#anxious yet determined and it's such a strange expression on his face — uncharacteristically nervous and already braced for impact

[rimatsu]

setting pessimism aside to daydream about my ideal bucktommy makeup scenario and i just... keep oscillating between buck extending an olive branch and tommy reaching out first. there's merit in both. yes i'd love for buck to discard passivity and fight for this salvageable relationship — for buck to look tommy straight in the eyes and tell him that his sharp edges and his vulnerable insides don't make him any less deserving of love. that he's not blinded by the excitement of novelty or misguided admiration — even without the full picture, buck has seen enough pieces of the puzzle that makes up tommy's whole to know that he loves the entirety of him, unspoken faults and past sins included. that buck can't guarantee forever but he sure as hell can try to build the sturdy foundation of a shared life based on the hope for more. that sometimes you just luck out on the first draw and there's nothing wrong with good fortune.

but it would also be extremely healing if tommy knocked on buck's door to chase after his own second chance. to say "i want you more than i'm scared of hurting" when buck asks him what's changed in 4 months — because tommy would rather live with scars than be haunted by regrets and what-ifs. because buck is worth the risk of never recovering from having loved him

[makaylajadewrites]

Almost Heaven

Summary: “You’re a very fascinating man, Spencer,” Hotch said simply in response, a suggestive message going unsaid. Reid frowned a bit, looking down to see that his wine was already more than halfway gone. When did that happen?…

This wasn’t mindless sex. This was love, existing between the two of them at degrees unquantifiable by mere human tools. It was perfect, and Spencer tried to imagine the rest of his life without experiencing this moment.

Pairing: Hotch/Reid

Potential tws: Smut, unrequited love, cheating/infidelity, angst

Word count: 3727

Read on AO3 here

--

Hotch had been staring at him all day. He could feel those dark, dangerous eyes tracing the shape of his figure while his nimble fingers worked over the map, pushing in color-coordinated thumb tacks. Red for dumpsites, blue for locations of interest, and black for local hotspots. That was only relevant because their four victims all happened to be teens and young adults, so by determining where they spent most of their time, they might be able to determine the common denominator between each victim.

But he couldn’t concentrate with Hotch’s constant and unwavering gaze. It was enough to make Reid somewhat uncomfortable, and the squeak of weight lifting off of a chair was enough to send a shiver up his spine. He didn’t look back, trying to keep his attention on the map in front of him when Hotch came to stand directly beside him. The lack of space between them was anxiety fueling for Reid, and he slowly turned his head to acknowledge his superior with a quirked brow, though the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth didn’t go unnoticed.

Hotch eyed him with an intense, yet oddly expressive look, and it sent a shiver directly down his spine. “Sir?…” he questioned, his voice cracking from his nerves. They had both been making predictions and voicing theories, and the sudden change from Hotch was a little disconcerting for Reid. He didn’t let it show though, save for the apparent confusion on his face which Hotch barely even paid attention to.

“I have a proposition for you, Spencer,” he said out of the blue, and Reid jerked his head upwards in surprise towards his unit chief, the mere two inch height difference now seeming bigger than ever. He felt small, insignificant beside his superior, but the eye contact between them never wavered.

“A proposition?” he parroted, feeling his heart racing in his chest now, faster than ever before.

“Yes,” Hotch confirmed, his voice low, enough to make Reid aware that he was being quiet on purpose. “After this case… We should blow off some steam together. Maybe some drinks at my place,” he suggested, and Reid swore his eyes had bulged out of his head from the shock of the statement, and a familiar tingling built up in his stomach.

“Wh-Wha-Sir, th-that’s… we can’t—“ Reid’s incessant rambling was cut off by a finger pressing to his lips, and Hotch acknowledged him with a strangely humored quirk of his lips and rise of his brows. Spencer felt his cheeks burn, and the blush on his face and neck was prominent. “Reid, if we aren’t at work, we can be friends. You’re friends with Morgan and JJ right?”

“And Penelope and Emily…” he hummed in embarrassment, and the chuckle that rumbled above him was uncharacteristic enough for Spencer’s eyes to fly upwards again.

“Exactly my point. Relax, it’s not worth stressing over. You can always say no, of course,” Hotch reminded gently, his hand gently coming up to cup the curve of Reid’s elbow, and Spencer couldn’t help the instinctive flinch at the unexpected contact, but Hotch’s hand didn’t move and he felt an odd sense of calm from its stabilizing hold. He nodded and swallowed nervously, forcing a smile on his lips since it was very difficult to tell a man like Hotch no.

That lingered on his mind all day, and Reid found himself both nervous and excited at the prospect of spending time with a man like Hotch.

~

Spencer had known he was abnormal for a long time. Ever since he was a kid, really, since he had never been able to fit in with the others. But that probably had something to do with the age gap between him and his peers, because while Spencer was barely on the cusp of puberty, the teens in his graduating class were nearly full grown adults. They had explored their sexuality, grown into themselves and expanded on their ability to network with others. But Spencer? Spencer was still just a child; he had no idea who he was yet, despite the fact that he could solve the most complicated of equations within a matter of seconds. He was inexperienced even now at the age of twenty-four. He had never kissed anyone before, not a man or a woman.

Aaron was definitely handsome to Spencer, even if he was ten years his senior and, most importantly, married with a baby. But growing up the way he had, he was more accustomed to spending time with people who were older than him, which probably explained why he found older people more attractive. They were mature, grown up, and much more responsible than young adults like himself. Even he was an old soul, preferring a good book and a cup of coffee over blinding club lights and sickly sweet alcohol.

Spencer, despite his participation in sexual activities, liked to identify himself as bisexual. The older he got though, he realized he had a lean towards men over women. Women were pretty, men were handsome, but something about being with a man seemed more appealing to him. A lot of women were attracted to the typical alpha male, and Spencer was honestly no different. He found Derek attractive for one, but they were better off as brothers than lovers. Besides, Derek was as straight as they came, and he couldn’t possibly hold any interest in men, least of all Spencer Reid. But Aaron? Aaron Hotchner was on a whole other level. Even if he was married.

That was probably why Spencer had been able to convince himself that spending time with Aaron might not be so bad. He sat in his car, parked across the street from the Hotchner house while scrubbing his sweaty palms over his dress pants. He still had on his clothes from work that day, although his sweater vest and tie were absent and currently on his bedroom floor. His coat was wrapped around himself, his thick glasses perched on his nose. He was biting his lip, gnawing the sensitive flesh between his teeth while staring at the lighted porch, noticing that only one car was in the driveway - Hotch’s car. This was beginning to look more and more like a suggestive escapade, and he was growing anxious.

He needed to get himself together.

This was just two friends hanging out after work, having a few drinks, doing guy things.

That was all it could be. Hotch wouldn’t cheat on his wife and Reid would never let it get that far.

With a deep breath, Reid got out of his car and stepped foot on the porch, his trembling hand wrapping against the mahogany. God, he was nervous, more nervous than he should have been, and he was afraid of embarrassing himself in front of Hotch, a man he found both attractive and admired deeply. This was a terrible idea, but he didn’t have the chance to back out, because soon, the door opened and there stood Aaron, as casual as could be, wearing a pair of jeans and a dark, v neck tee shirt.

Spencer felt like a fool, more than he ever had in his entire life. He was so insignificant compared to Hotch, even now, outside of work hours. Hotch was a handsome man, married with a kid, he owned a house all his own, a nice car, and still, he could look at Spencer and make him feel things he had never felt before. It frightened him a bit, and it made him somewhat worried about what was to come. He paled in comparison to Hotch, and Reid was definitely feeling that now, dressed like he was while Hotch was as comfortable as could be in normal out-of-the-office attire. He should have just left when he had the chance, just drove away and gone back home where he felt safe in his little bubble with a book and—

“Come inside,” Hotch said as friendly as could be, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. Reid’s lashes fluttered in slight apprehension, but he entered the house and stood awkwardly in the foyer while Hotch closed the door behind him. “I have bourbon and wine. The wine is Hailey’s, but she won’t mind,” he said dismissively, and Reid watched incredulously as Hotch strode across his living room in the direction of the kitchen as if this were the slightest bit normal.

“I-I can do a glass of wine…” he settled eventually, Hotch’s inquisitive stare meeting him from the kitchen.

“Good. Make yourself comfortable,” Aaron said calmly, and even though his nerves were on high alert, Spencer did just that. He slipped his coat off before sitting on the couch, holding it awkwardly in his lap while he waited tensely for Aaron to return. Alcohol was definitely sounding better and better. He needed something to help him relax anyway. Aaron eventually came back, carrying two glasses; wine and bourbon. Spencer took the wine glass hesitantly, and the second their fingers brushed together he felt a spark shoot up his arm, but he knew it had to only be him since Aaron didn’t react at all.

“I’m surprised you came,” Hotch said, sitting beside him on the couch, angled towards him with one of his legs crossed over the other. He regarded Spencer with an expression that was not unkind. In fact, it lingered somewhere near fondness and warmth. Spencer took a sip of the wine, hoping that one drink alone would settle his nerves some.

“Me too, actually,” he murmured rather embarrassedly, and Hotch let another rare smile form on his lips. Spencer smiled back shyly, reaching a hand up to push his bangs back, even though they seemed quite fixed, over his forehead.

“I’m glad you did though,” Hotch countered, and Spencer gulped down another drink before even bothering to think of a response.

“Why?” he questioned then, turning his upper body to face Aaron, his brows raised a bit since he genuinely was curious as to why Hotch would want to spend time with him of all people. It seemed to him like Hotch would have a much more enjoyable time with someone like Gideon, but for some reason, he was interested in Spencer. He didn’t quite understand it, and regardless of Hotch’s response, he doubted he ever really would.

“Do I have to explain my every motive to you?” Hotch said almost teasingly, and Spencer was realizing how much he liked to see him smile. He looked down and shrugged a bit, a smile lingering on his own face.

“I guess not. I just never would have imagined you would willingly want to spend time with me. Not many people do,” Spencer explained briefly, as deprecating as it was. But it was the truth, and Hotch must realize how odd it was for him to spend time with the young doctor outside of work.

“You’re a very fascinating man, Spencer,” Hotch said simply in response, a suggestive message going unsaid. Reid frowned a bit, looking down to see that his wine was already more than halfway gone. When did that happen?…

“Am I?” He asked, his voice a bit quieter. He looked up towards Hotch again through his dark lashes, and Hotch’s hand slowly came over to rest on his thigh. And the worst part was that it wasn’t unwelcome either.

“You are,” Hotch clarified, his own voice dropping as that hand slowly slid up and up and up to the juncture of his hip and thigh, and then back down to his knee where it squeezed just slightly. Reid’s eyes followed the movement very closely, his tongue flicking out over his lips. He downed the rest of his wine, and Hotch’s hand gently took the glass from him, setting it aside in favor of touching Reid again.

“We shouldn’t, Hotch,” he said, finding his voice eventually even if it was nearly a whisper. His hand came over top of Hotch’s on his leg, but Hotch didn’t waver at all. “What about Hailey?”

“What about her?” Hotch murmured, and the young doctor gasped in surprise as Aaron’s lips attached to his neck, suckling gently and trailing kisses up to the curve of his jaw, nearing his chin.

“She’s your wife,” Spencer reminded through quiet hums, and Hotch’s hot breath exhaled over his collarbones as he sighed.

“Forget about her,” Aaron murmured, rising his head up and cupping Spencer’s cheek with a warm palm. “Only think about me.”

The second their lips connected, Spencer felt all previous apprehension and hesitance leave his body. He was caught up in a whirlwind of desire and Aaron Hotchner, and although it scared him, he couldn’t back out now. This was happening, and Spencer was enjoying it far too much to even think of pulling away now. Hotch’s lips were warm against his own, and despite his own inexperience, he was guided through his first kiss very carefully and slowly, and he never knew that it could be that nice. “Come here,” he heard in a whisper, and Spencer instantly slid closer, Aaron’s hands leading him gently on top of him. Spencer’s legs straddled Aaron’s lap, and he looked down from his newly elevated position at Aaron’s face. Aaron looked more pleased than ever, his dark eyes locked onto his face while his hands found purchase over his bony hips.

A hand rose to his chin, gripping it gently and bringing him down so that their lips could meet once more. It was brief at first, just a gentle pressure, but soon it turned into something much more. Reid shuffled above Hotch as they kissed, and he moaned into the other man’s mouth as their hips slotted together, their arousals evident to one another. Hotch pulled back slowly, not saying a word as a hand danced down the column of buttons on his shirt, and one by one, they were undone and his chest was bared. Spencer shivered at the warm hands that touched his cool skin, and he felt more alive than he had in a long, long time. A muted moan burned in his throat as fingers flicked over his nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, and Aaron rumbled in laughter beneath him. “Sensitive, hm?” He murmured teasingly, and the younger man bit his lip, nodding his head frantically.

“A-A little…” Spencer confessed embarrassedly, his hands gripping onto Hotch’s shoulders. Hotch didn’t respond immediately, running his fingers over every inch of his torso before stopping suddenly. A hand came to his neck, the thumb brushing over his jaw.

“Bedroom?” He suggested, and despite the moral contradiction raging on inside of Spencer’s head, he nodded his head.

It felt wrong, to be laying half naked in Hotch’s bed where he slept with his wife. But his mind was taken elsewhere as a hand swiftly undid his pants and slipped inside to pay attention to the heat built up in his groin. Spencer moaned as that hand cupped his arousal, and he gazed up at Hotch, pupils blown wide with lust and kiss-swollen lips parted erotically. Hotch must have liked what he saw, because he loomed over him and bowed his head for their lips to meet once more, his hand fondling his cock through the wet fabric of his boxers.

“Oh god,” Spencer heard himself breathe, the friction of his boxers over the head of his erection enough to send him over the edge. He whimpered, evidence of his climax now coating the inside of his boxers. His face glowed red in embarrassment, but Hotch didn’t view him with any negative judgement. Instead, he smiled and slipped his hand out of his pants, stroking down his side and letting his fingers dip into every indent of his ribcage. Spencer panted quietly, looking away to hide his shame.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t apologize,” Hotch said without missing a beat, licking his lips, “You are gorgeous, Spencer.”

Spencer’s eyes widened a bit, and he grasped onto the front of Hotch’s shirt to drag him upwards, craving his attention once more. He had yet to initiate a kiss on his own, but he did this time, and while it was a bit sloppy, it was still passionate. Hotch didn’t seem to mind either, moving to take off Reid’s pants and soiled underwear. He pushed them over the edge of the bed before returning his focus to Spencer’s now bare body. They both moved back from the kiss, and the young doctor pouted a bit beneath Aaron, his lanky legs spreading almost on instinct while his arms dropped to rest over his head. “I don’t like being the only one naked,” he hummed, and Aaron chuckled, leaning in to kiss his cheek almost affectionately.

“I guess we’ll have to change that then,” he mumbled, sitting up on his knees between Spencer’s thighs and slipped his shirt off over his head, his toned abdomen making Spencer feel so small yet again. Hotch’s pants and underwear soon followed, and Spencer bashfully looked over Aaron’s body, his own insignificance shining through to him, although he didn’t bother to voice it. It was too humiliating, and he was just glad that Aaron didn’t seem to think of him that way.

“It’s never too late to say no, Reid,” Hotch reminded him gently but sternly, running a hand up his leg, from his calf to his thigh, and letting it rest there steadily.

“I don’t want to say no,” Spencer admitted, and that was enough for Hotch. He reached over into the bedside table, withdrawing a gold-packaged condom and a bottle of lube. Hotch wasted no time in squirting the lube over his fingers, smirking slightly at Reid as they slipped between his legs. A digit circled his puckered entrance and Spencer gasped at the sensation, looking up at Hotch nervously. Hotch didn’t say anything, but he made sure to maintain eye contact between the two of them. Spencer realized then that this was so much more than a measly one-night stand. This was genuine affection, and Hotch’s gentleness and concern for his wellbeing made him aware of that. That didn’t mean this was any less wrong.

A finger slipped in slowly, twirling against his tight walls in hopes of helping him relax. Spencer took a deep, shaky breath, exhaling slowly to aid that process, and soon, one finger turned into two. Aaron’s other hand had raised to his cock by then, pumping him slowly while his fingers scissored open his hole. Spencer was not a quiet man in bed, he had learned. He was very vocal, very responsive, and that seemed to egg Hotch on more.

A third finger breached his entrance soon thereafter, a breathless moan passing Reid’s lips. Hotch brought one of his legs over his shoulder, pressing kisses to the side of his kneecap while his fingers slid in and out of his ass with audible wet noises. Before Reid could slip over the edge again, Hotch’s hand stilled and he withdrew his fingers, his tight body barely letting them go. Hotch leaned down to press their lips together once more, their foreheads knocking together gently. “Are you ready?” Aaron asked in a whisper, and Spencer quickly bobbed his head yes without even considering the consequences. Aaron made him feel real, and he never wanted that to go away.

It was more painful than Spencer had remembered. His body fell apart in Aaron’s hands, his walls stretching around the other man’s cock as he bottomed out within him. Spencer was already a panting mess, their eyes never straying from one another.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Hotch breathed against his lips, giving Spencer all the time in the world to adjust the intrusion. Spencer had no idea sex could be this good, but Aaron’s constant praises probably had something to do with his new realization. They lazily kissed each other while giving the pain time to subside, and when it did, Spencer’s hand came up to Hotch’s face. The older man instantly moved to press his face further into his palm.

“Move,” Spencer breathed, and Hotch’s hips instantly began to rock back and forth at a slow, steady rhythm, his cock slipping in and out of his body with little resistance. This wasn’t mindless sex. This was love, existing between the two of them at degrees unquantifiable by mere human tools. It was perfect, and Spencer tried to imagine the rest of his life without experiencing this moment. His lips parted, moans slipping from him effortlessly as Aaron picked up the pace, moving much quicker than before and essentially turning Spencer’s brain to mush. This was almost heaven, and even though he was being fucked by a married man, he wouldn’t have it any other way, because this was close as he could get to heaven.

“Aaron… Touch me Aaron,” he begged in between his cries of pleasure, his voice reaching octaves unheard before. Aaron’s hand wrapped around his weeping cock once more, and that was pretty much the breaking point. Less than two minutes later, he was coming hard, sobbing out loud as his release spurted over Aaron’s fingers and onto his own belly. Hotch continued his own movements, gradually growing sporadic while his own grunts and groans grew in volume. Soon, he reached his own climax, milking himself in Spencer’s tightened passage for several thrusts. He pressed kisses across Spencer’s face, their lips meeting on several occasions until he rode out his orgasm, slipping out unceremoniously. He rolled the condom off of his softening cock, reaching over for a few tissues to clean up his younger partner.

He laid down after and gathered the younger man in his arms, a hand rubbing up and down his back. “Good… That was really good,” the older man murmured lowly into his hair, now damp with sweat. Spencer was faced with the realization of his actions, his eyes wide and watery, the emotions coming in shockwaves. Despite this, he huddled further into Hotch’s chest, the older man falling asleep shortly after. The overwhelming feelings of guilt and despair manifested in his very being, tightening his throat and collapsing his lungs until he was caught in a silent fit of sobs besides his temporary lover’s sleeping form.

This wouldn’t last.

It wouldn’t be forever, but perhaps it was never meant to be.

[manage-mischief]

Picture Prefect

Read on AO3 here. 

Author’s Note: So, I’m not really sure I ship Dramione. At least, not in an endgame type of way. But, this idea came to me while rereading Harry Potter for the umpteenth time. I think there definitely could have been more to Draco’s character than was in the books/movies. I felt like it would be interesting to understand Hermione’s relationship to him, and that there was likely a bit of romantic tension/pining that may have been behind some of Draco’s actions/motivations. You know what they say about little boys and pulling girls’ pigtails on the schoolyard. Anyways, this takes place during OoTP, before Dumbledore leaves. This is also my first FF, so I’m still learning. I’ve just always thought about writing something but have been too nervous before now. Any kindfeedback or reviews would be appreciated. Thanks in advance :)

Disclaimer: I’m not J.K. Rowling. I own nothing.

Summary: Hermione goes on evening patrol with Draco Malfoy and things progress quite differently than expected. Secrets, lies, and broom cupboards may be involved.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we,” she sighed as she descended the stairs and laid eyes upon her patrol partner for the evening.

He gave a noncommittal grunt in return. Uncharacteristically pleasant this evening, she noted. Without a word, the pair set off past the Great Hall and got to work.

When Hermione had first discovered she was going to be a prefect for Gryffindor House last summer, she had been thrilled, but not surprised. She had top marks in all of her classes, and a (mostly) clean disciplinary record. Sure, she, Harry, and Ron had had a few run-ins with the wrong side of the law. Still, there was, at least in her humble opinion, no one more qualified for the job. When she found out that Ron would have the job alongside her, she had been that much happier. During the celebration held at Grimmauld Place, she had never felt prouder. Yes, she was an intelligent girl. Yes, she had even scored a date to the Yule Ball with internationally-renowned quidditch seeker Viktor Krum (and had especially enjoyed the look of jealousy and disbelief on Pansy Parkinson’s face, she might add), but this accomplishment somehow carried more weight for her.

Being muggle-born, she knew that there were some who viewed her as unworthy of Hogwarts. Some would even go to unspeakable lengths to try and force her out of the wizarding world—as she had learned the hard way during her bout of paralysis-via-basilisk during her second year. But, here she was: the top of her class, muggle-born prefect. The prefect title meant something. Anyone in her world could understand the accomplishment, and no one could deny her the honor that the title bestowed.

Ok, maybe she was a bit over-enthusiastic about the role. It did seem that, most of the time, she was nothing more than a glorified hall-monitor. Yet, she wore her badge with honor. And, as she and Ron strode towards the Prefects Compartment on the Hogwarts Express on her first day she felt that nothing could have lowered her spirits. That is, however, until she saw him. Her new colleague, leaning against a table with his usual, haughty, I’m-better-than-you-because-I’m-pureblood air, his blond hair standing out in stark contrast with his dark robes with emerald green accents. Draco Malfoy.

And so, this is how she ended up on evening patrol on this otherwise wonderful night with a boy who was, in her opinion, one of the rottenest snakes to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts.

The first time she had met Draco had been on the Hogwarts Express during her first year. Bright-eyed and bushy-haired as ever, Hermione had hugged her parents goodbye and wandered onto the magical locomotive, anxious yet elated. She had been thrown into the magical world so fast. One minute, she had been running from bullies in the park by her house as they called her a freak. The next, she was meeting with a stern-but-kindly witch who explained to her that she was talented and special. Hermione was determined to learn as much as she could about her knew world as fast as she could, so she would be able to prove herself at school. Once she set her mind on something, nothing could stop her.

Armed with countless wizarding books and a new bank of knowledge, she confidently strutted into a train compartment and took a seat. She cheerfully introduced herself to the three other young wizards already occupying the space. The others followed suit. Two large, intimidating boys introduced themselves as Crabbe and Goyle. She was pretty sure those were last names, but had a feeling that prying for more information would be futile, seeing as they had both grunted out one-word answers to her questions and then looked away. They did not seem very bright. The third boy had brilliant blond hair and smiled in a way that made her blush slightly in spite of herself. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure,” he replied with a cheeky grin.

Draco had been overly friendly to respond, and all too eager to converse with Hermione. They asked each other about their wands, their favorite shops in Diagon Alley, and the classes they were most excited to take. “I can’t wait for Transfiguration. I know it’s one of the more difficult branches of magic, but it seems quite fascinating,” Hermione blabbered on cheerfully. She had been very proud of herself for holding her own during this conversation. Her reading and preparation had paid off! Draco seemed to have no idea she hadn’t grown up in a wizarding household.

He smiled at her. “Well, I hope we’re sorted into the same house. It’ll be a shame if I can’t spend any more time with you in the future.” Hermione again blushed. She kind of liked Draco’s cockiness and confidence. “So,” he continued, “where d’you want to be sorted? I know where I’ll be…Slytherin. My family has been in Slytherin for generations,” he remarked, haughtily.

“Oh, I’m not sure I have a strong preference. Although, Gryffindor seems like it would be a good fit. Or Ravenclaw. I guess we’ll see,” Hermione said.

“Where were your parents when they were here?” Draco asked, eagerly.

“Oh…well…they didn’t go to Hogwarts,” Hermione replied. She didn’t know why she didn’t reveal that her parents were Muggles. She wasn’t the least bit ashamed. But, something about the boy’s mention of his Slytherin family heritage made her wary. Hadn’t she read somewhere that Slytherins were obsessed with blood purity? Surely that was ancient history. It couldn’t mean this boy believed that only pureblood witches and wizards were worthy of magical education, right? After all, with such a small portion of the population having magical blood, there must be hardly any purebloods left!

“Oh, so they went somewhere else? Ilvermorny? Durmstrang? My father wanted to send me there, says Hogwarts’ Headmaster is an old crackpot…”

“No, no. They didn’t go to any magical school. They’re muggles,” Hermione interrupted. Immediately, the tone of the conversation took a sharp turn. Crabbe and Goyle both stared at her as if she had grown an extra head. Draco sat up straighter in his seat, and where before there had been a playful look in his eyes, there was now only wide-eyed fear and accusing. “So, tell me, what makes you think you’re worthy to be here, talking about magic to me and my new friends, when your parents are so backward they probably can’t even tell a wand from a stick in the mud?” Draco sneered at her. His two cronies sniggered. Hermione knew she was not welcome anymore. She shot out of her seat, determined not to cry, and stormed out of the compartment. She could hear Draco’s voice in the distance as she quickly scampered away, fuming. “Well, boys, glad we got rid of her, eh?”

Of course, leaving that compartment was the for the best. She had met Neville and, not long after, her future best friends, Harry and Ron. Luckily, not all wizards were as closed-minded as Malfoy had been. She had not let him get to her, and since then, had outperformed him in every class. Still, she always found it strange to reflect back on the one pleasant conversation she had had with him and relate that cute, smiling boy to the absolute toe-rag she knew today.

Speaking of today, it was getting late, and Hermione was becoming fed up, fast. Her and Malfoy had only been patrolling for half-an-hour, yet it felt as if it had been an eternity. They walked in silence, keeping at least a foot’s distance in between them at all times. The corridor was silent. It was shaping up to be a long, dreadfully boring night.

They reached the first-floor bathrooms around 11 o’clock. “I’ll check the girls and you check the boys,” Hermione broke the silence. Malfoy rolled his eyes and sarcastically replied, “no really Granger? What an ingenious idea.” She simply shook her head and went to check for students out of bed. The bathroom was empty.

“Nothing in there.” She saw Malfoy emerge from the boys’ loo across the hall. “Same here.” On they went.

Half of their shift had now passed, and all they had seen was a sleepwalking Ravenclaw first-year, who Hermione had gently guided back to bed. They were passing by the statue of George the Smarmy when suddenly, she heard footsteps. She paused and cocked her head.

“C’mon Granger,” Malfoy sighed. “It’s probably Filtch and Mrs. Norris.”

“Hush!” Hermione hissed. It most certainly was not Filtch. The footsteps clicked, making it clear their owner was wearing high heels. They were approaching fast. She couldn’t ignore her gut feeling that something was amiss. But, what was it? Why did the footsteps sound so familiar to her? “Have you lost your marbles? Let’s go! It’s a professor or someone! Nothing we have to worry about!”

Aha. It was a professor. Of course. That’s why Hermione recognized the footsteps immediately. She could hear in them the haughty sense of purpose that made her loathe Defense Against the Darks Arts classes daily. Umbridge. Just as she could hear the toad-like professor approach their corridor, another pair of footsteps sounded in the distance. Umbridge must have been meeting someone. But who, at this hour?

She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was because she was on edge from all of the secrecy surrounding the DA. Perhaps it was because of the wrenching feeling in her gut that Umbridge was up to more than she let on here at Hogwarts. But, no matter the reason, before she knew it, she was grabbing Malfoy by the front of his robes and pulling him into the nearest broom closet.

“What the bloody hell, Granger?!?” he hissed indignantly. At least he had the sense not to shout. Otherwise, their cover would have been blown. “What’re you playing at?”

“Be quiet,” she shushed him promptly. Quickly, she pulled out the pair of extendable ears she kept hidden in her pockets. As much as she hated to admit it, Fred and George had really hit the mark with their creation. She always kept a pair with her, and had found them to come in handy on many occasions. As she fiddled with the device, Malfoy continued to look at her, wide-eyed. “What the hell are those?!”

“Extendable ears, now, HUSH!” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Extendable what?” “Ears. They let you listen in on other peoples’ conversations without getting caught. Now please kindly shut up so I can hear what’s going on!”

“…in this time of night. I wanted to do this privately. Most students use this corridor to snog without getting caught, so I thought it would do the trick.”

Umbridge’s girly voice echoed. Malfoy was still staring at her with a look of pure confusion.

A private meeting. But with who?

“Of course, Dolores. Do you have any updates?”

The second voice belonged to a man. She knew she had heard it before. But…it couldn’t be…

“Oh my god,” Malfoy whispered, now seemingly as invested in the conversation as Hermione had been. “What’s Fudge doing here?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Fudge. The Minister of Magic. She was sure glad she had had the sense to hide in the cupboard, even if she was a little too close to Malfoy for comfort. She couldn’t have had him running away and blowing her cover.

The pair of them remained quiet, now both eager to hear what was going on.

“Well, Cornelius. I’m afraid matters at Hogwarts are far worse than we feared.”

“How so?”

“Well first of all, there’s the Potter boy. He and his little friends seem determined to undermine my authority at every turn! He has no respect for the Ministry. Always going on about You-Know-Who despite my countless warnings and punishments!”

There was heavy silence for a moment before Fudge spoke again.

“And do the other students believe him?”

“Some do. Others think he’s gone mad. Most don’t know what to think, and it has been hard for me to convince them to take our side, despite our efforts to disparage him in the Prophet.”

“Surely these students have more sense than to believe the word of a 15-year-old boy over the Ministry and the Prophet! Why are we having such difficulty keeping this under control? I thought I could trust you to handle this, Dolores.”

“I…I am doing all that can be done! But that’s the thing. It isn’t just Potter who has been proclaiming the story that You-Know-Who has returned. It’s Dumbledore, as well. It is not so easy to discredit the Headmaster in the Prophet. He is too well known and well respected. Students love him. Which is why I am proposing that we focus our efforts on a new plan.”

“Yes?”

“Removing Dumbledore from this school, and making me Headmistress.”

“That is quite easier said than done, Dolores. You said it yourself, Dumbledore has the respect of the student body, as well as most of the parents, I might add. Implicating him in illicit activity to remove him from Hogwarts will be extremely difficult.”

“We almost got Potter, this summer.”

“Yes, and the fact that those Dementors even showed up in Little Whinging was a happy accident! How can we expect something like that to happen again?  And at Hogwarts, no less?”

“Yes…a happy accident…well. I shall keep my eyes open for any ‘accidents’  that will allow us to relieve Albus from his post. In the meantime, you’d best be heading back to London. It is getting late. But I promise you this, Cornelius. Come hell or high water, I shall make sure Albus Dumbledore never sets foot in this school again. You can count on me.”

“We’ll see, Dolores. Have a good evening.”

Their footsteps echoed down the halls and disappeared into the night.

“I can’t believe it,” Hermione exclaimed. “That conniving little…”

“Blimey Granger. I thought you were intelligent!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. She glared daggers at him, daring him to continue insulting her. He sighed, “Of course the Ministry’s trying to oust Dumbledore! Fudge is scared of him. He thinks Dumbledore’s going to take his job.”

Hermione was taken aback at his words. She had known this information, of course, thanks to her months of living with the Order. Still, she was surprised that Malfoy knew this information, and that he had been so willing to admit it. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Draco couldn’t have come across this information by himself. What was his shifty father telling him?

“Like you even care,” Hermione tersely responded. “You and your father have been trying to get rid of Dumbledore since the day you arrived here! And probably before! You’d just love old Umbridge to become Headmistress and become her little pet.” Ok. Tirade over. Yelling at Malfoy, while satisfying, wasn’t going to do her any good. Hermione knew they should be continuing their patrol. Plus, she wanted to return to the Common Room and fill Harry and Ron in on the evening’s events. Hopefully they’d still be awake…

“You always think you know me, but you don’t.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione whipped her head towards him just before she was about to exit their cramped hiding spot. Had she heard correctly?

Malfoy gave a sad sort of grunt. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether or not he should continue. Hermione continued staring at him intently. She was mystified.

“You and your little Potter Protection Squad. You all always think you know me, know my story, know my life. ‘Oh, Malfoy hates everything good. He’s always out to ruin things for us. He’s a jerk. He’s the enemy. He’s evil,’” he mimicked her in a high-pitched voice. Hermione couldn’t speak, still baffled. He continued.

“For your information, I detest Umbridge just as much as you do. I just know how to be subtle about it. And I know my place. I know what happens to me if I don’t get on her good side. You wouldn’t understand. You’re from a muggle family.”

“You know what, Malfoy? I am absolutely sick and tired of you bringing up my parentage. I have as much of a right to be here as you! And I understand plenty, thank you very much! I am top of our class and work hard to prove myself to intolerant people like you and your family every single day! Don’t you forget you were impressed by me when we met on the Hogwarts Express first year! Impressed by more than just my knowledge of the wizarding world, I might add!” She spit back, her breath labored from the force of her outburst. She could feel her cheeks flushing. It had been an unspoken agreement between them to never mention their first encounter. She could see his face tint red as well.

He stared at her for a moment. Then, without warning, grabbed her by both of her arms and turned her so they were face to face, which was quite cramped due to their inopportune hiding place. His gesture was not threatening, however. He looked sad.

“You don’t understand. I…I sometimes envy that you’re from…well…your background.” He huffed. “I mean being a Malfoy is an honor. People envy me.” His voiced switched back to the shaky timbre it had been. “But…there’s certain…expectations. My family is one of the greatest pureblood lines in wizard history. Malfoy and Black. We have a reputation to uphold. My father reminds me of that every chance he gets.” His face darkened. “I have to hate Dumbledore. I have to be friends with people like Crabbe and Goyle. I have to suck up to Umbridge and support her for headmistress. You don’t understand what happens if I don’t.”

Hermione continued to stare at him. She blinked, trying to understand why and how Draco was capable of showing such vulnerability with her. He searched her face, almost desperately, for a reaction. Hermione softened her face. Perhaps there was more to him than she thought. Maybe he just needed someone to listen. When he realized her receptiveness, he spoke once again.

“Everyone in my family expects me to be like my father. Become a…” he stopped himself. But she knew what he would have said. “Well, become like him,” he carefully worded. “No one has ever asked me what I want to do. And I can’t tell them. I can’t tell my family to shove it…that I don’t want to be part of their circle! That I’m terrified of what’s coming and of what I’ll have to do!” Draco’s voice broke. Hermione remained silent, entranced. Without thinking, she took his hand gently. They both looked down at their hands, now touching. When he spoke again, he refused to meet her gaze.

“My parents were part of an arranged marriage. Even their lives weren’t their own. Everything…every bloody thing that’s ever happened in my life and before has been about blood purity. About money, and power, and respect. They expect me to uphold that tradition. I’ll marry a pureblood girl. I can’t object. I’ll be disowned. Banished. Burned off of the family tree for even thinking about, as they call it, ‘tainting the bloodline.’” He sighed once more. He finally brought his eyes back to meet hers. His stare was intense and a bit frantic. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest and her cheeks growing hot. Who was this boy, and what had he done with the tosser Draco Malfoy? At least she knew how to deal with him when he was being a jerk. But this? This vulnerable Draco standing before her? Her brain could not figure him out.

His voiced softened further. “I’m sorry I’ve called you names. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I truly am.” And then, it rose once more, “But don’t you understand? I have to act this way! You terrify me, Hermione. And…that just…can’t happen. I…I don’t have a choice.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The pressure in her chest was too much to bear.

“Draco. Everyone has a choice,” she whispered, softly, her eyes still locked on his.

He swallowed. Then, he leaned forward, slowly. She could feel her own body move towards his in response. Her heart pounded and her mind went blank as she felt his strong arms wrapping around her and pulling her into a kiss. She pressed into him, her body moving with his in a passionate dance. He ran his hands through her hair. She could feel her pulse rising, heat surging through her body. The pair continued hungrily for a few more moments. Then, as if on a timer, they both regained composure and pulled back from each other, panting. Hermione smoothed out her hair. Draco fussed with his now-disheveled robes. They regarded each other once again, neither sure what to say to the other.

Hermione blinked in a vain attempt to regain focus. She couldn’t deny that had been the most passionate kiss she’d ever received, including those from Viktor—who had more than once professed his love for her. But, she thought to herself, that will never excuse his behavior. He had humiliated and degraded her, time and time again. The names he had called her were almost unforgivable. Had he changed? She couldn’t be sure. But, one late-night encounter in a broom closet was far from enough proof for Hermione. After a few moments of silence, she realized he was waiting for her to speak. To say something about what just happened. Her mind was still racing too fast to latch onto a single thought.

“I’m sorry about your family Draco. That sounds very hard.”

Oh, if she could have kicked herself in the moment! Sorry about your family?!? That sounds hard?!? She felt like a proper wanker! What an idiotic response to what had just happened!

“I wish things were different,” he replied. This shocked her.

“Are you saying you want to be with me?” She inquired.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, almost inaudibly, sheepishly running his hands through his hair.

“Draco,” she sighed. This was all too much information for Hermione to handle. “I’m not sure, either. Thank you for apologizing for calling me those awful names…but…I’m not sure that’s enough. You just said it yourself. Your family life is complicated. I’m sorry. If you ever want to change, to escape, I will be here for you. And, I may even want…this…too. But, I won’t be the girl who you degrade in public and then snog in a broom closet when no one is watching. I don’t deserve that.”

Draco simply stared back at her for a long time. She could tell he was thinking. Would he really say he wanted her? Would he really change? Would she really want to be with him, even if he did? Ugh, Harry always said girls were confusing, but she was beginning to think that boys that were really the ones who were bonkers!

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke once again, “I’m sorry. I just…” he shook his head. He glanced towards the door. “We had better finish patrol and then head to our dorms.” Under his breath, Hermione heard him mutter, “I have a lot to think about.”

Unable to form any intelligible words, she just nodded her head. The pair emerged from their cupboard and set off back down the corridor, as silent as before. When they finally parted for their respective common rooms, they met each other’s gaze once again. Draco smiled softly, “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She gave a tentative smile in return. “Goodnight, Draco.”

As she entered the Gryffindor Common Room, she was deep in thought.

“Oi, Hermione! You’re back late,” Ron shouted to her from the table in the corner, on which Harry and him had stacked piles of books and essays. In the back of her mind, she mentally rolled her eyes. Of course, they hadn’t finished their homework.

“Was patrol with Malfoy as awful as we thought?” She gave a noncommittal sigh which Harry took for annoyance. “That bad, huh? What a git,” he shook his head. He and Ron then launched into a conversation about how much they hated Draco Malfoy. Hermione did not listen. She was still deep in thought, her thoughts swimming as if she were looking at them from the surface of a pensive: slippery and liquid and not quite fully formed.

“You alright, Hermione?” Ron asked, snapping her back to reality.

“Fine,” she answered half-heartedly. “Just dead tired. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

She climbed the stairs to the 5th year girls’ dormitory, and told herself she would tell the boys about Umbridge’s conversation in the morning. Right now, she was too preoccupied with thoughts of a certain Slytherin prefect to think about anything else. As she crawled into bed and closed the curtains of her four-poster, she found herself clinging to a small bit of naive hope. It did seem like Draco was serious when he kissed her. Maybe, just maybe, people could change for the better, even people as entrenched in the pureblood movement as Draco Malfoy.

She should have known it was silly to hope for such things.

[fallinnflower]

hear the sea

joshua x reader (siren!au)

a/n: thanks @kunsdear​ for making sure this got written after i messaged her the plot, because i have a bad habit of not finishing things. inspired by the iconic shot from the “fear” mv seen above.

word count: 4924

You’ve always felt drawn to the ocean. It’s hard to say why — you’re not particularly fond of water, nor are you an avid swimmer. And yet when a storm is brewing the sky and sea into a gray-green, frothing mess, you’ll be the last person to leave the shoreline and the first to scour it after the rain passes. 

It used to be you and your cousins who would run down to the beach, with pails for castles and shells. When you were young, you’d race them to the sandbars and fight for the best goggles so you could see all the fish. You were more adventurous then, before you knew the dangers that lurked there. The sea was cloudy on the day it betrayed you, and when your uncle placed you back on shore you watched the blood from the mysterious cut on your foot stain the sand, and a fear gripped your young heart that even as an adult you couldn’t shake. 

And so you stay away from the water. You steal the treasures the ocean spits up in its vulnerable moments, and put the trophies on your shelves. But you can’t shake the fear as you walk the shore alone, salt in your hair and that call still ringing in your ears. 

You’re stubborn, it’s a fact, yet you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll be able to resist that persistent song.

There’s a storm rolling in, and Joshua is more excited than he should be. 

It’s been a long time since there’s been a storm that’s lasted all night, but the one rolling in is looking fantastic — at least, according to what Minghao says, and his predictions haven’t been wrong in years. Joshua keeps swimming towards the surface to check the sky, and Jeonghan keeps teasing him for his impatience, but he just can’t help it! He likes being able to walk on land for a bit without dying of dehydration, and storms like this give him that freedom. There’s something powerful about looking out over the ocean from the shore and knowing that he and his brothers rule it. It gives him a bit of a rush. 

And he won’t tell his brothers this, but there’s another reason he’s so excited for the storm. For years, every time a storm crests above this particular shore, Joshua has felt a strange pull in his chest. He’s never had the time to fully investigate, but with the maelstrom about to come through he’s hoping to get some answers. There must be something waiting out there for him, he knows it, can feel it way down in his bones.

So as the first drops of rain kiss the waves, he strides onto the shore.

He sees you mere moments after he emerges from the cave where he and Jeonghan store clothing for their various escapades. Although most of their pranks are played on unsuspecting fishermen, they’ve made a few shoreline appearances before.

You’re walking down the beach wearing a large, gray sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up to protect yourself from some of the cold, stinging wind. You have a tote bag slung over one shoulder, and a single bluetooth earbud in one ear. Joshua is horribly confused. 

He thinks you’re beautiful. He feels that pull.

He follows it.

You know you probably shouldn’t be out right now, because the radar is showing a pretty long and intense storm, but you can’t help it. Your cousin just got engaged and your house has been so loud for the whole day, you just needed to get out for a bit.

Plus, you just installed a new bookshelf in your room, and you’re absolutely itching to get some new shells and coral bits for it.

Joshua returns home uncharacteristically sullen, and, after much prodding from Jeonghan, he can’t help but to let it all out.

“She resisted the call?” Jeonghan echoes, once he’s finished, and Joshua throws his hands up.

“I don’t know if she even heard it! Is there something wrong with me?” Jeonghan taps a slender finger against his lips, a familiar smirk growing on his lips.

“Well—” Joshua shoots him a sharp look, and Jeonghan relents with a slight chuckle before rising from his lounging position. He rests a hand on Joshua’s shoulder, his expression serious but his eyes glittering with mischief.

“I think we have our next target, hm?” He asks, playfully jostling Josh’s shoulder. Joshua feels a strange knot forming in his stomach at Jeonghan’s words, but he shrugs it off with a smile. After all, it’s not like either of them want to hurt you — it’s just a matter of pride, really.

But then why does he feel so anxious?

“Maybe,” Jeonghan muses, lying back on the sand next to Joshua, the waves lapping up along their legs and torsos. “We really have lost our touch.” His face is fixed into a pout, and Joshua can’t help but let out a laugh despite the nervous tension twisting his stomach into knots.

Not only had you resisted Joshua’s call, but you’d now managed to evade Jeonghan’s, too — and the calls of siren princes were nothing to sneeze at. Their ancestors had lured many, many people into the depths, so it was surprising that you had somehow not even noticed their songs. (Other people had, to be sure. An entire gaggle of college students on break had come bounding into the water almost as soon as he and Jeonghan had begun — so what was so special about you?)

What had begun as what he assumed was simply an outlier case had suddenly become a personal challenge. Who were you to deny the call of a siren prince? If he wanted you in the water, then that’s where you should be! And yet…

And yet he and Jeonghan had both watched you turn tail and walk back towards town the moment the sun began to peek through the clouds above the waters. No matter how much they sang, even with Joshua playing the stupid guitar they had packed away in the cove, you’d barely even spared them a glance. At least other people had the sense to at least applaud them for their song; some even tipped them.

Joshua narrows his eyes at the blue sky, hearing the waves jostle the change in his pocket. He has no use for human money, but he couldn’t very well give it back now. Jeonghan, beside him, has ceased worrying and fallen asleep, but Joshua can’t seem to relax, can’t seem to take his mind off of you and the challenge that you now pose. His heart picks up speed in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt so determined, so excited — so, he decides, he’s going to make the most of it.

Step one, Joshua decides, is to learn your behaviors. It feels a little too much like stalking prey, though, and Joshua is very much a pacifist, so he’s very quick to switch his strategy to befriending you. After all, more than this personal challenge he still feels drawn to you, and he’s desperate to understand why.

Not to sound rude, but Joshua can’t seem to pinpoint anything special about you. You’re pretty, as humans go, but you certainly don’t draw attention to yourself and don’t appear to be very outgoing. It only makes you more of a mystery to Joshua, and he isn’t exactly the most patient person in the world when it comes to problem-solving.

He takes note of when you come to the beach, and find that it actually makes this much, much easier for him. For example: you like to come to the shore before and after storms, when the humidity index is high. This is ideal for Joshua because then he doesn’t have to guzzle water in a very… inhuman way just to keep from suffocating. You also like the ocean at night, when it’s cooler and water doesn’t evaporate from his skin and make it scaly so easily. All in all, very convenient.

Except for the fact that Joshua doesn’t really know how to befriend humans. Just sea creatures. However, he notices that you always seem to be looking for shells, and seem to be quite particular about it — and if Joshua has any resource at his disposal, it’s shells.

So he spends the next few days gathering the best he can find and then thinking of the best way to casually approach you with his offering. You’re human, he’s royalty, it can’t be that hard.

You return to the beach after a storm on a Wednesday, and Joshua is a little embarrassed with how excited he is as he dons his human clothes and takes to the beach. In his pocket is a beautiful, perfectly intact conch shell, with a faint rosy color to it. As he runs a thumb over it with his hands in his pockets, he feels confident; this can’t possibly go wrong.

He approaches you. You don’t notice. He clears his throat, very gently, and you look up at him with a positively blank expression.

And then you just… keep staring at him, and he keeps staring at you, smiling so he doesn’t look intimidating. Eventually, though, your expression closes off into one of concern, and he feels his chest constrict a little.

“Can I help you?” You ask, and it feels like the world stops for a moment. Why does your voice sound so pretty? 

“Yes!” He exclaims, causing you to wince slightly at his sudden, loud tone. He clears his throat before continuing, “Actually, I saw that you were collecting shells, and I thought you might like this one I found.” He produces his perfect shell from his pocket, smiling his most princely smile, and watching carefully for any change in your demeanor. Your eyes flit from the shell in his hand to his own, and he’s thoroughly confused when your brows scrunch even closer together.

“What did you say your name was?” You ask, and he can’t help but grin wider, feeling as though his plan is working.

“Joshua.” You nod, slowly.

“Right, Joshua.” You readjust the bag on your shoulder and point to the shell in his outstretched hand. “There’s still a conch in there. Just so you know.”

Suddenly, and with extreme force, it strikes Joshua that he is not good at this. He brings the shell back towards his face, chuckling awkwardly when he sees that there is, indeed, a conch still inside. Oh my god. He moves to shove it back in his pocket, ready to turn tail and head back home, but you reach out your hand and stop him. He swears he feels sparks run up his arms when your fingers brush his while you grab the conch  — your expression, however, doesn’t change at all, and he wonders if he’s just imagining things. As the waves roll up the shore, you reach down by the water and set the conch in the sand, allowing it to be dragged away by the undertow. Joshua tells himself to give the conch a lift back home as an apology for almost killing it.

“Sorry about that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze.

“You should apologize to the conch, not me.” Joshua feels his heart stop when you say that, turning to you with wide eyes. Do you know? How? 

But instead of finding you with some wicked expression, he finds you smiling playfully at him, and he realizes you’re trying to joke with him. He laughs, mostly out of relief, and then crouches down by the waves.

“Sorry, Mr. Conch,” he says, playfully, and he can’t help but grin when he hears you giggling behind him. 

“I appreciate the gesture, Joshua,” you say, then glance up at the sky. The clouds have begun to clear, and already it feels degrees hotter than when he had first arrived. “I should get going. Nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” 

You’re a good few yards away from him when he realizes he’s missed the most crucial step in becoming your friend, and frantically calls out to you:

“Wait!” You turn, looking concerned again, the wind whipping through your hair. “I didn’t get your name!” You cup your hands around your mouth and call back to him, 

“Y/N!” You give him a beaming smile that makes his heart flutter before turning back up the beach and disappearing into the nearby parking lot. Joshua can’t help but grin as he heads back to the familiar cave, humming to himself. Maybe he isn’t so bad at this after all.

Joshua comes to find you every time you’re on the beach, always helping you scour for the best shells and telling you jokes. Sometimes, he plays you songs on his guitar, and he blushes cutely every time you tell him you like his singing. 

Joshua is falling deeper and deeper, though he’s trying to convince himself that isn’t true. While at first his interest in you had been rather clinical, his focus has now shifted to you as a person. He wants to know you, what makes you tick, why you come to the beach but you’re never wearing a swimsuit and the sun isn’t shining. 

It’s on a cloudy but rainless day he decides to try and test his pull again. Maybe now that you know him, seem to trust him a bit more, you’ll follow through. He starts off humming some song he’d heard on a radio the other day, and you join in, singing softly when he doesn’t know the right lyrics. He tries to ignore the skip of his heartbeat when he hears your voice, the way his breath catches when you let him take your hand and dance around the beach. It isn’t the first time he’s done something silly with you when nobody is around, but it’s the first time you’ve looked so happy, and the only time he’s ever heard you sing.

He remembers his objective and raises his voice slightly as he begins to pull you towards the shoreline. You oblige, smiling broadly and letting him spin you through the sand. His heart races as he feels the water against his ankles—

You freeze, the waves just barely lapping at your toes. Your expression is devoid of any of the happiness he had seen in it, though your hand is still in his. Joshua lets his singing trail off into awkward laughter,

“Come on, Y/N, it’s not that cold.” You don’t react to his joke until he tugs at your hand, sending you stumbling forward onto your knees. Joshua catches you before you can faceplant in the water, though as he lifts you up to stand with him you begin thrashing in his arms, splashing him with seawater as you do. He tells you to calm down, still feeling rather lighthearted and thinking you just want to play around.

“Let go,” you say. “Let me go, Joshua!” He keeps laughing, consumed by a strange sense of relief, holding you fast in his arms. It feels right to have your presence in the water beside him, and it’s as though the waves sing around you with the energy you put off. He feels even more drawn to you, having you here with him.

“I said let me go!” You scream as you push him forcefully away. Joshua stumbles back, falling into the water as you hurriedly back away from the water. He gets a good look at your face from where he’s sitting in the water, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

There are tears in your eyes when you look at him. Your hands are shaking. Joshua feels his chest constrict, a lead weight in his stomach.

“S-sorry, I—” You shake your head, as if trying to get a hold of yourself. Joshua’s mood only plummets further when you take another step away. “It’s so stupid. I’m sorry. I need to go.”

He can feel the fear rolling off of you in waves, and he wonders how he didn’t notice it before when he was holding you in his arms. He isn’t the guilty type, never has been, but as you run up the beach and away from him he feels almost sick with shame.

You don’t come back to the beach with the next storm. Or the next one, or the next. But Joshua still waits.

It shocks him one night, after not seeing you for well over a week, to feel your presence in the water again. It’s not unusual for Joshua to feel a human presence in the water, but it is unusual for him to feel yours. He practically feels flooded with concern, racing towards the source of it — towards you.

He’s relieved, at first, to find himself approaching a rather sizable and well-lit boat. He can see you standing there, your dress sparkling in the sun’s dying rays, looking nervous. It makes his heart sink to see you so beautiful and yet so distressed, and he wonders why your family, who surely must know about your fear of the ocean, has brought you out so far.

Even though nothing appears wrong, Joshua can’t help but want to stay nearby. It shocks him how much he’s missed you, and somehow seeing you has only amplified that loneliness. He wishes he could go sing a stupid song and make you smile, seeing the way you’ve tucked into yourself on the boat.

A group of people he can only assume are your family members draw near you. He can hear the laughter even from this distance, and he can see the bottles of beer they hold in their hands. You laugh, too, but it’s awkward at best. He feels his mouth twist into a frown as he decides to draw just a little closer.

You eye the waves warily while your cousins rave about how beautiful the sunset looks. Objectively, yes, the colors are beautiful, but you’re too nervous to appreciate it. Everyone around you has been drinking, celebrating your cousin’s engagement, and you can’t help but think about how far away from shore you are. It sends a shiver up your spine, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself.

“Lighten up, Y/N!” One of your cousins says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Here, come on, have some beer. You’ll feel better.” The thought of drinking any alcohol makes your stomach twist into knots, and you shake your head. Your cousin, undeterred, shoves the bottle closer to your face, and when you still refuse he playfully jostles you. The boat engine roars to life, the yacht begins to creep forward, and your idiot cousin stumbles and sends you over the edge of the boat — the very shallow ledge you’d been eyeing all night and been hoping to avoid. Your screams are swallowed by the waves, by the sounds and wake of the engine that makes the fabric of your dress tangle around your legs. You thrash wildly, terrified, as the sky continues to darken. The boat’s engine continues to roar, propelling your family forward, and you can’t hear anything other than your own pounding heart and the water as you frantically try to stay afloat.

The water is cold, and your dress is too long, and it’s hard to breathe. For a moment, looking up at the purple sky, you see a single star and think it’s a pinprick of heaven. You’re going to die.

You realize, in the midst of your struggling, that a pair of arms is suddenly wrapped around your waist, holding you up. You turn and find Joshua’s face close to your own, your noses almost touching — and you immediately bury your face in his shoulder, his name leaving your lips in a whimper. You can’t tell if the salty taste on your lips is just from the ocean or from the tears you can’t seem to stop, but you can’t think enough to care. Joshua holds you steady amidst the waves as you cry, gently trying to calm you down, and you notice as he assures you you’ll be safe soon that your view of his back appears oddly blue. 

Joshua ducks below the water and swims towards the boat, which has now stalled. Your family is gathered around a lifeboat, trying to untie it, as he brings you to the edge. It almost physically pains him, the way you seem so afraid to let go of him, but he gently guides your hands to the railing of the boat’s ladder, helping you up onto the deck. You continue to cry, and your whole body trembles — Joshua finds he wants nothing more than to climb aboard with you and sing until you fall peacefully asleep, but he knows he can’t exactly explain away his current complexion and webbed feet to your family. He tries to slip away, but your cold, trembling hand latches onto his one last time, your wide eyes meeting his as the water dripping off of the ends of your hair and your dress create a puddle around you. You seem terrified, too terrified to even let him go, but Joshua catches a glimpse of the state of his hands, all glittery blue and webbed and almost translucent, as your family begins to surge towards you. He gives your fingers one last squeeze, offering you a half smile as he lets himself drop below the waves and out of sight.

He tails the boat until he sees you walking on land once more, then allows himself to go back home.

When he gets there, he immediately heads to the large library located in the palace, and redoubles his search for answers — just why is he so drawn to you?

Your parents immediately rush you home and into a warm shower, unable to tell if your shivering is from fear or cold or a combination of the two. Your mother makes you tea and throws your favorite blanket in the dryer, so it’s nice and hot when you get out of the bathroom. They tell you to get some sleep, but you find your mind wide awake even in the dark of your room.

While you were showering, you began to come back to your senses — and with your senses came a multitude of questions, mostly about Joshua. Your eyes drift from your window to your shelves of seashells, to the ones he had given you over the weeks, and you feel your chest squeeze a little. You hadn’t really known how to face him after you had shoved him down into the waves, feeling embarrassed and upset by the whole situation — but that didn’t mean you hadn’t wanted to see him. Josh had somehow wheedled his way into your life, becoming a more integral part of it than you had even realized yourself, and you found yourself missing him and his silly songs and stupid jokes more than you would care to admit.

And then, tonight, you had seen him again in the most improbable circumstances. Just how was he so far out in open water, and why did he disappear from view so quickly when your family arrived? And he swam so quickly, so silently… his skin seemed so pale, almost shining… 

The questions flood your mind, keeping you awake until you physically can’t keep your eyes open any longer. You’re grateful that your family lets you sleep in the next day, because you’re awake to see the dawn before you come to the conclusion that you need to see Joshua again, and soon.

It’s evening when you decide to walk down to the beach. The temperature has dropped considerably, so most people aren’t wandering along the shore anymore; you arrive as the sun begins to dip below the horizon line and the wind begins to truly pick up. 

It hadn’t occurred to you until you’re sitting on the sand alone that you have no way to reach Joshua, no way to know if he’ll actually be here, and yet you feel assured that he’ll show up nonetheless.

He does, only a few minutes later, as the sky begins to turn orange. He approaches you slowly, cautiously, his hair sparkling with water and his brows knit gently together. As if he belongs there, he takes the seat beside you, and for a long moment neither of you speak — you stare out at the sun setting on the ocean, and Joshua watches you carefully, feeling his heart in his throat. When you finally do speak, you still don’t quite look at him.

“Joshua… just who are you, exactly?” You ask, meekly, staring down at your feet buried in the sand rather than looking at him despite feeling his eyes on you. 

“I’m Joshua, of course.” His tone is light but careful, and you let out a short huff. 

“I’m serious,” you say. “Last night, how did you just happen to be in the middle of the open ocean to save me, and then just disappear?” You let the wind blow your hair into your eyes, still not ready to look at Josh. Despite this, he reaches out to tuck the strands behind your ear. You swear you feel a tremble in his hand as he does it, and he knows that he is shaking — what he’s about to tell you is still new to him, too, and he still isn’t quite adjusted to it, so he can’t even imagine how you’ll react.

“If you really want to know,” he says, slowly, trying to sound calm, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body next to yours. “Then I’ll tell you. But you have to promise to listen until the end.” Although the implication of his words scares you, you can’t help but nod. You came here for answers, and you don’t want to leave without them. 

(Or, frankly, without some understanding between you and Joshua, because after the time you spent away from him you realized you don’t really want that to happen ever again.)

So he tells you. And even if you wanted to get up and leave, you feel rooted to the spot. Neither of you look away from the ocean as he talks, watching the starry waves lapping at the shore. Joshua’s voice has the rhythm of the ocean in it, you think. It’s soothing.

“If you’re a siren,” you start, finally turning to him. “Then shouldn’t you want to hurt me, or something? Isn’t that what siren do?” Joshua sighs, and you wonder why you aren’t even remotely frightened by all this when you think maybe you should be. But, as you look at Joshua and the way his brow furrows, the way he draws patterns in the sand to soothe his nerves, you realize you could never really be afraid of him no matter what he tells you because he’s Joshua. The same Joshua who apologized to a conch and sings to you when you seem upset. 

The same Joshua who saved your life only last night, when he could have just let you drown.

“That’s… the more complicated part.”

“More complicated?” You reply, attempting to lighten the mood. He chuckles lowly at that, glancing at you for a moment, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him blush before now. Your acceptance of the situation seems to comfort him somewhat, as the crease between his brows smooths. He lets out a long, slow breath before he speaks.

“Sometimes, apparently, members of the royal family… bond with someone. They think it has to do with preserving bloodlines, or something like that, but you have basically a— um, a mate—”

“Joshua.” He pauses and turns to you. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?” Even though it’s getting quite dark, you can tell your question makes him blush even more furiously. You wish it was daylight because you’re sure it’s adorable.

“Um. Yeah, basically.” You turn back towards the sea, feeling your own cheeks turning red, and nod once. Even though you asked the question, you hadn’t really expected such a simple answer, and yet with how overwhelming the situation is as a whole, that simplicity brings you some solace. Somehow, despite it all, you feel calm with Joshua beside you. You look out over the wide, dark expanse of water, and for the first time in years you don’t feel fear. After all, if Joshua comes from the sea, it couldn’t possibly be so bad as you once thought, could it? 

You feel his shoulder brush against yours, and accompanying it are butterflies taking flight in your stomach. You may not be in love with Joshua, but you can’t deny that you feel drawn to him — that when you’re around him, you have the feeling that everything is going to be alright; even when you were almost drowning, as soon as you saw him you knew you were safe. 

You may not be in love with him now, you think, but you certainly could be. 

After a moment that feels much longer than it was, you shift your gaze from the water to Joshua — patient, wonderful Joshua, who looks at you with fondness and concern, and who waits for you to make the next move. You can practically feel anxiety rolling off of him in waves, and so you take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers.

“Okay,” you say, smiling and leaning your head onto his shoulder. “I can work with that.”