

His breath hitched as he nudged at her entrance, and when he pushed into her, they both let out a gasp—surprise and pleasure all at once. He moved slowly at first, trying to remind himself to be gentle, to be soft. But he couldn’t hold back. Not with her. He wanted to feel her completely, to lose himself in her warmth.

Her moans grew louder as he quickened his pace, the sound of his body moving against hers driving him to the edge. She arched beneath him, her breasts rising and falling with each thrust, and he was lost—growling low in his throat, forgetting everything but this moment, this need.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, harder now, his humanity slipping away. And then, he felt her tighten around him, her body trembling with the release he had been chasing.

With her eyes closed, he wondered for a moment if she was thinking of somebody else, of him or the man that awaited her back home.

But Ellie whispered his name in a breathless gasp, and it was all he needed. He followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a moan, his body shaking from the force of it.

For a moment, the world stood still.

As the last waves of pleasure faded, Remus pulled away, his mind reeling. What had he done? His heart pounded in his chest, guilt flooding him as he ran a trembling hand over his face. He wasn’t meant for this—not with her. Not with Ellie. Not with the woman who had once belonged with his best friend.

Eliana leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her voice soft and broken. “I would have loved you so much, Remus… if I hadn’t loved him.”

“I know,” he whispered, his chest tight.

Her words hit him harder than he expected, words he had longed to hear but never allowed himself to hope for. He had known, from the moment they met, that she would always belong to Sirius and Sirius to her. But to hear her say it—it tore him apart.

“In another life, maybe,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He let out a bitter chuckle. “Maybe.”

“I wanted this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hope you did too.”

He looked at her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was beautiful, even in her sadness. But it wasn’t him she loved. It never would be.

“I wish it had been you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“But it’s him,” he replied.

“It’s always going to be him,” she whispered with a trembling voice.

He nodded, understanding in the pit of his stomach. “I get it.”

Ellie touched his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You deserve to be loved, Remus, if only you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Remus closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. It was selfish to want more from her, to ask her to stay. He knew that now. He’d never have her fully, but this—this was something. Wasn’t it better than nothing?

“One day, you’ll meet someone,” she said softly. “Someone who will love you completely, without fear or hesitation. Please, don’t push them away when you do.”

He let out a hollow laugh, the same words James had told him countless times. It had never felt true, and it didn’t now. No one would accept him, not as he was. But he nodded, if only to make her stop crying.

Ellie kissed him once more, her lips lingering for a moment longer than before. “I don’t think our paths will cross again,” she whispered, tears spilling down her face. “It’s better this way.”

Remus shook his head, his heart aching. His eyes pleaded with her. “This is goodbye, then,” he said, his voice breaking.

She nodded. “This is goodbye.”

Defeated, Remus rested his head against the cushion, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. The weight of exhaustion settled over him like a thick blanket. He felt her arms around him, warm and familiar, offering a fleeting comfort. Ellie’s embrace tightened gently, and she pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.

For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, and he let himself sink into that small, stolen tenderness—something he knew would soon slip away.

“I’m sorry you lost the love of your life,” he said, the words catching in his throat.

Remus quietly surrendered to the sleep that had been tugging at him for too long, its embrace pulling him deeper into a long-overdue rest. As the weight of consciousness slipped away, he felt himself sinking, drifting into the quiet abyss where exhaustion finally gave way to peace.

When Remus woke the next morning, soft sunlight filtered through the window, casting a golden glow across the room. The duvet from the bedroom had been gently draped over him, a small gesture of care left in the silence. The apartment was still, empty.

Ellie was gone.

Rising slowly, he walked to the kitchen, where a folded note lay beside an envelope. His chest tightened as he opened it, reading the words in her familiar handwriting:

“You’re sorry I’ve lost the love of my life, Remus. But I’m sorry you haven’t met yours.”

He hesitated before opening the envelope. Inside, the key to the flat rested, cold and waiting. Etched into its surface was a single word: "Yet."

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