#container booking platform

[conmove]

A transport management system involves several advanced technologies, including AI-enabled software for optimizing cargo transportation operations. We also provide real-time information on the movement of containers throughout the supply chain, along with visibility, predictability, and availability. To learn more, visit our website at https://www.conmove.io

[smellslikechahnspirit]

Christopher 🕸🤍

Fake text scenario: He found your smutty book 📖

🤍 : fluff, soft, still might contain swearing

🕸 : MIGHT CONTAIN SOME adult themes, emotional, maybe trigger warning

...Masterlist...

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

© 2022-2024, smellslikechahnspirit • No posting on other sites or platforms, rewrites, or translations

[nariism]

Could you write Neuvillette blushes so bad when reader called him an otter.

a/n: hi anon! this is cute... yeah guys this is the obligatory neuvillette otter fic on my blog now, enjoy it ●ᴥ●

He shouldn't be feeling jealous. He knows how ridiculous it is to be envious of such a tiny critter, especially one that's been seeking equal amounts of attention from both you and him.

But he can't help it.

"Look!" You hold the otter up into the air, dangling it around in front of his face. The otter trills, curling up into a ball and giving Neuvillette what he can only imagine is the equivalent of puppy-dog eyes.

"Are you sure it is safe to pick it up like that?" Neuvillette murmurs, watching as you peer around the creature with a wide smile.

You're completely ignoring his concerns about scooping up a wild animal, unable to contain your excitement from finally having a chance to grab one of them. "It looks just like you. How cute!"

And he also knows that such a passing comment meant to tease him shouldn't make heat crawl up his neck, but it does anyways.

"How in the world does it look like me?"

Your fingers scratch at the top of the otter's head and it's horrible that all he can imagine is your hands doing the same to him.

You turn the critter around in the air like you're showing off your child, to which the man can only stare in confusion. "White fur, cute face. Even has blue streaks, like your horns!"

"I don't see it." (Correction, he refuses to see it.)

The otter makes another noise and licks his nose, clearly content with being the center of attention. He only scowls, cheeks flushing when he realizes how much you adore the damned thing.

"So adorable," you grin, cradling it in your arms. "Just- just...! So cute!"

He's pretty sure you're malfunctioning with the overload of cuteness. He fares no better, brain melting with every hard-struck realization that you might be calling him cute by extension since you're so insistent about the similarities.

"It..." he clears his throat, losing composure with the second-hand praises. "I suppose."

"You suppose?" You laugh, finally turning your eyes back to him. He almost melts into a puddle right then and there. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he immediately refutes, rosy all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Jealous," you insist with a smile, setting the otter back down into the water. It leaves a shell as a parting gift and disappears into the sea.

"I am not jealous." Neuvillette bends down to pick up the shell, unceremoniously shoving it into your hands. You know you've got him then, with his sudden lack of manners.

The Iudex can't be jealous. Especially not over something so silly. But his face is a mortifying shade of pink, both at your passive comments about his similarities to such an adorable creature and your accusations of envy.

Your free hand suddenly lurches forward and grabs him by the face, effectively holding him in place while he falls apart. There's a pretty softness in your expression as you look at him.

"Cute," you tease, and he's melting all over again.

(Neuvillette flops down on the couch that night, face down in your lap. You raise a brow, setting your book down to peer at him curiously.

He's unmoving for a pause, completely still to the point where you wonder if he just instantly fell asleep. But then he shuffles, turning onto his back to look up at you.

Ah, there it is. Something akin to puppy-dog eyes underneath his stone cold expression.

Your fingers scratch gently at his scalp as you continue to read, combing through his long hair. "Knew it," you muse with a smug expression.

He grumbles with red cheeks.)

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[communistkenobi]

I’ve been thinking a lot about fandom recently, both as someone who has engaged with it regularly for over a decade on various platforms and also as someone who has increasingly become disenchanted with those spaces. Not only because of pervasive issues of (especially anti-Black) racism, misogyny, transphobia/homophobia, and the like, but the particular way those things take shape within fandom.

At the most basic level I think fandom has a fundamental methodological problem with the way it approaches texts, be they shows, books, movies, etc. What I mean is that people almost invariably approach fandom at the level of character, often at the level of ship - your primary way of viewing a text is filtered through favourite characters and favourite relationships, as opposed to, say, favourite scenes, favourite themes, favourite conflicts.

This is reinforced through the architecture of dominant platforms that host fan content, particularly AO3 - there are separate categories for fandom, character and ship, and everything else is lumped together in “Additional Tags.” You cannot, for example, filter for fics on AO3 by the category of “critical perspective” or “thematic exploration”. There is no dedicated space for fan authors to declare their analytical perspective on the text they are writing about. If an author declares these things, they do so individually, they must go out of their way to do so, because there are no dedicated or universally agreed-upon tags to indicate those things, and if your fanfiction has a lot of tags, that announcement of criticality gets mushed together in a sea of other tags, sharing the same space with tags like “fluff and angst” or “porn without plot.” Perhaps one of the few tags closest to approaching this is the tag “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,” which doesn’t indicate perspective or theme but rather that there is, broadly, some kind of “problematic content” contained therein - often of a sexual nature, frequently as a warning about “bad” ships.

Now this is not an inherent problem, as in, it is not inherently incorrect to approach a text and primarily derive pleasure from it by focusing on a given character or relationship. And I think a lot of mainstream media encourages (even requires) audiences to engage with their stories at these character- and ship-levels. The political economy of the production of art (one which is capitalistic, one that seeks to generate comfort, titillation, controversy, nostalgia, or shock for the purposes of drawing in viewership, one that increasingly pursues social media metrics of “engagement” and “impressions”, one that allows for the Netflix model of making two-season shows before cancelling them, as well as a whole host of other things) enforces a particular narrative orthodoxy, one that heavily focuses on the individual interiority of specific characters, one that is deeply concerned with the maintenance of white bourgeois middle class values of property ownership, the nuclear family, normative heterosexual sexuality and gender, settler-colonial ideas about community and environment, etc. If you do not care about the familial drama surrounding Shauna cheating on her husband in Yellowjackets, for example, because you think the institution of monogamous marriage and the nuclear family is stupid and violent and heternormative, then you will have a difficult time engaging with the show in general. We exist within a deeply normative (and frequently reactionary) media environment that encourages us to approach art in a particular way, one that privileges the individual over other narrative components (settings, themes, conflicts, ideas, political and moral perspectives, structure, tone, etc).

All of which culminates in priming fans to engage with art at these levels and these levels alone, even when that scope is deeply inappropriate. A standout example I recently encountered was browsing the fandom tags on tumblr for the movie Prey - a movie that recontextualises the original Predator film by setting it in colonial America to make the argument that the horrific violence of white colonists and imperial soldiers is identical to the violence we see the Predator do to human beings. It is a movie that makes the argument that, despite this alien monster running around killing people, the villains of the franchise are these occupying soldiers and settlers, an alien force who themselves have just as little regard for (indigenous) human life.

And when browsing the tags on tumblr, what I found was dozens upon dozens of horny posts about how hot the predator monster was. Certainly there were discussion of the film’s narrative, and these posts got a good amount of notes, but the tags were heavily dominated with a focus on the Predator itself. People were engaging with this film not as a solid action movie with interesting and compelling anti-colonial themes, but as a way to be horny about a creature that is, ironically, a stand-in for white settler indifference to (and perpetuation of) indigenous suffering. And if this is your takeaway from an extremely straightforward film with a very clear message, this is not merely a failure to comprehend the content of a text, this is something beyond it - a problem that I think is due in part to the methodological problem of approaching all texts as vessels for bourgeois interiority, individual but ultimately interchangeable expressions of sexuality, perhaps best-expressed by the term “roving slash fandom,” a phenomenon wherein fans will move from one fandom to the next in search of two (usually white, usually skinny) guys to draw and write porn of, uncaring of any of the surrounding context of the stories they are embedded in, and consequently dominating a large sector of fandom discussion.

This even gets expressed in the primary ideological battleground of fandom itself, the ridiculous partitioning of all fan conflict into “pro-“ and “anti-“ shipping compartments. Your stance on engagement with fandom itself historically was (and still is) always first filtered through one of these two labels, describing your fundamental perspective on all texts you engage with. And both of these two labels are only concerned with shipping, as if all disagreements about art can only be interpreted through the lens of what characters you think are acceptable to draw or write having sex. Nowhere in this binary is space to describe any other perspective you might take, what approaches you think are valuable when interacting with art, what themes or stories you think are worth exploring. It’s not just that the pro/anti divide is juvenile and overly-simplistic, it is a declaration that all fan conflict must be read through the lens of shipping and shipping only - the implication being that any objections raised, and criticisms offered, is ultimately just bitching about ships you don’t like.

Which, again, I think is a fundamental error of methodology. It leaves no space for people to discuss the political and moral content of a work, the themes of a piece of art, the thorny issues of representation not just as expressed through individual characters but entire worlds, narratives, settings, and themes. You are always hopelessly stuck in the quagmire of “shipping discourse,” and even rejecting that framework will inevitably get you labelled as either pro- or anti-ship anyway - and you will almost invariably be labelled an “anti” if you express any kind of distaste for the bigoted behaviour of fans or the content of the text itself, again reinforcing the idea that this is all just pointless whining online about icky ships you personally hate.

And this issue is best perhaps epitomised by reader insert fanfiction, circumventing any need for you to project onto a character by literally inserting yourself into fiction, primarily in order to write/read about a character you want to fuck. This then intersects in particularly disgusting ways with real world politics, such as reader insert fics about Pedro Pascal going with you to BLM protests. Even if this is (incredibly over-generously) interpreted as a very poor attempt at being “progressive,” it still demonstrates that many (white) fans are often incapable of thinking about anything outside of a character-centric perspective, quite literally centring themselves in the process, and consequently they think it’s totally appropriate to do things like that. The fact that this is also frequently a racist lens is not coincidental, because again, a chronic focus on (fictional) individuality prohibits any structural perspective from entering the discussion, which necessarily excludes a coherent or useful perspective on systemic issues, where people come to the conclusion that the topic of police brutality is little more than a fun stage to enact whatever romantic shenanigans you want to get up to with a hot guy.

I will stress, again, that it is not a moral sin to have a favourite character, nor is it bad to enjoy reading about two guys having sex in fanfiction. I enjoy and do those things, I engage with fandom often through a character-centric lens (see my url) - because it’s fun! But I think that this being the dominant mode of engagement inherently excludes and marginalises all other approaches, and creates a fandom space where the most valuable way to talk about media is to discuss which two characters you most enjoy imagining fucking each other

[dduane]

Found in the ask box this AM

”I've been playing with [a major AI-driven chat bot] and I asked it to write a young wizards fanfic that contains dialogue. ...I wish i could paste it here, but the character limit won't let me.”

(hiding eyes)

(a) Once more, the reminder: please, please don't send me story ideas or fics set in my universes. Reading them would expose me legally in ways I can't permit. If such things turn up in my ask box, I delete them unread. If through a lapse of concentration or some similar error I find myself mistakenly reading a story idea or fic, I am required to make a note of it for legal purposes, and then can never use those ideas in my own writing, ever, anywhere.

So please understand that sending me a story idea or a fic set in my universes (or others where I write) will guarantee that the idea never happens in my work. It may seem paradoxical and/or counterintuitive, but if you have an idea that you wish I'd do something with, the odds of that happening are significantly increased by you making sure that I never see it.

(This, BTW, is one of the reasons I had to close my ask box to anon asks; some repeat offenders were making it impossible for me to protect myself... as when people refuse to stop sending me such things, I block them. My apologies to all the well-intentioned would-be nonnies out there—but the actions of some of you have destroyed an avenue of access for everybody else.)

(b) Please do not purposefully expose my IPs to the attention of any AI/LLM-based chat platform, anywhere. Unscrupulous whole-book AI-oriented scraping has stolen enough of my stuff already this year. (As my search of the Books3 pirated books database, widely used for AI training, shows here.) It's infuriating enough that bad actors have taken my writing and will be using the expertise inherent in it to put other living, breathing writers out of work. Please don't help them do more of that.

(sigh) Thanks.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A media literacy handbook for Israel-Gaza

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

Media explainers are a cheap way to become an instant expert on everything from billionaire submarine excursions to hellaciously complex geopolitical conflicts, but On The Media's "Breaking News Consumers' Handbooks" are explainers that help you understand other explainers:

https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/otm/segments/breaking-news-consumers-handbook-israel-and-gaza-edition-on-the-media

The latest handbook is an Israel-Gaza edition. It doesn't aim to parse fine distinctions over the definition of "occupation" or identify the source of shell fragments. Rather, it offers seven bullet points' worth of advice on weighing all the other news you hear about the war:

https://media.wnyc.org/media/resources/2023/Oct/27/BNCH_ISRAEL_GAZA_EDITION_1.pdf

I. "Headlines are obscured by the fog of war"

Headline writers have a hard job under the best of circumstances – trying to snag your interest in a few words. Headlines can't encompass all the nuance of a story, and they are often written by editors, not the writers who produced the story. Between the imperatives for speed and brevity and the broken telephone between editors and writers, it's easy for headlines to go wrong, even when no one is attempting to mislead you. Even reliable outlets will screw up headlines sometimes – and that likelihood goes way up in times like these. You gotta read the story, not just the headline.

II. Know red flags for bullshit

The factually untrue information that spreads furthest tends to originate with a handful of superspreader accounts. Whether these people are Just Wrong or malicious disinfo peddlers, they share a few characteristics that should trip your BS meter and prompt extra scrutiny:

High-frequency posting

Emotionally charged framing

Posts that purport to be summaries or excerpts from news outlets, but do not include links to the original

The phrase "breaking news" (no one has that many scoops)

III. Don't trust screenshots

Screenshots of news stories, tweets, and other social media should come with links to the original. It's just too damned easy to fake a screenshot.

IV. "Know your platform"

It used to be that Twitter got a lot of first-person accounts from people in the thick of crises, while Facebook and Reddit contained commentary and reposts. Today, Twitter is just another aggregator. This time around, there's lots of first-person, real-time reporting coming off Telegram (it runs well on old phones and doesn't chew up batteries). Instagram is widely used in both Israel and the West Bank.

V. "Crisis actors" aren't a thing

People who attribute war images to "crisis actors" are either deluded or lying. There's plenty of ways to distort war news, but paying people to pretend to be grieving family members is essentially unheard of. Any explanation that involves crisis actors is a solid reason to permanently block that source.

VI. There's plenty of ways to verify stuff that smells fishy

TinEye, Yandex and Google Image Search are all good tools for checking "breaking" images and seeing if they're old copypasta ganked from earlier conflicts (or, you know, video-games). The fact that an image doesn't show up in one of these searches doesn't guarantee its authenticity, of course.

VII. Think before you post

Israel-Gaza is the most polluted media pool yet. Don't make it worse.

There's plenty more detail on this (especially on the use of verification tools) in Brooke Gladstone's radio segment:

https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/otm/episodes/on-the-media-breaking-news-consumers-handbook-israel-gaza-edition

The media environment sucks, and warrants skepticism and caution. But we also need to be skeptical of skepticism itself! As danah boyd started saying all the way back in 2018, weaponized media literacy leads to conspiratorialism:

https://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2018/03/09/you-think-you-want-media-literacy-do-you.html

Remember, the biggest peddlers of "fake news" are also the most prolific users of the term. For a lot of these information warriors, the point isn't to get you to believe them – they'll settle for you believing nothing. "Flood the zone with bullshit" is Steve Bannon's go-to tactic, and it's one that his acolytes have picked up and multiplied.

It's important to be a critical thinker, but there's plenty of people who've figured out how to weaponize a critical viewpoint and turn it into nihilism. Remember, the guy who wrote How To Lie With Statistics was a tobacco industry shill who made his living obfuscating the link between smoking and cancer. It's absolutely possible to lie with statistics, but it's also possible to use statistics to know the truth, as Tim Harford explains in his 2021 must-read book The Data Detective:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#harford

There's a world of difference between being misled and being brainwashed. A lot of today's worry about "disinformation" and "misinformation" has the whiff of a moral panic:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2023/10/are-we-having-a-moral-panic-over-misinformation.html

It's possible to have a nuanced view of this subject – to take steps to enure you're not being tricked without equating crude tricks like sticking a fake BBC chyron on a 10-year-old image with unstoppable mind-control:

https://sts-news.medium.com/youre-doing-it-wrong-notes-on-criticism-and-technology-hype-18b08b4307e5

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/2023/10/28/fog-o-war/#breaking-news

[bluegiragi]

FAQ + COD series masterpost (MONSTER AU + SOAPBOX UNDER THE CUT)

CONTENT WARNING: This blog contains 18+ content! If you are a minor, please do not follow or interact!

Commissions: [CLOSED]

Twitter

Patreon (NSFW and early access)

--

Frequently Asked Questions:

(read through the #askbox tag before asking to see if I’ve already answered! repeat questions and spam will be deleted.)

1. What program and brush do you use?

Clip Studio Paint, and I alternate between two brushes: fat sketcher 2 from stealthnacho’s brushset, and short vertical bar (dual brush) from sparth’s art pack 1

2. What tablet do you use?

I use a Surface Pro 8, which is a laptop where you can draw directly onto the screen. However, this is a really pricey purchase and before I had it, I used an Intuous Tablet for 6 years and loved it.

3.Can I repost your art on other platforms?

You can, but please credit me every time!

4.Can I write a fic/make fanart/ make an OC based on your AU?

Yeah sure!

5.Have you thought of what monster [insert character] would be? / Will you be adding [insert character] to the monster AU?

If I haven’t talked about certain characters already, I probably won’t at all. And I don’t have anything against these characters, but it’s more like I’m largely indifferent and have 0 thoughts. Do what you will, I made my AU as a sandbox for others to play in too, so you decide what to do with these characters!

6.Will you ever draw Konig/Soapbox again?

If I feel like it, probably! But the brainrot where it was the main focus has definitely passed <3

7. Can I use your art for c.ai/ character bots?

I'd really prefer it if you didn't, sorry! I take a largely anti-AI stance on most things now.

-

MONSTER 141 AU

extra | team 141 character introductions

extra | konig + horangi character introductions

extra | las almas crew + graves character introduction

part ? | price/gaz rooftop talks

part 1 | bag of tricks

part 2 | ghost/soap muzzle

part 3 | price+ghost check in

part 4 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 1)

part 5 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 2)

part 6 | ghost + soap + gaz in action (part 3) 

part 7 | sketchdump 1

part 8 | ghost/soap chasing tail

part 9 | soap/fantasy!ghost (full vers on patreon)

part 10 | ghost/soap docile

part 11 | ghost/price due diligence

part 11.5 | ghost/soap due diligence (nsfw - only available on patreon)

part 12 | ghost/price holding back pt 1

part 13 | ghost/price holding back pt 2

part 14 | soap/gaz doing things blind (only available on patreon)

part 15 | konig/horangi clear

part 16 | sketchdump 2

part 17 | debrief

part 18 | ghost/soap work it out (part 1)

part 19 | ghost/soap work it out (part 2)

part 20 | cockatrice (part 1)

part 21 | cockatrice (part 2)

part 22 | sketchdump 3/puppy playtime

part 23 | new moon (part 1)

part 24 | new moon (part 2)

part 25 | new moon (part 3) 

part 26 | open book

part 27 | face to a name

part 28 | before

part 29 | that’s an order

part 30 | diplomacy

part 31 | mr riley

part 32 | human

part 33 | wraith part 34 | sitting ducks part 35 | negotiations part 36 | monster part 37 | bloodsucker part 38 | the lieutenant's arrived part 39 | he keeps his promises part 40 | i'm sorry john. part 41 | mutt part 42 | limitations part 1 part 43 | limitations part 2 part 44 | limitations part 3 part 45 | hoard (full comic on patreon) part 46 | hoard part 2 (full comic on patreon) part 47 | mask off part 48 | aware part 1 part 49 | aware part 2 part 50 | reward (part 1) (suggestive) part 51 | reward (part 2) (nsfw - full comic only available on patreon) part 52 | reward (part 3) (nsfw - full comic only available on patreon) part 53 | catchup part 54 | brief part 55 | group huddle part 56 | quid pro quo part 57 | wing thing part 58 | generous

SOAPBOX SAGA (SOAP/GHOST/KONIG SERIES)

part 1 | konig/soap first meeting

part 2 | ghost/soap kid and a cookie jar (full vers on patreon)

part 3 | ghost/konig spar pt 1

part 4 | ghost/konig spar pt 2

extra | ghost + konig facecanons

part 5 | ghost/soap heart to heart

part 6 | ghost/konig grow a pair

part 7 | konig/soap do something

part 8 | konig/soap/ghost rough part 1 (full vers on patreon)

part 9 | konig/soap/ghost rough part 2 (full vers on patreon)

part 10 | trio feat. price mission start

part 11 | trio feat!unmasked konig

part 12 | trio feat! unmasked konig pull yourself together

part 13 | konig fantasises (full vers on patreon)

part 14 | ghost/konig feat. soap private lesson

part 15 | ghost/konig/soap lieutenant’s room

part 16 | ghost/konig/soap good for us (full vers on patreon)

[valentiyne]

𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 716 ❀ 𝗅𝗎𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌

Luke Hemmings x Fem!Reader Summary: Paper-thin walls and numerous noise complaints.

FULL BOOK: MIDNIGHT | L.R.H Warnings: None! Slight swearing if you squint hard enough Word Count: 2.8k Copyright © 2023 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻

Game Night was hosted every third Friday of the month. Cramped in the new tiny apartment, 7 friends and their significant others wound up on my shitty couch shouting nonsense at each other.

The living room consisted of the old couch, my TV on top of a cardboard box I hadn't quite unpacked yet, and numerous card games.

Holding the slip in my hand, I eye the timer in front of me on the makeshift coffee table My eyes scanned the paper quickly before jumping up and snapping my fingers, "Okay okay, it's born in the water but moves onto land when older."

My friends stare at me dumbfounded, their minds elsewhere as I furrow my brows and tap my feet numerous times. "Come on guys, it's what a tadpole turns into when it's older!" I'm practically yelling now, eyes darting between my friends sitting down and the tiny timer on the table.

"A baby turtle?"

"Andddd time"

I groan in annoyance, dropping the slip of paper while walking back to the spot on the couch, and plopping down with a huff.

"A baby turtle? Seriously?' I scoff, rolling my eyes at my friends who couldn't contain their laughter at my obvious annoyance.

"Okay I'll go nex-", My friend Abby was cut short by a knock on the door. It wasn't necessarily a pound, but it definitely made all of us go silent.

We all look at each other quickly, almost mentally counting everyone to make sure it wasn't an expected visitor.

I slide off the couch, my eyebrows raised for a moment before I walk towards the door. Standing on my tiptoes, I look through the peephole to see my next-door neighbor, Lucas, standing there with an annoyed expression painted on his face. I sigh and unlock the door, poking my head out with a smile.

"Are we too loud?", I ask with innocent eyes, my bottom lip tugged into my teeth as I speak quietly. Lucas gave a friendly smile, his eyebags hidden behind his eyeglasses as he turned to point at his door, "I know it's a Friday night but I'm really busy in the studio tonight... kind of hard to concentrate when there's a bunch of girls next door squealing over....?"

I finish the sentence for him, "If tadpoles are baby turtles." I rub the back of my neck shyly, laughing almost to myself.

"Right yeah, is there any way to keep it down just a tad?"

I give him a thumbs up before we part ways- him rubbing his eyes and kicking his door shut with his bare foot and me turning around and closing it softly. My friends all huddled up behind the door, eavesdropping on our conversation, and as soon as the door shut, they all squealed quietly.

"Oh my gosh! Y/n!", My friend Abby gushing, nudging me with her shoulder harshly. "You never told me you have huge chemistry with your neighbor?"

My eyes grow wide and my hands shoot up in defense, "Oh no- Lucas? He's just a neighbor"

All of my friends' eyes were on me now, and an awkward silence fell upon us. I give a mere shrug before walking back over to the coffee table to scoop up all the cards spawled across it.

"Game night at mine next time?", Abby asks from beside me, picking up the numerous cups with mysterious liquids in them with a disgusted look on her face.

I just nod in response, shoving the cards in their rightful places before sighing softly. We said our goodbyes with platonic kisses on the cheeks and dramatic waves before I was left alone in my apartment again.

It was cold, empty, and dead silent in here- completely opposite of the neighbor beside me I'd assume. My bedroom was similar to the living room- a tiny mattress rested on the floor and my toiletries were packed away in numerous boxes I was too lazy to unbox. My head hits the stiff pillow below me and I could hear Lucas in his bedroom strumming his guitar, humming to himself lowly.

It was a little after one o'clock in the morning, but he seemed to be wide awake singing.

"some things are meant to be secret and not to be heard"

It had officially been two weeks since the game night and two weeks since he came to my door. Lucas and I would occasionally make eye contact on the way to the mailboxes or even hold the elevator for one another- but not a single word was shared between us. He was always in his own world, his head bobbing to an imaginary beat inside his head.

Every night I could hear him singing to himself softly, the wall dividing our bedrooms was as thin as paper. The occasional groan and the sound of notebooks hitting the wall distracted me on nights I needed to sleep, but I never once said anything to him. He was a musician- and a very good one to say the least. I didn't want to be the annoying next-door neighbor.

I swing my door open, looking out into the hallway and scanning each door before finally averting my eyes to his own. The wrench in one hand was held on with a tight grip while the other hand carried the TV mount at my side. I could hear the sounds of various instruments being played from behind his door, his voice clearing every few moments to restart a lyric if it didn't sound right the first time.

The hand that held the wrench swung up, knocking on his door a few times before I took a step back and awkwardly looked around the hallway once again. The sounds from behind his door abruptly stopped and I could hear his heavy footsteps making their way towards the door now. Taking one more step back, I watched as Lucas opened the door and looked down at me,

"I'm sorry, am I being too loud?", He cheekily asked, a smile painted on his lips.

"No no, you're fine.", I laugh at his innocent teasing, quoting our most recent encounter. "I was actually coming over to see if you knew how to mount a TV", I poke my head around his figure and motion towards his apartment, "but seeing as you're busy-"

"I'm not busy." He corrects me, leaning inside his door to grab his keys before turning back towards me and grabbing the box from my hand. "Let me help you out, it'll take 10 minutes tops."

It didn't take 10 minutes. Hell, It didn't even take 30 minutes.

There Lucas and I both were, tools of various shapes and sizes sprawled out across my apartment floor and a cheap bottle of wine I found at the back of my fridge.

"Lucas are you sure you know how to-"

"It's Luke and yes, I know how to do this", he grumbles nonsense to himself as he flips through the instruction manual for the third time tonight. I sighed to myself slightly, trying to keep myself from laughing by taking a swig of the wine.

"Could always just use thumbtacks"

This makes Luke laugh, his eyebrows relaxing on his face and cheeks going bright red. He tosses the manual at me, and I put my hands up to defend myself.

"I'm pretty sure some thumbtacks couldnt hold a 35 pound Tv," He holds his stomach as he rolls around my floor, laughing loudly. I roll my eyes at this, groaning and tossing the screwdriver on the floor.

"Look, it's getting late. I'll just have you come over and do it another time.", I point towards the clock, which was held up with thumbtacks, that read two o'clock in the morning.

"Oh shit, sorry I totally spaced it," Luke stands up now, gathering up his tools quickly and giving me a crooked smile. "I'll swing by sometime this week to help you, I promise." I'm smiling now, shooing him out the door quickly.

"Yeah yeah see you later, rockstar", I tease and close the door abruptly, only to be stopped by a foot in the way.

"What are you doing tomorrow?", The way his eyes glimmered in the hallway light, his hair slicked back from sweat and cheeky dimples appeared as he smiled at me.

"I have finals tomorrow morning, and I'll probably be dead by the time its over- anytime after that I'm free.", I groan dramatically and push my palm into my forehead.

Luke just nods, freeing his foot from the doorway, and gives me a thumbs up, "I'll be sure to be quiet tonight so you can get your rest." I thank him kindly and give him a soft wave before closing the door behind him.

Luke was anything but quiet. I tossed and turned throughout the night, pushing the pillow closer to my ears as I heard him attempting to sing a lyric he wasn't even finished with. if there's one thing I've learned about him in the month and a half I've known him- he was a perfectionist. He sang the same things over and over countless times making sure it was absolutely perfect.

"Cause all these bodies are hoping to get addicted-"

I swing my arm up, smacking on the wall a couple times before groaning and letting it fall to my side once again. His side of the wall went silent immediately, the shuffling of papers and a small mumbled "sorry" was heard.

Luke had avoided me from that point forward: he didn't hold the elevator for me nor did he come and check his overflowing mailbox.

I found myself at his door once again, knocking in one swift movement before clearing my throat. I could hear him shuffling around his apartment, a loud thud followed by a "shit, one second!".

The door opens and a dripping-wet Luke is before me, a towel tightly wrapped around his waist. I blink a few times, holding my gaze above his shoulders out of respect.

"Why are you avoiding me", I ask in a monotone voice, cutting straight to the point. He raises his eyebrows at this now, one hand sassily on his hip.

"Who said I was avoiding you?", He chuckles lightly and opens the door wider, motioning for me to enter. My nose is filled with the smell of the oven baking something sweet mixed with his charcoal body wash. I step inside with a smile, closing the door behind me.

Luke wipes the water from his face and turns away from me, entering his bathroom for a split second, leaving me standing in his kitchen.

I glance around his living room: Pictures of his friends and family are hung up neatly on the wall, his instruments are laid out on the floor around his couch, and his bookshelf is overflowing with numerous copies of musical books.

He emerges from the bathroom once again, now clothed in a sweatshirt and basketball shorts and the towel that was once wrapped around his waist was now encased in his curls.

"I was just going to invite you over actually," He laughs again, flashing me his million-dollar smile before pointing at his dining table. It was decorated with a lace tablecloth, a small bouquet of flowers sitting in a glass-decorated vase, and a plate of steaming hot pasta was laid out. I smile to myself slightly, looking back up at him before taking my seat at the table, he rushes forward, scooting my chair in for me before taking his own seat across from me.

"What's the occasion?" I ask while picking up my fork, poking at the seafood pasta that was professionally plated. If you would've told me he hired a chef to make dinner- I would've believed you.

"I was loud on the night of your finals and I felt horrible knowing I kept you up all night", He picks up his napkin and places it neatly on his lap, "I wanted to make it up to you after I mounted your TV buttt you showed up a little early", He teases.

I take a bite of my food, groaning into the fork with a muffled giggle as my eyes look up at his. The food was amazing, and the flavor was intricately picked out to perfection.

Going back, this perfectly proved my point that Luke was a perfectionist.

We found small talk, conversing over what I was majoring in and what he was busy working on.

"So the album is almost done, I just need to finish this last song," He shrugs his shoulders and scrapes at the remains off his plate. I smile to myself, looking up now with innocent eyes, "Maybe I can help?"

He stands up abruptly, turning around and opening the oven to reveal the freshly baked brownies he had made- from scratch may I add. I groan in anticipation and rub my hands together dramatically. He grabs the brownies with oven mitts, turning around and facing me.

"If you want to help me, I'll allow it", he laughs and places the pan down gently and walks towards his living room, picking up a notebook that was previously thrown across the room.

"Here", he places it in front of me, removing my empty plate and walking

The notebook was written in barely eligible handwriting, with numerous words crossed out and mental notes scribbled on the sides.

Some things are meant to be secret and not to be heard so if I tell you, just keep it and don't say a word. when the doors are all closing.....It's bound to get ?? all these bodies are hoping to get addicted to

The rest of the page was scribbled out, lyrics that never made the cut. I snatch the pen from the metal spiral holding the pages together and click it once.

"it's bound to get.... loud?" I scribble it down next to the question marks and look up at him, scratching his chin with a nod. His cheeks were red now, the wine flushing through his body.

"What rhymes with loud?"

I look up at him now, as he scoots his chair right up next to me to the point our legs are touching.

"Cloud, hmmm,"

"Sound," we both say in unison.

Luke claps his hands together and grabs the pen from my hands, opening the notebook to a new page and scribbling down the new and improved lyrics. I watch him closely, the way his eyes twinkled and dimples poked through when he was concentrating.

I was so screwed. I was falling for my next door neighbor.

I didn't see him for another two weeks, his side of the wall seemed eerily vacant and completely silent. I even knocked a few times in hopes he'd knock back in some sort of rhythm, but there was no response.

Hearing the knock on my door shot my body out of bed, sweat dripping down my neck and sides. I groan and tap on my phone to check the time, blinding myself in the process. The pounding never stopped, not until I stumbled out of bed and opened my door. My heart skipped a beat, praying that the blonde would be on the other side with that cheeky smile I adored.

"Hello?", I ask in a groggy voice whilst rubbing my eyes and squinting up at the person who disturbed my slumber- at 2 a.m. may I add.

Instead of a person, I was met with an empty cold hallway. I avert my gaze down and towards my door mat. There, set up neatly was a bouquet of flowers with a note tied to the front with white lace.

I smile at myself and crouch down, picking up the thoughtful gift and looking down the hallway one last time before kicking my door shut.

Y/n,

I'm sorry I didn't see you before I left. Our album releases at 2:30am today and I was supposed to leave at 2... I just knew I had to leave you something on my way out. I hope you like the flowers I picked out my mom helped me.

I'd have probably sent you the link to the album by the time you finish reading this note.

I'm going to be all over the world, touring and doing what I love. I can't wait to be back home and see you again, i'll make sure to facetime every change I get.

love,

your rockstar

I could hear the familiar ringtone from my bedroom, alerting me that Luke was a man of his word. I wipe a few stray tears and make my way to the bedroom, snatching my phone up with my free hand and clicking the link he had sent me.

This is the song I spent the last 3 months working on, keeping you tossing and turning until finally you perfected it.

Mp3.ifwallscouldtalk.demo

[pennylanewrites]

teacher’s aide (levi ackerman)

warnings: m!masturbation, voyerism, alcohol, smoking, age gap (15 years), me pushing my smitten!levi agenda

levi ackerman was an esteemed and recognised sociology professor. stern, strict and to the point in all of his lectures. most of his classes kept quiet, trying to take notes while he talked fast and went through powerpoint slides like it was the morning paper.

you had been working hard for that teacher’s aide position for two years, when you finally got the acceptance email. it was no secret on campus that professor ackerman’s assistants worked closely to him and got accepted in prestigious firms right after college, with his recommendation of course.

it was also no secret that professor ackerman was incredibly good-looking. his veiny arms and broad shoulders made up for his short height and the way his raven hair fell over his rectangular seeing glasses was so…

“y/n.” his stern voice shook you out of your thoughts. crap. the whole auditorium was staring at you. “the papers.” was all he said before going back to his laptop. you looked down at your hands, realising you were holding the class’s tests for more than you should. you cleared your throat and went through the auditorium, leaving a stack of papers in front of each student. as you walked down, your eye caught his.

levi noticed everything. he noticed how today you were wearing lipgloss instead of your usual lipstick, he noticed the rip in your tights that went down the back of your leg, your new platform loafers and the beads of sweat on your forehead. levi ackerman was not the kind of man that would catch feelings for a student, but you were so…good.

yes, at first he thought you were very attractive, and maybe that’s why he always rejected your aide application. but he also got to know you better every time you replied to one of his questions. you were the only student brave enough to raise their hand, and he appreciated that. sooner than later, you stayed back every day after class to clean up the mess of loose papers and pens, and before he knew it he was smitten.

maybe it was the way you brushed against him to clean the board and shut the projector, a timid apology escaping your lips, or the way you weren’t afraid to challenge him in a theoretical conversation about archaic philosophy during class.

or maybe…shit, how long have i been staring? levi looked away and cleared his throat when he noticed you trying to contain your smile.

class was over and you were going through your usual routine, marking left over questionnaires from the last lecture as he went through tomorrow’s one.

“sir, i’m wondering about…” you rolled your chair across the auditorium’s stage, holding onto his desk to stop the chair, “this one.” you pointed at a question on the paper.

levi was not one to lose his temper, but he was finding it very hard to contain himself when your knee was touching his and your perfume could reach his brain through his nose.

“well, this-this one…” he trailed off, watched you push your hair off your neck, leaving the bare skin on sight for him. god, he could eat you right then and there.

levi had never been more thankful for his phone to ring in his life. the vice dean’s name flashed on the screen, and you leaned back to allow him to get the device.

“i have to go…meeting…come by my office tonight, okay?” he scrambled to get his things and ran off, leaving you in the empty auditorium.

you let your head fall on your pillow, groaning with despair. he hates me. he can’t even talk to me.

you had seen him earlier with petra, his old t.a who graduated last year. he was laughing, for fuck’s sake. he was laughing and buying her coffee in the campus coffee house, and they were sitting over a book and…

“ugh! what is she even doing here?” you threw your pillow on the floor, but it hit you back in the face.

“oh my god, shut up!” your roommate kept hitting you with the pillow, until you grabbed it. “enough, y/n, please.”

“mikasa, do you think they’re dating?” you sat up on the bed, looking at the girl across you. “be honest, i can take it.”

“i think you’re sick. there’s something seriously wrong with you.” she scrunched her nose up in disgust.

“he’s so…”

“old.”

“mature.”

“he’s mature because he’s old.” your roommate kindly reminded you of your age difference. “get over him, please. even if he liked you, he’s your teacher. i doubt he would put his job in danger.”

your eyes lit up, an excited smile covering your earlier gloom.

“you think he likes me?”

“that’s not what i said. where are you going?”

you only grinned before grabbing your bag and barging out of the dorm room. your shoes squeezed against the polished floors as you made your way to the teachers’ wing, and to the third door to your left, your favourite wooden door in the world.

with a sigh, you lifted your fist to knock, but something made you freeze. you looked around to make sure no one was in the corridor, before pushing your ear against the door.

shit, shit, shit, shit

he was moaning. fucking moaning, in his office, when he had specifically told you to visit him. you thought of the possibility of him having a girl in there, even petra, but no one else could be heard. everything right in your head was telling you to turn around and leave, but your hand was on the doorknob, and you were slowly twisting it.

just one look. one look and i’ll-

your eyes grew wide at the sight. a half empty bottle of bourbon sat next to an empty glass, a cigarette was slowly burning on the ashtray, the first two buttons of his white shirt were undone. god, you could clearly see his nipples through the fabric. the desk obscured your vision, but you could see his hand moving up and down, up and down, up-

“fu-fuuuck.” his voice strained, his head fell back and you were wet a creep.

you turned around and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. looking at your reflection on your phone, you made sure pervert wasn’t written across your forehead, and turned back around.

two soft knocks on the door. levi fixed his hair quickly, buttoned his shirt and put the cigarette out.

“come in.” you entered the room and he looked at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“long day?” you pointed at the bottle, smiling softly. he chuckled and motioned for you to sit down. “i can come back some other…” you trailed off when he took another glass out, filling it halfway and pushing it towards you.

you fidgeted with a ring on your finger, unsure of what to do.

“i shouldn’t…”

“i won’t tell if you won’t.” he filled his own glass and raised it to you, before taking a sip. you smiled softly, taking a sip of the drink. it burned coming down, just like his gray stare on you did.

“i have the tests marked. that question i was wondering about earlier,” you took the stack of papers out of your bag, leaving them in front of the man.

“yeah, i looked it up. it’s actually-”

“i figured it out.” you cut him off. he raised an eyebrow and put his glasses on, looking down at the marked paper, and the right answer which you had wrote down in red ink.

“you did.” he agreed and looked at you through strands of his raven hair. “good girl.”

you froze. you could feel your whole face turning an ugly shade of red. a million disgusting thoughts ran through your head as he walked around the desk to sit on the chair across from yours. his muscles flexed as he reached over the desk to get the ashtray and his drink. you took a big sip of the drink, trying to convince yourself the sexual tension was just in your head.

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.

“what?” he shook you out of your thoughts. he knew you were staring at him.

“nothing. i’ve never seen you like this.” you admitted, still sipping your drink.

“like what?”

like you don’t have a stick up your ass.

“relaxed.” you opted for the nice comment.

“i’m far from relaxed, trust me.” you watched as he placed a cigarette between his wet lips, lighting it with a white lighter.

“those are bad luck.” you took the lighter in your hand, fidgeting with it.

“huh. maybe that’s why my life’s shit.” he chuckled, taking a drag of the cigarette.

“come on…” your eyes fell on a book on his desk.

masculine domination, pierre bourdieu. you grinned, taking it in your hands to inspect the front page.

“take it. it’s for my doctorate students, but i think you-”

“i’ve read it.” you closed it and put it back on the pile.

“of course you have. you’re a smart girl, you know?”

he was praising you. and he was filling your glass again. when did you even finish the first?

“are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”

“i think you’re capable of controlling yourself.”

“don’t be so sure.” you mumbled, staring at your feet.

“what was that?”

“nothing!” you shook it off with a smile, but he had heard you just fine.

god, you wanted him so bad. as the hours went by, and the bottle came to its’ end, you became more and more impatient. you were scared of what you would do honestly, if one more drop of alcohol entered your system. but, were you crazy to think he wanted this too? why would he pour you a drink, and ask you all these questions, and make you laugh with stupid jokes if he-

“what are you thinking about?” he shook you out of your thoughts. you showed him the clock on the wall.

“that i should get going. some teacher thought it would be a good idea to have an 8 am class.” you grinned. you reached your hand out to return him his lighter, but you dropped it instead.

“that’s one lousy teacher.” he chuckled, kneeling on the floor to get the lighter. you waited for him to get up, so you could too, but he wouldn’t move. still kneeling, he came closer to you, his hands hesitantly moving to rest on the sides of your thighs.

internally, you were screaming. but not a single breath came out of your mouth as you watched him. he sighed and finally locked eyes with you.

“i’m not crazy, am i?”

“wh-what?” your voice came out as a whisper. pathetic.

“to think there’s something, right? here. there’s something here and i-”

“sir-”

“don’t.” he squeezed your thighs and you swore your heart would jump out your chest sooner or later. he straightened his back and got up, pulling you with him. “don’t call me sir.”

you let him seat you on top of his desk, you let him spread your legs and stand between them. he pushed your hair behind your ear and inched closer. his breath against your neck made you shiver, and a soft kiss forced a small gasp out of your mouth.

your hands trembled as you placed them around his neck, and his breath staggered when you played with the strands of hair that fell on his undercut.

“please kiss me.” he swore his knees would give when he heard your voice, so soft, so sweet. you were as needy for him as he was for you.

his strong hands met your face, his silver ring cooled your burning cheek. you closed your eyes, and his lips finally met yours. it was careful at first, both of you scared the other would change their mind. but all it took was you pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, and he lost his mind. his hands slipped down to your waist and you arched your back to get closer to him, if that was even possible. your mouth trailed to his jaw, leaving sloppy kisses all the way down his neck. a playful bite made him gasp. you chuckled.

“stop. you’ll drive me crazy.” he squeezed your hip.

“good.” you grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, but his hand in your hair held you back.

“you have to go…” he managed between soft kisses down your chest, at least as far as your shirt allowed, “or i won’t be able to stop.” he held your hands, and kissed them both, maintaining eye contact with you.

“then don’t stop.” you whined, but your grin turned into a frown when he pulled you off the desk and fixed your skirt. “levi-”

“save something for later, right?”

his promise of a later was enough. you left him to clean up and walked out the door with a sheepish smile and a whispered goodnight.

your phone buzzed on your way back to the dorms, and you stopped in your tracks when you saw the name on the screen.

professor ackerman: wear that green dress tomorrow.

you raised an eyebrow.

just the dress.

[endereies]

ATTRIBUTES AND QUALITIES - MS - BLURB

Pairing: bf!matt x gf!reader

Contains: The details of Matt as your boyfriend, on and off camera

Requested?: yes by @bernardsbendystraws - Request

Author's notes: This shouldn't have taken me so very long to write but neither should almost everything on my platform

Word Count: 1692

╰┈➤ SFW

༊*·˚ You both tended to avoid social situations, this included date nights

You had fixed your dress one too many times for it to slip Matt's conscience. It was adorned with two perfectly symmetrical bows which lined the skin of your shoulders. They barely reached the built in corset line, covered in a soft silk. It was so barely blue to the point where you could only see it in the dim lighting of your room. Pleats curve at your hips and flow to your knees. It was clear how much you were smitten with the fabric. Matt watched you steal glances at the mannequin poised at the front window, hence his insisted purchase.

Delicate touches, traced your hips from behind and as much as you felt unease within the situation, you melted into his touch. "Hi pretty" His voice felt so pure against your neck and you couldn't help but giggle. A few peppered kisses later, he leant back to watch the reflection of you both in the full body mirror. Knitted material covered his arms, covering sections of his darker belt. That was wrapped round his light-wash jeans that became a staple in his wardrobe.

"Hey Matt" It was a timid voice that escaped your mouth, you hadn't meant for it to. It faded into the air but when you finally looked up you were met with Matt's gaze, falling heavily on you. He smiled against your neck, allowing his breath to tickle he skin.

"You don't want to go out tonight do you..?" Guilt filled you almost instantly. You were aware that he had made reservations at this fine dining place he pointed out one late-night drive. It was a high end place but the atmosphere was one to be appreciated. Yet tonight you were dreading it.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I know you booked this fancy place but I-" His fingers quickly silenced you as he pressed them against your lips. He dryly laughed and turned your chin to face him directly. "I was hoping you'd say that..I just want to watch movies alongside you. How'd you feel with that, love?"

You sighed deeply, letting yourself relax onto him. "I'd love nothing more."

༊*·˚ He loved to make you feel safe and loved whenever he could

The last few days had been filled with thunderstorms that stretched into every evening. Tonight was no different. Several hours had gone by and nothing showed signs of the storm easing up. Clouds remained dark and your window was covered in drops of rain that sped down the glass. It wasn't that you hated the way the clouds lit up to reveal the purple hues. It was the way the thunder clapped unexpectedly that made you tense. It was deafening and not even the steady hums of your playlist could block out the sounds.

You had given up the idea of sleep and simply attempted to sleep between the duvet and pillows of your bed. Bunches of fabric were huddled near your chest and practically covered your face.

"Baby? I'm home!" Finally Matt had come home from his filming session that got cut early from the rain. They all agreed it would be better to continue when sounds of water and lightning didn't fill the mic.

He wasn't oblivious to the way thunder made you uneasy, he had seen you more than once feel uncomfortable and refuse to relax. Although never this bad.

Once he was met with silence, you heard him wonder around the house. It wasn't long before he creaked open the bedroom door. You could see the way his expression softened thanks to the bursts of light outside.

"Are you okay..?" The answer was obvious when he saw stray tears lingering on your cheeks. Rustling was quickly caused by the shaking of your head, not trusting your voice to not let you down.

He caught on your feelings instantly and slid under whatever duvet you hadn't bundled at your chest. You felt his body slide next to yours, the warmth welcoming. A sudden crash of thunder echoed through the room. Matt would be lying if he said it didn't feel good when you immediately reached out for him with closed eyes.

"You're okay baby.." Reassuring words slipped past his lips as he caressed your hair gently. "I got you."

༊*·˚ He always managed to slip your name into a conversation

Tara had thrown one of her iconic parties and as per Matt's request, you were by his side. Finally meeting some people you had dreamed of seeing for years, it was safe to say you were happy.

The whole night you were beaming alongside Matt and his friends. Dressed in a light silver dress that has small glitters embedded in the fabric, Matt could watch the way you shined forever.

"Hey baby? I'm gonna go with Nick and see Tara for a moment. I'll be back" It was hard to suppress a chuckle as his brother pretended to gag at the pet name. "Go ahead y/n."

With the lack of vibrant lighting, he easily lost you in the crowd but once he turned around he caught the eye of Jake. "Matt, didn't think you would turn up if imma be honest." His eyes took in his outfit, carefully put together. Laying on his wrist was a bracelet that caught his eye. "Woah, nice bling. How much was that?"

"Oh, I'm not sure, my girl got it for me a few weeks ago. She asked if I could wear it to match her dress tonight." A knowing smile crossed Jakes's face and a slight laughed escaped his lips. "Ahh is that so."

༊*·˚ He hates the way you think so low of yourself and would always defend against any negative thoughts you had

You had been shopping around stores on one of the rare days that Matt had no work on. You had been invited out to an event with your friends so it only seemed fitting to find a specialized outfit.

He was patiently sat outside the fitting rooms with the assortment of bags surrounding his feet. He saw a figure walk out and when he finally lifted his eyes, his jaw dropped. You were wrapped in a gorgeous red fabric that was cinched at the left side of your body. It had laid gently across your mid thigh.

You opened the curtain and revealed your outfit to Matt. "Woah.."

"I know, I'm not really a fan of it, I mean.." Your words trailed off as you looked down towards your stomach and hips.

"What are you on about? I'm obsessed with the way this looks on you, It looks even better when you feel that way too. This dress highlights your best features, baby. All of them."

You placed yourself in front of the mirror and tried to brush down any features you felt mildly uncomfortable with. Matt had come up behind you and placed his hands on your hip while resting his chin on to your bare shoulder.

"My pretty girl." He sighed into your neck and that was enough to pay for the dress with your Matt's card later.

༊*·˚ He would always pamper you whenever you felt unwell / on your period

It had been about an hour since Matt left your apartment. All you asked was that he pick up some chocolate to satiate your cravings, which had been an upset for the past six hours. The sharp pains in your stomach had only gotten worse, even after medication. Every time that Matt crossed your mind it only made you feel so needy, clingy. Like a burden.

Little did you know that Matt was rushing around several stores for more than your sweet treats. Any time you made a comment about something you liked, he made sure that you got it. A bouquet of your favourite flowers had ended in his basket, along with an assortment of treats, a candle with your preferred smells inside, a pink bath bomb and of course, Pads and tampons.

He hadn't meant to take so long but when you finally heard the front door of your apartment click open you were full of relief.

The gentle knocks on your bedroom door spurred you to sit up against the headboard, the hot water bottle across your midriff.

"Hey sweetheart, I'm back" His voice was meek, as if you had barely woken up.

"What took you so long, Matt? Did you get lost" A slight giggle passed your lips, met with a shake of Matt's head.

"No, baby. I just went on a little spree." That's when your jaw dropped. Finally, he pulled the bags from behind the door and placed them heavily at the end of your bed.

"So, at first, I was only going to get you the chocolates, but then I saw these Haribo's I remember you practically stole from me because they were 'too good to resist'." The bags of confectionary rustled on the blankets. "Then I saw this candle and it was blue, which grabbed my attention. Then I saw it was your favourite so of course I grabbed it. I had to get you pads and tampons. I know you alternate so I grabbed both kinds." A small pile began to form at your feet. "Oh! I also saw some fuzzy socks so they went in and i stopped at Lush to get you a bath bomb. They didn't have your normal one so i got a back up one for you!"

His gaze finally met your eyes, staring at the pile with tears forming. It was obvious you weren't blinking so that you didn't cry. You knew if you had tried to speak, your emotions would quickly be revealed. if they weren't already by your expression.

"Y/n..? You okay.. did i do something wrong..?" With an insistent shake of your head, you denied his words.

"You did all this for...me?" You looked up to him in mere disbelief. "Of course I did. I always will. I can tell you needed this."

"Matt...thank you.."

"You can thank me once I've run your bath, okay love?"

────────────────────˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗───────────────────

@melliflws @axolotllover225 @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerslover @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @sleepysturnss @jnkvivi @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @shorthairchris

[conmove]

The delivery process is an intriguing one in itself. With the help of last mile delivery software, a lot happens that makes the final act of delivery possible.

Visit more:

[jymwahuwu]

Thoughts on Gym trainer Jing Yuan ◉o◉ Thinking like on the first day there's a lot of struggle on the equipment and basic stretching and Jing Yuan pops up to help, but they don't know that he's using this as an opportunity to grope and grind his cock on them as he stretches them that looks like a mating position from an outsider's view hehe

>_< I'm sorry that I updated after the promised time, and I couldn't help but sleep for two nights😹 But I really like the idea and thought about it a lot <3 Jing Yuan loves this fitness opportunity…

CW: yandere, non-consensual contact, inappropriate use of fitness equipment, mention of future non-con

Jing Yuan accidentally - okay, maybe intentionally - hacked your phone and discovered your gym membership credentials (the hacker followed his orders in Xianzhou). You book a day to experience fitness. That's your first day. first. The browser contains your search history for "fitness teaching". Jing Yuan is considerate and has not dug out your more private information. He knows everyone needs privacy! He really just wants to know where you will show up so he can go on a date with you…

That day, you arrived at the Universe Fitness Center belonging to Interastral Peace Corporation as scheduled. Some members are already working out, with an octopus-shaped customer running on a treadmill, while others are stretching. You looked around, biting your lip, starting to feel nervous. There is so much equipment here. How do you use these…? During your hesitation, you caught a glimpse of a familiar figure and your eyes widened. Why is General Jing Yuan here? He also noticed you and waved at you.

Jing Yuan explained that this is his hobby. He has purchased a 100-year membership. You stared at his broad and strong shoulders and swallowed. It turns out that he exercises outside of sleep time… The reputation of a general from a space civilization is well-deserved…

How about you? General asked with a smile.

You stutter and explain that this is your first time trying fitness, and you don't have a trainer. The reason may be that you have wanted to exercise for a long time, or maybe you won a free membership in a lottery… or a friend gave you a free fitness experience and enthusiastically helped you book it… The members here seem to be well-trained. You're afraid of making a fool of yourself. The considerate Jing Yuan of course offers to help you train and become familiar with the fitness equipment. You nodded gratefully.

Um, after warming up, the first step is to learn to use the leg press machine!! You can hear your breathing and heartbeat, slowly sit on the tilted cushioned seat, awkwardly stretch out your legs and step on the platform superior. A warm palm cupped your ass, and you almost screamed, but kept your voice low in panic.

"W-wait?! Jing Yuan, what are you doing?" "Oh? I'm helping you adjust your posture. Don't be nervous." He put on a perfect and polite smile, as if you were just making a fuss and it was normal . You tried to push his palm away from your ass. Jing Yuan still touched your butt before moving to your thighs, lifting your legs and moving you up. You tightened the muscles in your hips and stretched your legs unskillfully at his guidance.

Jing Yuan is standing in front of you, watching you nervously bend your knees and stretch your legs. Every time you get close, it's like you're under his body. His smile widened. Some fitness guests watching from the side felt that he was holding you down in a mating position...

How can you not learn to use hip abduction machine? He helped you sit on the mat. You kept your waist upright, panting from the first round of fitness exercises.

"H-how does this work?" Your eyes sparkled with trust and confusion. "This is - um, to train your butt muscles." Hearing these unabashed words, embarrassment washed over your face. You were about to suggest training with other equipment when you heard him say that you should try your best to open your legs and stretch your body.

You couldn't find a chance to refuse, so you could only grab the chair with both hands and struggle to stretch your legs out, your butt tightening in the process. Jing Yuan occasionally reaches out his hand and spreads your legs wider.

Oops, by the time the teaching process reaches the lying leg curl machine, you are already exhausted. In other words, you can be at the mercy of Jing Yuan. Jing Yuan tells you to lie face down on the machine. You groaned softly, your legs already trembling from lack of exercise. You grabbed the machine, bent your knees and raised your legs. There is a vague feeling that something hard is pressing against your buttocks… The hands are groping your buttocks, slapping and rubbing them. He told you it was for training…

Of course, no thrusting…yet.

Before leaving, you "promised" to Jing Yuan that you would attend "private fitness classes"…even though you said with tears in your eyes that you didn't want to exercise after that. The general has already planned for you to bring a small vibrator as part of your workout next time. He can’t wait for the day he penetrates you<3

[smellslikechahnspirit]

FAKE TEXTS SKZ

🤍 : fluff, soft, still might contain swearing

🕸 : MIGHT CONTAIN SOME adult themes, emotional, maybe trigger warning

[R]: requested (33)

OT8, 스트레이 키즈 :

You're addicted to caffeine 🕸🤍 [R]

Mistreated by "friends" 🕸🤍 [R]

Christopher Chahn Bahng, 방찬 :

You had a crush on Felix 🤍

You got your period 🤍

You've gained some weight 🤍

You had a panic attack 🕸🤍

You couldn't find your tampon 🤍

Your parents were fighting 🕸🤍

He's late...again 🤍

You thought he would be angry 🕸🤍

You were having a hard time 🕸🤍

You didn't shave 🤍

You were drunk 🕸🤍

He's scared to lose you 🕸🤍

He's bored and can't sleep 🕸🤍

You're angry at everything but him 🕸🤍

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍

He's worried about you 🕸🤍

Mutual love? 🕸🤍 [R]

He feels like he's neglected you 🕸🤍 [R]

You're grieving 🕸🤍

You're fighting 🕸🤍

He's being a tease 🕸🤍

You have a toxic friend 🕸🤍 [R]

You feel insecure about your body after pregnancy 🕸🤍 [R]

Fighting due to your PMSing 🕸🤍

You don't want to bother him 🕸🤍

He's jealous 🤍

He found your vape 🕸🤍

You lost his expensive gift 🤍

He wants to go public about you two 🤍

You're a virgin 🕸🤍

Anger issues 🕸🤍

Single mother 🤍 [R]

Confession 🤍 [R]

Abusive ex 🕸🤍 [R]

Impulsive haircut at 2 AM 🤍

Caught masterbating 🕸🤍 [R]

Intimate on your period 🕸🤍 [R]

You're on your period 🤍

Another idol asked your number part 1 part 2🤍 [R]

He hears you cry 🕸🤍

You were in an accident 🤍 [R]

He found you shells 🤍

He found your smutty book 🕸🤍

He snapped at you 🕸🤍 [R]

You have baby fever 🕸🤍

Almost 27 yo 🕸🤍

Lee Min ho, 이민호 :

You got bullied 🕸🤍 [R]

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Seo Chang Bin, 서창빈 :

He sees you at the high-school reunion 🤍 [R]

You can't kiss him 🕸🤍 [R]

Hwang Hyun Jin, 황현진 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Han Ji Sung, 한지성 :

You got stood up 🤍 [R]

He texts you after the high-school reunion 🤍 [R]

You don't want to bother him 🕸🤍 [R]

He missed you 🕸🤍 [R]

Lee Yong Bok, 이용복 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

He spoils your surprise party 🤍 [R]

Irresponsible sex brings consequences 🕸🤍 [R]

You're gonna visit his hometown soon 🤍 [R]

Kim Seung Min, 김승민 :

You couldn't find your tampon 🤍 [R]

You send him flowers 🤍 [R]

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

Confession 🤍 [R]

Yang Jeong In, 양정인 :

He thinks you're pregnant 🤍 [R]

please let me know if there is a mistake in it somewhere or i said things that needed a trigger warning, and i forgot.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

© 2022-2024, smellslikechahnspirit • No posting on other sites or platforms, rewrites, or translations

[lacollectionneuse1967]

slip of the tongue part 4 - the last train home

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: you are kidnapped by grindelwald and theseus is stranded alone, unaware, at a train station--he's left to believe that you do not love him and you are left in enemy custody with no one coming to save you. the world always had a way of finding out what you loved and taking it from you. but you always found a way to hold onto hope until your hands were bloody, and you always hoped you'd still make the last train home...

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: hurt-comfort. romance.

warnings: none

part one / part two / part three / part four

author's note: yeah i wrote another long chapter again sorryyyyy! also there are no sexy times in this one haha.. this is actually the last part of this fic! taking requests for other theseus fics after. hope you enjoy :)

November, King's Cross Station

"Don't come. Don't come," Theseus thinks. "Be safe and happy and do not come."

And then, with a selfish tug of panic, he relinquishes the hideous truth of his desire:

"Come. Please come."

Theseus is standing at Platform 9 3/4, craning his neck over the crowds of wizards in their mismatched regalia, some in whimsical velvet robes and long caps and others in London business suits. The existence of the magical world alongside this one always did seem to him an impractical, impossible thing. Clunky and disjointed parts clacking together.

Until, until...

You. Muggle girl, born and bred, but you were the best wizard he'd ever met. The whole world seemed to make sense, suddenly, with your introduction into his life, these two worlds, magical and unmagical, were contained within your very existence, perfectly.

For the first time in his life, the thought of you brings him pain.

"She'll come," he thinks again. Banish the pain. Banish all that isn't useful or good.

The train whistle blows, his wristwatch reads 7:14. There's hardly anyone on the platform anymore.

He knew, knew that you wanted him too. Loved him. He saw it in your beautiful, hopeful face every time he reached out and touched you, you were so willing to fall into his touch, to surrender yourself. Sweet angel in his bed, in his arms.

"Last call!" A train attendant leans out from the car up ahead to shout it. Misery snakes around his heart. It's an icy and menacing revelation, that you might not choose to be with him.

He has never asked much of you, was always afraid to as your boss and your friend. But in these last days he's realized he's underestimated you, critically. He was so afraid of scaring you off he hadn't recognized that you don't scare easy.

He glances at the train attendant's cinched expression and then around the platform again, with blind urgency, eyes darting to every face, hardly seeing the strangers at all.

"I didn't push her too far this time. She'll come. She'll come."

"Last call!" The train attendant calls again, irritably. She's doing him a favor by waiting at all.

When Theseus steps up into the train car he politely apologizes to her. He even smiles charitably. She returns it with a blush, but rolls her eyes, taking his ticket.

He settles down and pulls out his book to read. Orders a coffee. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

Theseus has always been a sensible man, a capable one. He'll tell Newt you didn't want him. He'll put his energy and efforts into the resistance against Grindelwald. He looks fine, and maybe one day he will be.

He knows, logically, that you will be too. But he cannot deny that part of him was left on that platform tonight, and he cannot deny that it might remain there for good.

----

January 

The woman lingers in the shop, her gaze flitting from shelf to shelf without much intention.

Theseus knows that he's ceased to be a novelty. Small as Hogsmeade was, he's been living there for a little over two months. The village's residents no longer looked to him or Newt, or Newt's "friends," with any curiosity or suspicion. If the woman is loitering around, it's because she wants to speak to him.

"Mrs. Beaumont," he inquires, trying to be as patient as he can, wiping his hands off on a rag before placing them flat on the counter. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh!" She seems relieved he's broached conversation, walking eagerly to the front counter that he's behind. "Mr. Scamander, I just wanted to say how very happy we are to have you and your brother here. Apart from the students, it always gives me hope, seeing young people and newcomers moving here."

He nods warmly, offers a closed-lip smile, but says nothing. He knows Mrs. Beaumont is one for long, chatty, pointless conversation. If he struck one up he'd never hear the end of it.

Theseus wants to close up for the evening. He wants to return to his living quarters at the inn. The potion shop was supposed to have closed ten minutes ago.

From Head Auror to humble assistant shopkeeper. If he thinks about that disparity too much he starts to go insane. Veritably insane. But he tries to rid himself of useless pride, something he'd been so occupied with before. Tries to remember what he's doing here, what's at stake. The position at the potion shop was just a cover. The evenings and long nights--that's when he, Dumbledore, and Newt did their real work.

Mrs. Beaumont shuffles out of the shop, made shy by her confession.

It's unseasonably warm for mid-January, the snow patchy, in wet-looking, thin sheets of ice spread over yellowing grass. Most days the sky is mercifully blue, bright and pale. But the sun still sets early, and it's a purple evening by the time Theseus locks up.

"Dammit," he curses softly. The key gets jammed in the lock sometimes. He's sure there's some way this could be made more efficient through magic.

The potion shop where he works is at the very edge of the village. The back window overlooks a white, roaring river that crumbles rockily down the hillside towards the Black Lake. Theseus starts his walk back towards the inn, back into town, unseeingly.

He knows the way so well by now that sometimes he just winds up in his room, with no memory of the walk at all.

Theseus looks forward to meeting up with his younger brother tonight.

Their relationship has improved, considerably, within the last two months. At nights when they have no other work to do and no Grindelwald-related assignments from Dumbledore, Theseus helps Newt on his book about magical beasts. Newt's notes were these soul-crushingly disorganized collections of writings and sketches, his findings all haphazardly piled together in a barely-bound journal. Theseus had been helping him turn his work into a more readable format, maybe something that could one day be published. Theseus had forgotten how much he enjoyed working with magical creatures in school, had forgotten that he was quite good at it too.

A loose paper currently adhering itself to his boot breaks him out of his reverie. It crunches when he tries to walk. He stops to kick it off, unsuccessfully. It looks quite old, half-torn and filthily brown, and a bit frozen as well. He leans down to pick it from his shoe with a grimace, lifting it up in curiosity.

WANTED.

The image of your face on the paper is enough to make him stop walking completely, stop breathing. At first he thinks he's hallucinating, he'd always known you'd come back to haunt him.

He's in an alleyway, one he doesn't take often, he doesn't know what compelled him to take this route today. He looks up in horror at the grey brick walls. They're plastered with the same, tattered poster of you, the one calling for your arrest, who knows how long they've been up.

WANTED: Have You Seen This Witch? Y/N Y/L/N.

Contact the Ministry of Magic immediately if you have any information concerning her whereabouts.

The posted reward money makes his stomach turn. But the sight of your face, that does something far worse to him.

The photo they used of you is from your first day at the Ministry. A cropped and zoomed-in image of you smiling, with eye-welling pride, in front of the huge wooden door to the Auror Office. In the image you move after smiling for the picture, you look around with an anxious, unsure sort of happiness. He draws his thumb over the dirty paper, the picture of your face.

This isn't possible. This can't be real.

He runs to the inn. His lungs are burning from the cold, dry air, but he doesn't stop. He pushes through the doors and Aberforth stands up from one of the tables by the bar, startled.

"What do you think you're-"

Theseus ignores him, breaking into the back room and falling to his knees before the fireplace. Wand shaking in his hand, he places a Floo Call to Thatcher Birchen. He's an Auror. More importantly, he was Theseus's friend from his Hufflepuff days. He wouldn't betray Theseus, not willingly.

When Thatcher's face materializes in the coals of the fireplace it looks unhappy to see him.

"Theseus, you shouldn't be calling me here. You didn't leave us on the best terms-"

"I know, I'm sorry. I wouldn't reach out if it wasn't an emergency."

"I'm not keen to talk to you regardless," Thatcher snaps. But he doesn't end the Floo Call.

Theseus realizes with a pang that Thatcher is scared. But Theseus doesn't understand why. He's diligently avoided all news press and talk about the Ministry these last two months, hoping to avoid you. No Ministry talk, no new editions of The Daily Prophet, just work with his hands. Moving a rag over the wooden counters at the potion shop, running the numbers and taking up accounting. Restocking boxes of ingredients.

This seems to him, now, to have been a great and careless mistake.

He thought you'd be running the Auror Office now, taking names, that Newt could reach out to you at a crucial, appropriate time.

"Did..." He has to ready himself to say your name aloud. "Thatcher, did something happen to Y/N? I saw a flyer today that said she's missing, that she is wanted under suspicion of espionage. Did something happen while she was working as an Auror?"

Theseus doesn't want to reveal too much. He's worried bringing you to the gala in Berlin and the Mausoleum in France that weekend in November might have already incriminated you.

"Theseus," Thatcher explains in a hushed tone. "Y/N Y/L/N never filled the post at all. I-I heard something about a potential offer the day you quit, but she disappeared that very night."

Theseus can hardly hear the rest of what Thatcher is saying, his whole body has gone numb.

"No one saw her in the weeks after her disappearance. It was assumed she'd taken up with Grindelwald. It had already been proven that she'd stolen some important documents from the Ministry Archives-"

"How?" Theseus's voice breaks on the word, miserably.

Thatcher sighs sympathetically.

"They found her wand and analyzed it. Found a spell that made copies of documents associated with the Ministry Archives. Hence the assumption, hence the wanted posters they put up a while ago..."

Theseus knows this could never be true. You and Grindelwald.

"What do you mean by 'found her wand''?" He asks with sudden, horrific clarity. You've been missing this whole time. Without a wand.

"That same night you resigned. They found it in front of Kings Cross Station."

The air is sapped from the room, Theseus unthinkingly flings some fresh coals onto the Floo Call with a limp palm, it collapses the shape of Thatcher's face and the call crumbles into nothing. He didn't say goodbye, he has to get some air.

He's so taken aback, reeling with nausea, that he has to brace himself against the wall with both hands. He keels over and dry heaves for a few seconds.

Two months you'd been missing.

And they'd found your wand at the station. You'd been coming, coming for him. This whole time he'd thought...

Newt bursts into the room, Aberforth is standing behind him looking uncertain, alert.

"Theseus! Aberforth told me--But... What's going on?!"

Theseus stands and closes the door so it's just the two of them. He's wearing the apathetic, half-conscious expression of a sleepwalker.

Newt takes a seat in the wooden chair.

"Newt... Grindelwald has her. He's had her this whole time. Since the day I quit the Ministry."

"I..." Newt's reaction doesn't satisfy Theseus. He looks troubled, but only vaguely.

"Newt," Theseus starts again with newfound frustration, passion. "While we were laying low, writing your book, restocking shelves, while we were brought up to the castle at Christmastime, Y/N has been in his custody! Tortured, starving, alone, I don't know. When I think about it, it kills me. I can't handle it-"

"We don't know if she's even alive, Theseus," Newt says this rationally, albeit unhappily. "Grindelwald doesn't keep prisoners unless they are valuable, important. She might be dead. When I heard she wasn't promoted to an Auror in November-"

"November?"

Cold rushes into Theseus's veins. There is no silence as deadly as the one that follows. He can feel his blood crystallize and crack, it’s too bodily a sensation to even call it shock. It’s betrayal. 

“You knew?” 

All those months collapse into nothing, they mean nothing to him.

For so long Newt kept his distance, felt misunderstood by Theseus and their mother for the path he chose in life. And yes, perhaps Theseus did misunderstand, did judge him for it, never took his career or his interest in magical beasts seriously. Maybe he was berating at times, suffocating with his good, brotherly intentions, and they’d drifted apart as adults. 

But these last eight weeks in Hogsmeade they’d mended that, delicately, bruisingly, as one mends small bones, with small intrusions and concessions. Quiet conversations, sessions where Theseus helped him turn his work into something resembling a book, living together for the first time since they were children. 

But that means nothing to Theseus now, nothing. 

Newt doesn’t meet his eyes, the shame too heavy to lift his head. He’s sitting, hunched over in his chair like it is mounted to the floor.

“No,” Newt breathes out. “No, Theseus. I knew she never became Head Auror. I knew it went to… to someone else, but I didn’t know she was missing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?" His voice is torn-sounding. More hurt than enraged. "You didn’t even suspect—you didn’t reach out once?! I don’t believe you.”

“I swear it to you—“

“You should’ve told me.”

“You told me she didn’t love you!” Newt looks up at last, eyes wild with the panic of a cornered animal. “That she didn’t choose you! I-I don’t know what we could’ve done for her even if we did know…” 

That there is a new wound, it blackens Theseus’s heart to hear it.

“I know Dumbledore knows where Grindelwald is. Christ, it was Y/N who stole those documents from the Ministry archives, those maps! We can go to her."

Newt just keeps shaking his head at the floor. It makes Theseus want to go up to him and shake him.

"If it were me, Newt, you would’ve come for me….”

“That’s different. We don’t do these sort of rescue missions, they’re too dangerous. Grindelwald, he—he’s untouchable.” 

“You make me ashamed. You have always, always been braver than me. I didn’t realize it before, when we were kids, but you have. You were never a coward, Newt. Don’t let this fight change you.”

“Theseus, if we try to rescue her we will lose everything. I cannot risk this, cannot risk them.”

No one else is in the room but Theseus knows who he means. Jacob. Tina. And the other ragtag insurgents who have found their way into Newt’s crew over the last two months, who have decided to set aside their lives to fight.

Newt is staring at him pleadingly. Theseus feels he doesn’t recognize him anymore, feels as if he is standing in the room all alone. The space between them stretches and stretches until Theseus speaks again.

“No,” Theseus’s throat is dry, his voice subdued. He shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t ask you to… I’ll go alone.”

“Theseus, please don’t—“

He turns and leaves, cutting the conversation short.

This has never been negotiable. He let you slip away from him once, asked you to, encouraged you to in his last letter.

He would not let you be lost again.

——— 

You almost miss being tortured. Well, no, that isn't true.

But anything seems preferable to this ever-expanding, engulfing nothingness. After that first week of torture and questioning in which you revealed nothing they wanted to hear (thankful that Newt had kept you in the dark), none of Grindelwald's followers entered your cell. They don't even feed you often enough to keep you alive, but it seems more like carelessness, derision for your muggleborn blood status, than like they are trying to kill you.

If it weren't for Queenie you would've starved to death.

The first time Queenie slipped into your cell to sneak you some bread you tried to kill her. Her reading your thoughts and reciting them aloud, frantically, as if they would save her or prove her allyship, actually did save her. She stunned you into a dumbfounded stupor. You'd never met someone with her abilities before.

She was a funny woman. A devoted follower of Grindelwald who revealed little and had an oversensitive disposition, but you soon grew to appreciate her clandestine visits. She was kind. Remarkably so. Not only for feeding you, but for sitting and talking to you at all. That was its own kindness.

You thought you knew loneliness before, but this...

You knew your mind was a hostile place, even before you were brought here. But being left alone with yourself was the worst torture Grindelwald could've thought up.

You distract yourself with your less injurious thoughts, and avoid thoughts of Theseus at all costs.

Those are so painful you dare not think his name. In your mind, a blotted, blacked-out figure remains in his stead, a hole you've torn out yourself. In those first days, you'd repeated his name out loud, like a mantra, and thought of him liberally and without pause, even while you were being tortured.

"Theseus. Theseus. Theseus. Come save me. Please, come find me."

What waste. No one was coming. All you had ahead of you was this nothingness.

Sometimes, lights move outside the slit in your wall--too pathetic of an opening to be called a window. You can’t even see out of it, it just lets in cold air. Those shadows and flashes of light are the only color in your world. Sometimes when you look down at yourself, even your hands look black and white, made sepia and sickly gray.  

The lights are sometimes orange, swooping lights, like arcs of fire being dropped overhead. Sometimes green, watery, glowing darkly like moonstone or bioluminescence. What you see aren't the spells themselves, but just the brilliance they cast into your room from the courtyard.

You don't know what Grindelwald is doing, what sort of spells are producing these bursting, sporadic hues.

You lie sideways on the floor and stare at them playing out against your wall, soft glowing spots sinking and rising.

They remind you of the magical lights, bobbing and hanging mid-air, that the Ministry decorated the Atrium ceiling with for the annual Christmas party. That was one year ago, though it feels like a past life, or a dream...

----

One Year Ago, December

You'd never heard the Atrium so full of people and life. It was usually bustling with conversation and noise, but this sort of noise, the happy noise of laughter and popping champagne bottles and high-spirited chatter, that was new.

You crossed your arms, glass in hand, watching contentedly from the sidelines. You never knew how to conduct yourself when Theseus was with Leta, you strangely felt as if you'd be caught doing something wrong. So you endeavored to avoid them both.

And besides, it had shocked you, the dull knife-turn of pain you felt watching him with her, talking to her in the corner at the beginning of the party.

You'd gone mute for the night, head swimming, gazing at the decorative lights floating overhead. All your thoughts felt buoyant, distant and hard to grasp, bobbing in and out. You knew you were spacing out, but you couldn't stop, maybe it was the mulled wine.

You had just turned down the promotion earlier that day.

"We're going to you directly to ask if you want it. We wanted to ask you first," the department head had said with great satisfaction, like he was delivering you a personal gift. "We know if it were up to Theseus he'd have you by his side 'till he retires!"

The last part was said with a half-joking laugh, but you'd tilted your head in confusion.

"Sorry, what?"

The man scoffed.

"He likes you very, very much, Y/N," the man said, like it was obvious. "He's made that explicitly clear to his colleagues who were hoping to share you as an assistant early on. It was his express wish that you work with him alone."

'He likes you very, very much.'

The idea of being liked, chosen by him... It was like a shooting star crashing over your head, light falling around you in bright shards, fatal, dazzling, undeserved.

You startled when you felt a hand on your forearm.

"Y/N," Theseus said, pulling you out of your thoughts. "There you are."

He'd been looking for you. The thought made your heart soar, felt like being chosen all over again.

There was a wild merriment in his eyes. You couldn't tell if he was tipsy or just happy to see you.

"Here I am," you echoed in confirmation.

"Dance with me?" Before you could answer he cautiously pulled both of your hands, winding his fingers through yours and slowly guiding your arms in and out to the rhythm of the song.

You couldn't help but give into him, smile, laugh, you were never not going to say yes.

"Where's Leta?" You didn't want to ask, to ruin the moment, but it seemed right to.

Theseus shook his head and made a tutting, disappointed noise, twirling you around.

You dipped your head back and the lights whirled overhead, too radiant to be stars.

"She left. She doesn't like to dance. Doesn't like parties, actually."

As if afraid you were going to leave him, as if just to hear your laugh again, he spun you once more, more vigorously.

"Dance with me, Y/N," he bemoaned.

You laughed again and let yourself be spun and caught by his arms.

"Aren't I doing that now?"

"Good," he said resolutely, pleased. His smile was infectious. "Don't stop."

You felt like a girl again, weak in the limbs and susceptible to all sorts of hope, the dangerous kind. His hands in yours, the dazzled look in his eyes as they beheld you.. You regretted nothing.

"I won't leave until you tell me to, sir." You added in the honorific sarcastically, to keep the tone light, but the look on your face was terribly earnest. "I promise. You'll have to send me away."

----------

You don't remember falling asleep while looking at the lights on your wall. You didn't mean to think about the Christmas party, about him.

More often than not, more often than even the nightmares about rabid dogs and black water rising and the orphanage, you dream about the last train home. About the night your parents died.

Your family was poor. You did not hold this against them. You were too young to do anything but love your parents dearly, indiscriminately. You were barely seven years old, but you worked most days in the factories of East London and were happy to help, to not be burdensome like the hungry, needy children in story books.

That evening after work you'd been distracted, playing with a stray dog with some other children, and you missed the last train home. You resolved to sleep at the station, flat on the ground of the platform, and take the first train in the morning.

Your parents had gone out looking for you and were killed in a nondescript alleyway, found with their empty pockets turned-out. You dream about that night, that platform on the London Overground, you fear missing that train.

And, now, that is not the only missed train that haunts you.

Someone's here.

You wake, instantly. Your eyes open with a dispassionate immediacy.

There's no train. Fingers twitching, you instinctually reach for your wand for what must be the thousandth time, to protect yourself. Its absence feels full-circle almost.

You remember how you couldn't sleep your first year at Hogwarts, you'd stumble to class with tormented little dark circles under your eyes. You were too terrified to sleep, kept fearing you'd wake up and be back at the orphanage, that it would all be taken away from you if you didn't keep your eyes open.

Strangely, since you arrived in this cell, you haven't had any trouble sleeping at all. You sleep most of the day away curled up on the floor like a baby.

"Queenie," you mutter, sitting up falteringly. "Watching me sleep, are you?"

Queenie is standing with perfect posture in the corner of your cell, by the door, wringing her hands.

"I don't know how you sleep like that, on the floor..." She seems genuinely upset when you look up at her. “You must miss all your things. Your home. Your family… I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. I was born with nothing, nothing. This room it feels…” You glance around, as if seeing it through Queenie’s eyes, seeing it for the very first time.

Metal chair with a missing leg in the corner. Filthy blanket on the floor. It’s more barren than awful, anyone could’ve lived here. 

“It feels familiar to me," you admit.

Queenie says nothing, eyes wide. Since you met her here, she’s never seemed at ease, never seems to know what to say. For a moment the two of you just sit there in vacant silence, neither of you really present.

"You don't say his name anymore."

You don't even want to acknowledge the comment, you stare at the corner of the wall and hope what she's said will just go away if you don't.

"Theseus," she says explanatorily, as if you didn't understand her. The word is an affront from her mouth, worse than a slap, it makes your stomach twist. You feel exposed. "Do you...Do you feel betrayed by him? That he hasn't come..."

You close your eyes to gather your bearings.

"No," you say. "It would be very strange, almost a pleasure, if anyone in the world could betray me. Stab me in the back. I don't trust or know anyone well enough for that. I wish."

You're trying to sound self-deprecating, maybe even funny, but there's no energy behind it.

Queen looks at you sadly, sympathetically. Sometimes you forget about her ability to hear your thoughts. How futile it is to lie to her now. It embarrasses you, that you still care what she thinks. That you're still attempting to shirk off your pain for her sake.

“But Queenie,” you turn your head to her, defeat written all over your face. “Queenie, my God, what am I doing here?”

Your life is in tatters again and you don’t even know why. They tortured and questioned you when you first arrived, but you hadn't seen anyone but Queenie since.

“You’re a spy. You were working with the Scamanders,” she recites this as if reading off a rap sheet. It’s clear it’s what she’s been told, and is the flimsy, defensive logic she’s using to justify you being here.

“So why hasn’t he killed me already?” You can’t help how lifeless your voice sounds, almost bored.

Too much pain is a deadening, desensitizing thing. At some point, it ceases to be effective. Grindelwald’s followers have pushed you past that point. 

Queenie’s expression shutters closed.

She always seems so conflicted, whether she’s helping you or following Grindelwald’s orders, there’s some secret turmoil eating her up inside.

“Please,” you say.

“Grindelwald thinks you could play an important part in his plans, in the Spring. It’s… Do you know The Predictions of Tycho Dodonus?”

You know it from school. You think back to the Lestrange Mausoleum, to what Newt told you. 

“Prophecy 20? But Credence he can’t be-“

“No, Prophecy 21.” 

You stare at her, not following. 

When she speaks it’s as if her voice comes from behind her, not from her. The prophecy tumbles from her painted mouth and fills the desolate cell:

“Come bleeding springtime,

come new leaves, come bone:

A lone daughter destined,

Without bloodline or home,

To transform darkest skies,

With great power, unknown.” 

She looks at you meaningfully. 

You scoff.

“Kill me then. That I am living…. Your Grindelwald is a fool.”

Queenie bristles defensively. “No! H-He is a great man who-“

You wave her off, weakly.

“There are plenty of muggleborn witches without homes, Queenie. Just head to the orphanage Hogwarts plucked me from in North London and you’ll see. The prophecy is not about me. I’m nothing special. I’m nothing…” 

You know your fatigue isn’t natural. Despite Queenie’s best efforts, you are malnourished. Made simple-minded and irritable because of it. Frail.

You don’t hide your spell of faintness as well as you hoped to. Your eyelids are low, sedated.

Ever the mother hen, Queenie rushes to your side, kneeling.

“Let me sneak in more food, honey. Just give me a moment, I can-“

“Wand,” you say, your voice battered and forceless. It’s a strain to lift your eyes to meet Queenie’s then, to open them. But you make a point to.

Your voice is feeble, but your eyes are challenging, fierce.

“Queenie, if you really want to help me, get me a wand.” 

“Y-You’re too weak. Even if I could get one to you, it would be too difficult for you to escape, to fight them, there’s—“

Your laugh is so deranged sounding, so sharp and unhinged that it silences her, cuts through the empty room bright and blade-like.

“Queenie,” you sigh. “Why do all wizards talk like that? Magic is the easiest thing in the world. Besides, you haven’t seen me fight.” 

-----

No one expects it.

You've been so docile and half-alive after being tortured, the guard who brought your meal is so confused he doesn't fight back at all, merely tumbles backwards with astonished, wide eyes until you're able to knock him unconscious.

When Queenie brought you the wand earlier that day you'd tried in vain to convince her to come along with you. To escape and return to her sister, Tina.

She hadn't even said no, she just said, "I'm sorry."

Your legs wobble with every hurried, barefoot step. God, you don't know when the last time you walked was, nevertheless ran. It doesn't help that the castle is foreign to you. Queenie's succinct directions did little to capture the sheer, gargantuan size of the building.

Turn left. Down the staircase. Turn right. There's a locked door at the end of the hall. There might be guards on the other side.

You recite the instructions again and again, more to stay sane than to memorize them.

You round a corner too fast and are met with three men, dressed in dark tailored-suits. You unleash three spells, one for each, quick, tearing through them before they can even turn. You don't breathe, you don't miss.

You feel sorry for it, but you can't afford to be delicate or careful or merciful. Every second you're here is a moment Grindelwald could realize what's going on and come kill you in a heartbeat.

Hearing the ruckus, another man comes flying down the main hall, snarling.

"Avada Kedavr-"

You spot the exit and don't stick around, ducking your head and tumbling out into the courtyard, twisting your ankle but not missing a beat.

You keep running forward, stumbling, half-delirious, out towards the main iron gate.

You're shocked to find yourself at the summit of some snowy mountain. The world is blindingly white. The building you've come from is some stony fortress, more grand than you'd imagined from the bleak confines of your cell.

The air is arid, thin and dry with brutal cold. It burns to breathe in. Cuts like sandpaper in your throat.

You have to get past the gate to surpass Grindelwald's anti-apparition charm.

Almost there, I'm almost-

With a jolt you turn around. You can feel him looking at you, feel the strength of his gaze with the same recognition of a prey animal realizing they're being watched, hunted.

Grindelwald.

From the high tower window his face has gone serene with fury. Almost blank. The look in his eyes is beyond angry, it is rage in its purest, most distilled form, he hardly moves.

You tear your gaze away and lurch your body through the front gate.

You don't know where you are, you thought about apparating to London, but that's the first place they'd go to find you again.

Then you think of Hogsmeade, but it fell under the same anti-apparition wards that guarded Hogwarts.

"Nearby, then." You direct your magic, channel and funnel it all in the direction of the place before the image of it is even fully formed in your mind. "Feldcroft."

In a cutting, dizzying whoosh you are spelled away.

Feldcroft was an inconsequential village of wizardfolk, small, rural, not too far afield of Hogwarts. You'd spent one summer holiday there rather than go back to the orphanage, after your first year.

You'd helped a farmer work his land during the long summer days in return for meals and lodging. You were twelve and it was the hottest summer of your life, you hadn't known Scotland could be so hot, but anything was better than going back where you came from, terrified you'd never find your way back.

Before you've even landed you realize your folly. You were too weakened by the torture and starvation, and too far away.

You hit the ground bone-breakingly hard, but you hardly notice that dull, throbbing pain over the sharper, louder pain of being cut to slithers. Your skin twists and tears away from itself, from your muscles, in spirals and stripes. You couldn't fully stick the landing, it's an imperfect apparition, and this is the consequence.

You cry out, a crumpled heap on the frozen ground, limbs twisted and bloody.

With a rapidly blotting vision you strain your neck upwards.

"Did I make it? Am I safe?"

You don't even recognize Feldcroft. Winter had stripped all the fields and mountains of life. Summer, your childhood there, it's all long gone.

Some prophetic witch destined for greatness.

You see the blurred legs of a man approaching. When he leans down to look at your face, your limbs twitch in agonizing protest, but you're too injured to move.

"Y/N?" He says.

You inhale sharply, in pained horror.

"Y/N, I didn't recognize you."

You still can't see very well, but the liquid panic in your veins dissipates at the sound of his voice. You know him.

You hadn't recognized him at first, but it was the farmer, Mr. Howell, from what must've been a decade ago. The old man who had taken you in that summer when you were twelve. You remember him being old then, but he looks impossibly older now, ancient, really.

You don't know what to do with the recognition, with this information, but it doesn't matter because you are bleeding out and, within seconds, you feel a sweet and pain-sapping unconsciousness take you.

----

When you wake your consciousness is a flimsy, fragile thing, like trying to float a feather in air. Your vision is black and brown around the edges.

You're in a bed and Mr. Howell is putting a kettle on. You feel worse than you ever did in captivity of Grindelwald, closer to death.

"It still looks the same," you say, rasping. "I didn't recognize the village, but this house..."

A swell of weakness overtakes you again and your vision almost blacks out completely before returning in a soft vignette.

You can see the farmer, Mr. Howell, staring at you from across the room, at your starved body, your bloodless face.

"What happened to you?" It's so direct a question it's almost startling, almost rude. But it's said with such genuine remorse and concern that your heart softens.

"I..." He licks his lips before starting again. "When I told Minerva I'd agree to take you in that summer... Well, I thought your life was so sad. It was sad you had no one to go home to for the holiday. That your life had been so hard, she told me, about the abuse... But you were so young, such a skinny, hopeful thing. So talented. And good. I was sure it had to get better."

You smile at him, it pains you to do so. The old-you would've bristled, pride scorched, at anyone pitying you. But now you can only smile.

"I always thought the same too, sir."

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" he asks earnestly. "If you are, you're always welcome back at the farm. You know that."

Your heart seizes, your eyes well. You haven't spoken to him since that summer when you were twelve, that September when you thanked him hurriedly and spirited off with badly concealed eagerness to rejoin your friends at Hogwarts, without a glance behind.

"Thank you. It's more than I deserve, but thank you... And, yes. I'm afraid I am in trouble. I've just been a prisoner of Gellert Grindelwald. I'm sorry, I should be leaving, he could come after me."

The man looks taken aback, but ignores your words and asks instead: "Oh, Y/N, you look so unwell. Should I call for someone up at Hogwarts? The hospital wing is obviously reserved for students, but I'm sure-"

"I believe I am going to faint now, I apologize." The words come out of your mouth in an embarrassed rush. The dark edges close in and swallow you up, life itself extinguishes like a candle.

------

Theseus towers over the students at Hogwarts, he tries his best to push his way through the crowded halls without trampling them.

"Professor Dumbledore!" He calls out, giving up. Getting the man's attention must be easier than reaching him at this point.

Dumbledore looks up, startled, from across the sea of black-robed students. He's standing in the doorframe to his classroom.

Theseus imagines how he looks in Dumbledore's eyes--helpless, drowned. Maybe insane.

When Dumbledore waves him over he continues to gently push his way forward.

"I love her, I love her," he's thinking with a plummeting urgency, each internal admission of "I love her" bringing him closer to tears.

"She's not dead. If she was I'd know. I'd feel it. I'd feel her leaving me for good."

"Theseus," Dumbledore shoos the remaining students out and shuts the thick wooden door once Theseus enters. "What is this about?"

Theseus swallows hard and holds Dumbledore's gaze, trying to effuse authority.

"I need you to tell me where Gellert Grindelwald is. Right now."

Dumbledore opens his mouth in a stunted exhale, at a loss for words.

"Pardon?"

"Y/N has been taken prisoner."

"So, what, you're going to charge in there, alone, against Gellert Grindelwald and who knows how many of his supporters?"

Theseus tries not to waver, but the panic is beginning to set in. What if Dumbledore denies him?

"If I have to," he says, purposefully.

Dumbledore walks over to his desk and sits on it, stunned.

"Theseus," he says. "I've known you since you were a boy. I-I'm sorry, but I hardly recognize you. Have you no appeal to reason?"

"None at all, sir."

Dumbledore laughs, and the sound confuses Theseus, upsets him.

"You love her? God, you really do..."

Theseus is willing to destroy himself for it, for you.

"Help me. Tell me where to find her, or I'll find her on my own."

The heavy creaking sound of the door being pushed open causes Theseus to turn in agitation.

A woman in a nurse's uniform glides right past him and up to Dumbledore.

"Albus," she says in apparent distress. Theseus can't make out the rest.

After a moment of the woman's whispering, Dumbledore turns to Theseus, looking at him in sharp alarm.

"What is it?" Theseus says, unkindly. He doesn't care. He just wants to know where you are.

"Fate," answers Dumbledore. The line of his mouth is grave but his eyes are twinkling. "We've had a request from a farmer out in Feldcroft. He says a former student has apparated onto his land and is in dire need of medical care, and protection. That there could be followers of Grindelwald's coming after her shortly."

Theseus doesn't dare breathe. Doesn't let himself feel the acute bite of hope nipping at his heels, at his heart.

"He says her name is Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N."

--------

"Wake up, Y/N."

There are hands on your shoulders. Someone is touching you. Someone is-

Your whole body jerks awake. Your limbs are lashing out, fighting, before your eyes are even open.

"Get off me! Don't fucking touch me! Don't-"

"Y/N! Y/N, it's Theseus," Dumbledore is shouting. "It's okay you're safe-"

"What's happened to her?!"

Even his name didn't stall you, but the sound of his voice, pure and surreal, reaches you through the din of panic roaring in your ears. You exhale.

Once you've stopped kicking and struggling, the room comes into vision.

There are four people surrounding your bed. You're in Mr. Howell's house, of course, of course you are...

There in front of you are Professor Dumbledore, an older woman in a Hogwarts nurse uniform, Mr. Howell, and, impossibly, Theseus Scamander.

Theseus is staring at you, wide-eyed, like he doesn't recognize you. A dot of blood marks his temple, you wonder if it was you who did that just now.

"What's happened to her?" He repeats, his voice cracks. "What--Who did this to her?"

"She's been tortured, Theseus. And starved, maybe worse," says Dumbledore in a clipped, hushed way. "Please, understand, and give her some time to-"

"You're real," your voice is so quiet, so full of wonder, but it captures his full attention.

Theseus is holding his breath in apprehension. You're still staring at him in horrific fascination.

"This isn't--This is real?"

Theseus comes forward and kneels beside the bed, reaches for your arm. You can hardly look at his face, it's so startlingly beautiful. Dark blue eyes. The curve of his lips. It's really him.

"Y/N." He retracts his hand when you flinch, involuntarily. "Y/N, I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, I'm not gonna hurt you..."

You remember that you secretly love when he talks to you like this, whispers like he would to an animal he's trying to soothe, or like he's trying not to wake you. He's speaking so delicately, but you can hear in his voice how his heart is crushed.

Everyone is staring down at you in the bed. You figure you've already been treated from the wet rag on your sweaty forehead and the way every second more and more sensation returns to your fingertips and toes. Your body itches and tingles with a crawling warmth that feels like fever where your flesh has begun to stitch itself back together--the nurse's work, no doubt.

With every breath you return more and more to yourself, the dulled sensations of the world come back in startling pinpricks of color and sound and vividness. The parts of your consciousness that make you you flood back into the frail animal of your body.

"Oh," you say, with a groan, pinching your eyes closed.

Theseus looks startled, turning from the nurse to you frantically.

"Y/N! Are you okay, what's-"

"Oh, Theseus!" You sigh at last, and he looks back to you, his brow still furrowed. You smile at him, not caring how wretched and sickly you look, you're just so happy to see him. "Theseus, you came! I love you, I love you, I love-"

He throws his arms around you, leaning over the bed.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you can't stop smiling.

He won't let go of you, so you don't realize he's crying until you feel his shoulders shaking, the gentle rocking of his frame.

"You're supposed to be the one who is good at being in control," you murmur fondly.

When he pulls away he's collected himself, sniffles once and then groans.

"Oh, God. For a second there I thought you didn't recognize me, that you were scared of me."

"Not of you," you shake your head. "Of...."

The reality of your situation settles like ash in your mouth.

"Albus," you say, turning to others. "We need to go now. I escaped as quickly as I could, but they could follow me here any second. Please."

Dumbledore nods, and then whispers something to the nurse.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. But I don't believe you'll be strong enough to stand. Not yet."

"I've got it," Theseus says cooly, before you can even respond.

"Too weak to stand," you want to snicker but can't summon the energy.

"I knew that was some bullshit prophecy," you mutter, lifting your arms to help Theseus, who is leaning by the bed to pick you up.

He stops. So does Dumbledore. They're both frowning.

"What?"

"Oh," you huff. "Grindelwald thinks Tycho Dodonus's twenty-first prophecy is about me. I'm supposed to be this great witch with the power to transform the world, didn't you know?"

There is a beat of shocked silence before Theseus begins to laugh, heartily so.

You scowl. "Why is that funny?!"

"It's not funny," He caresses your face affectionately with the back of his hand. "It's just that I knew it. I always knew you were destined for greatness. Of course there's a prophecy about you. Of course the world saw you coming..."

Your heart sputters dutifully, weakly. You're torn between leaning into the feeling of his hand on your face and turning away, protecting yourself from what you cannot have.

It still feels so ruined to you. You know he must be doing this out of pity. Out of guilt.

It had been more than two months since he asked you to come with him. Who knows what he's been doing, what he thought of you now...

Your eyes prick with tears at this realization.

You see him through the lens of the memory even as he stands before you. You remember shaking his hand on your first day at the Ministry, dancing with him under twirling lights at the Christmas party, his booming laugh, his gentle chuckle. The warm, growing feeling in your chest knowing you were the cause.

You remember laying naked with him in bed, his broad hands, the barely-there freckles at his temple, the light-colored hair trailing down from his navel, the way he held your legs up when he made love to you, when he was inside you, spreading them, always trying to get deeper, closer. It should be vulgar, the memory, but it doesn't feel that way to you. Every moment of it felt clean, bathed in light and goodness.

Your heart pounds heavily, pathetically. As he helps you up from the bed you have the sickening feeling that you are saying goodbye.

Your vision swoons, sways like an overhead light. Your legs tingle, half-numb.

"I-I can't stand," you whisper. In a swift motion Theseus scoops you into his arms, bridal style.

He has to hold you sideways and duck his head to get through the narrow doorframe, he's so tall. You're asleep again, this time safe in his arms, before you're out of the village, before you can even tell Mr. Howell thank you.

Goodbye! You think. Goodbye...

------

You’re on a train again and Theseus is holding you. You hardly feel the rumble of the train car on the tracks, hardly feel anything at all but his arms around you.

“Where are we going?” You don’t even care, it’s almost perfunctory that you ask. But some distant part of your brain tells you that it does matter where you are, where you’re going in the world. 

“London. You’re weak, we need to take you home.”

Home. You feel so little affection for your apartment that you’re barely able to make the connection.

“I don’t have a home.”

“We can go to mine. We can go anywhere you want.”

“I want to go…” You feel breathless, feeble. Delusional. “I want to pretend that we’re on a different train.”

“Hm?” Theseus strokes your shoulders, your back comfortingly. Since he met you, all he’s ever wanted to do was hug you, hold you. It’s as if he was meant to, how good it feels to be doing it now. 

It's a terrible thing, how badly he wants to kiss you. But he's willing to wait.

“Can we pretend that I made it on time?" you say. "That I made it to the platform, got on the train that day in November and we’re in it now… Pretend that you’re still asking me to love you and that I said yes.”

He turns to you then, you’re still slouched in his arms. You’re looking up at him so brokenly, there’s hardly any of you left. No sign of that headstrong girl who withheld herself from him so vigorously, who built up walls around herself so high no one could hurt her again. 

“Y/N…” The words have been stolen from him, his heart swiped from his chest at the sight of you, at the knowledge that any part of you believes that he might not want you anymore, might not feel the same.

“Y/N, will you love me?” His voice is a quiet, determined plea. “Will you say yes? I am asking you now. The offer still stands, it always will.”

It's Theseus, your handsome, wonderful Theseus, asking you this. He was the best man you knew, but, even if he wasn’t, you couldn't help but love him. It wasn't a choice for you anymore.

Your lip trembles, but you somehow manage to get the words out without whimpering, without collapsing into him outright.

“Yes,” you say. “Always.”

--

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