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accio-boys · 3 months ago

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prophecy | fiyero x reader

summary; just a seer, prince, secrets, love, & destiny.

author’s note; I totally knew I had to write something new after reading a whole ass fanfic about star-crossed lovers. fiyero lovers should I do a whole ass fiyero x reader fanfic? But what kind of plot? I also wanna do The Wizard x reader but would any read it? Jeff Goldblum is just ughh…iykyk…Btw everyone, REQUESTS ARE OPEN! REQUEST ALL YOU CAN PEOPLE!

Reserved yet academically brilliant—that was who Y/N L/N was, a late enrollee at Shiz University. She stepped off the small boat onto the school’s grounds, her movements cautious yet purposeful. Her gaze darted around the sprawling campus, seeking a sign of faculty or staff to guide her. She clutched the strap of her bag tightly, keeping her head low, trying not to attract attention.

And yet, attention found her.

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure where to go, Mr...?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

“Fiyero,” he said with an easy smile. “Just call me Fiyero.”

There was something about him that struck her. Maybe it was the carefree confidence he exuded, or the way his grin seemed to challenge the very notion of seriousness. But Y/N simply nodded, her expression neutral.

“Oh, okay. Have a nice day, Fiyero.” She turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, intrigued and slightly off-balance. He wasn’t used to being dismissed so quickly—and certainly not by someone as mysterious as her.

Fiyero couldn’t shake her from his thoughts. There was something about Y/N that made him curious, something beneath the surface she seemed desperate to hide. He sought her out, always finding excuses to cross her path, but their encounters were less than pleasant.

“Why do you keep showing up?” she snapped one day after he "accidentally" ran into her outside the library.

“Maybe I just like a challenge,” he shot back, his grin turning mischievous. “You’re not exactly the warmest person, you know.”

She glared at him, her green eyes flashing. “Maybe that’s because I don’t want to be bothered.”

“Or maybe you’re just afraid to let anyone in,” he countered, his tone softening for just a moment before he turned and walked away, leaving her stunned and fuming.

The tension between them only grew. Fiyero’s playful teasing grated on her nerves, and her sharp retorts stung more than she intended. But underneath the barbs and glares, there was an unspoken connection neither could deny.

One evening, during a school event, Fiyero caught her alone in the garden.

“Why do you hide yourself away from me? From everyone?” he asked, his voice devoid of its usual teasing edge.

Her eyes, bright and sharp, flickered with something unreadable. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied softly, turning away. “And I don’t care.”

“You do care,” he said, stepping closer. “You just don’t want to admit it. But I see you, Y/N. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

Her breath caught, but she refused to let him see her falter. “Maybe you should stop looking,” she said, her voice colder than she felt.

But he didn’t stop.

The problem was, Y/N had a secret. A dangerous one. She was a seer, burdened with visions she couldn’t control and truths she often wished she didn’t know. Her gift—or curse, as she saw it—made it impossible to lead a normal life. People who got too close to her either feared her or tried to use her. She’d sworn to herself that Shiz would be different. She would keep her head down, stay invisible.

No attachments.

No risks.

And then there was Fiyero.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Y/N’s resolve faltered. Fiyero had found her once again, his presence as insistent as ever.

“I wonder,” she whispered, almost to herself, her voice trembling as her gaze met his.

Her hand reached up, almost of its own accord, brushing against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at her touch, the softness of it disarming him completely.

Her heart pounded as she leaned in, her lips brushing his softly. The moment they touched, the world seemed to shift around her. But it wasn’t the warmth of the kiss that consumed her; it was the vision that followed.

Images flooded her mind. She saw them together, standing side by side through trials and triumphs. But the vision turned dark, shadowed by an ominous foretelling. One of them would fall. One of them would die.

She gasped, pulling away as if burned. Her hands trembled, and her breath came in shallow gasps. Fiyero reached for her, his concern evident.

“What’s wrong? What did I do?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion and worry.

“It’s not you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. It’s… us.”

She turned and fled, leaving him standing there, his heart aching with the weight of her words.

Y/N tried to avoid him after that, but Fiyero was persistent. His determination to understand her only grew stronger.

“Why are you running from me?” he demanded one day, cornering her in an empty hallway. “What are you so afraid of?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” he pressed, his eyes searching hers. “Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t get it. If I let you in, if we…” She trailed off, unable to say the words. “I saw it, Fiyero. I saw what happens if we’re together. One of us dies.”

He froze, the weight of her confession sinking in. But instead of stepping back, he took a step closer.

“And if we’re apart? What then?” he asked. “Do we just live half-lives, pretending this doesn’t exist? Pretending we don’t exist?”

She stared at him, her resolve crumbling under the force of his words. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to know,” he said gently, his hands reaching up to cradle her face. “You just have to trust me. Trust us.”

It wasn’t until much later that she let her guard down, piece by fragile piece. The change was slow, marked by stolen moments and quiet confessions. The bickering turned to banter, the walls between them crumbling with each shared glance and unspoken understanding.

“Would you love me if you knew?” she asked him one night, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If I knew what?” he pressed gently, his eyes searching hers.

She hesitated, her heart pounding. “If you knew who I really am. What I can do.”

His answer came without hesitation. “I would love you if the sun burned out and the moon disappeared. I would love you if the stars fell from the sky and the earth itself crumbled beneath our feet. I would give up everything—my title, my name, my future—just to have you by my side.”

His voice cracked with emotion as he reached for her, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streamed down her face. “Just say the word, Y/N. Say you’ll be mine, and I’ll move heaven and earth for you.”

Tears blurred her vision, but she smiled through them, her heart finally yielding to the truth she could no longer deny.

“I love you, Fiyero,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the flood of emotions. “With bonds no one can break, I am yours.”

He pulled her close, their foreheads touching as they breathed each other in. “And I am yours,” he murmured.

Their lips met again, but this time, it was a kiss of certainty, of promises made and futures entwined. Whatever storms lay ahead, they would face them together. For the first time, Y/N let herself believe in something more than fear or duty.

She let herself believe in love.

tags; @tn22220-blog

#fiyero tigelaar x reader #fiyero x reader #the wizard x reader #the wizard #wicked the wizard #wicked fiyero #fiyero tigelaar #wicked movie #wicked #jonathan bailey #jeff goldblum

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eeriepromis · 3 days ago

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Caleb Drama & Hypocrisy

[I originally posted this on the official subreddit but I'm not sure if it will get approved by the mods there. The servers are currently down too. - UPDATE: It did not. Flagged as hostile and uncivil instead which it is NOT.]

I want to have a civil, constructive conversation about something that’s been bothering me and many others in the community: There’s been a lot of hate directed at Caleb & Caleb girlies (even before his official release) and it’s only getting worse now that his limited Myth is coming out. This isn’t about “not liking a character.” Everyone is entitled to that. This is about the ongoing hostility, mod bias (not reddit, if you know you know), and the double standards we’re seeing everywhere.

People are saying Caleb “stole” Sylus' wings theme or question why he already has a kiss in his myth. That’s … not how any of this works. The writers and artists literally work on all the characters. There is no such thing as one character “stealing” a theme from another. That’s like arguing over who’s allowed to wear capes in a fantasy setting.

Saying his myth kiss happened “so early” compared to the other LI's ignores the fact that Caleb and MC have a long-established relationship, unlike others who were strangers. (except Zayne who also had a kiss) Of course their development may look different. I'm not even able to enjoy that kiss since it's full of pain and despair - right before both of them literally seem to explode.

Caleb fans had to wait over a year, watching everyone else get content, CGs, story chapters, and celebrations - and yet we’re the ones being called entitled?

The hypocrisy is wild. People say “you have to watch Sylus’ Myth to understand him” (his actions) - And I agree! Sylus has a complex story. He made MC shoot him in the chest, brought her to an EVER scientist because he couldn’t resonate with her, wanted him to experiment on her which could have mutilated her Evol, and still - we are told to give him grace because his Myth explains it. And it does! He’s layered and ultimately loves MC deeply.

But you know what?

So is Caleb.

Caleb isn’t some manipulative monster. [here and here's why] He’s a character who went through trauma, experimentation, isolation, (in his CURRENT life) and still chose to sacrifice himself to survive and protect MC [db4sylus explained it here] - and even fights against a command to kill MC in the new Myth. His Myth and main story arcs are full of nuance - but most people stopped watching at his Main Story and judge him from there. How is that fair? (remember that without context it would be so easy to accuse Rafayel as a seriel k*iller, Xavier as a cheater, Zayne as rude and Sylus as a cruel kidnapper)

The same thing happens with Xavier, who gets called “boring” or “plain” - when in reality, he's anything but boring or plain - and ready to make morally gray decisions and be ruthless. [Has the Light Vanished?] (also let's not forget his *intense* freakiness. It's always the quiet ones guys)

Or Zayne, who’s called robotic, vanilla and cold, even though his Myth is (also) one of the most heartbreaking love stories in the game and used to be happy and warm - but something broke and cursed him. [Snowfall Embrace] - [Fractal Library Analysis] (whispers brat tamer)

Or Rafayel, constantly reduced to “bratty” or “dramatic,” when outside of MC he’s deeply guarded, serious, and vengeful. He’s only vulnerable with her. [Rafayel suffered a lot.] (so poetic, so incredibly deep, thoughtful and introspective.)

Sylus also is misinterpreted all the time even by his own fans as some ultra toxic red flag (I've seen some disturbing fanfics) Because there are those people who actually are into psychos and that kinda fantasies. [kiti_kiwi explained him beautifully] He is actually such a hopeless romantic and softie for MC - so very open for all her whims. (cough brat enabler cough)

Having those fantasies is alright, don't want to shame you (I don't really care tbh) - but some truly think those are canon to the characters; and that's where the issues lie.

If you’re going to hold one LI to a standard of deeper context, that should apply to all of them.

Every single love interest in this game has a duality. That’s literally the point. They are written to be flawed, complicated, and deeply in love with MC. They would never truly harm her. Everything they do - no matter how misguided (and there are truly worse fictional characters in other media) - is to protect her. That’s what they live for. (true giga simps my babies are *nods*)

So why is this fandom so divided and hostile all the time?

I love all the LIs. I started playing this game for the lore and story, not the romance. (it is my first otome and I am demi so there's that) But what I’m seeing right now (people refusing to engage with canon content, inventing toxic headcanons, and spreading hate from surface-level takes) isn’t criticism. It’s misinformation and targeted bullying that are also misleading new players.

You don’t have to like Caleb. You don’t have to main him. But please stop punishing the people who do. We waited over a year for him. And we deserve to enjoy him in peace. If you don't like others spreading misconceptions about your LI - then don't do it yourself to other LI's.

I also think some people in this fandom seriously underestimate how much Caleb girlies are actually going through - and how much hate, judgment, and bias we face daily across multiple platforms. Not just mild disagreements - I'm talking about accusations that are deeply personal and honestly crossing the line.

We’ve been called in*est apologists.

We’ve been told we love “red flags” and psychos (it's okay if you DO, but not if you are accused of it because of misconceptions)

and there must be something seriously wrong with us.

We’ve been mocked, ridiculed, tone-policed, and banned in places where every other LI Main has been allowed to thrive. It’s not just tiring - it’s isolating. (To be clear: I'm not talking about this subreddit!)

And yet - despite all of that? The Caleb channel in the Discord became a safe haven. More like a lads-general that accepts and understands Caleb but is also so very open to gush over every LI with open arms and every girlie. I’ve met Caleb fans (even Mains of other LI) who love him for wildly different reasons. Some are drawn to his protectiveness. A lot of us are the eldest daughters, so they like to be the ones to be cared for for once (to be free of all the responsibilities and expectations of others) and Caleb is so very good at caring. Some adore his teasing and flirty softness. (his VA makes it all sound SO authentic!) Some love his character design and uniform. Some see themselves. (the Millennial vibe, the responsibility, the yearning for freedom) And his cooking is always yearned for!

I'm also one of those who were worried about his portrayal in the new Main Story Arc at his release. That part was suffocating. It was hard to watch and play through. I'm not into yanderes or psychos at all. I didn’t enjoy it. It wasn’t what I wanted for him at all. (I'm also not into his Colonel uniform, sorry my fellow pipsqueaks xD but I know he hates it too.) At least Sylus had the twins as comedic relief *cries internally* And guess what? That’s okay.

What mattered was that I kept reading. I followed his entire arc - his Myth, his Anecdotes, his Bond Story, his Moments. And what I found was a character who made sense. (just like all the others) Who was still trying, still loving, still fighting against the worst parts of his world and himself - for her.

But that part? The part where we explain why we do see the nuance? The part where we talk about how we don’t excuse the red flags, but understand where they come from? It gets ignored. Every time.

This isn’t about defending toxic characters. It’s about wanting the same space to enjoy complexity as every other LI community has already been granted. And being tired of having to justify our existence in a fandom that’s supposed to be about love, choice, and story.

So before you assume Caleb fans are “into red flags,” (not denying there are a few, just like some Sylus girlies too tbh) maybe talk to a few of us if you don't understand. Ask why we like him. Listen when tell our reasonings instead of just dismissing them because they don't fit your context-lacking headcanon narrative. Respect that his arc, like every other LI’s, is layered, painful, and intentional.

We aren’t asking to be everyone’s favorite. We’re asking to exist without being attacked for it.

Please, let’s stop the "he-said-she-said" hate cycle. Let people enjoy what they love. That’s what fandom is supposed to be. Love, create and evolve together. (and angst together. totally angst together.)

I don’t care if you don’t like Caleb. That’s valid. Not every LI is for everyone. But the constant policing, mockery, and moral grandstanding aimed at fans who do like him is just exhausting. It’s okay to enjoy a character with flaws. It’s okay to enjoy different kinds of romance stories. That’s literally the point of this genre.

This is a game. A beautiful, story-rich, emotional game. Let people enjoy it. Let us enjoy our LI. And please stop treating us like we’re the enemy for doing so.

Like- I'm genuily confused??? I was there during the US5 & Tokio Hotel beefs, I was there during the Team Edward and Team Jacob wars and also during the Big Time Rush and One Direction phase. None of those fandoms seemed as divided and infighting like this one. Where are these people taking all the energy to hate and the jealousy from and why are they attacking fictional pixels and fans who can't change anything about their issues instead of working together instead?

Sincerely, A tired but still standing Caleb girly (and lore nerd) (thanks for reading through my TED talk if you've made it this far)

P.S.: A random thought that I've had while writing - I'm expecting all counterpart LI to have a darker lore and more "obvious" red flags than the OG3. Maybe the 6th will even be a Phoenix. Wings could be a counterpart thing. If you've haven't noticed yet - the overview in the Café where you select your LI: The OG3 are in white clothing, while their counterparts are wearing black so far.)

Lots of love to my fellow pipsqueaks.

#Love and Deepspace #LaDs #LaDs Caleb #LaDs Xavier #LaDs Zayne #LaDs Rafayel #LaDs Sylus #LaDs MC #character analysis #Eerie's Analyses #l&ds #lads infighting #hypocrisy #lads fandom

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semisasseater · 2 months ago

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YOU SAID YOU LIKE MY HAIR

so go ahead and touch it .

SUMMARY ‘ comforting her pretty girl proving her hair is perfect

𓊆 世美 𓊇 x f!reader 㞫⠀⠀ ִ ⠀ 513 mentions of past bullying insecurities low self-esteem. (resolved with comfort) — 类型 fluff romance angst w comfort

✴︎ LIBRARY ✴︎

‧˚⠀⠀ 🎱⠀⠀ ɞ 作者注 : oh. my. gosh. TWO fanfics coming out on the SAME day?! is mei spoiling you guys..? well yes! mei is! please read even tho it’s bunz.

You sigh, running your fingers through your thick curls as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your hair is healthy, full, and bouncy—but all you can focus on is the frizzy curls, the way it looks, the way it doesn’t fit the beauty standards drilled into you since childhood. The whispers, the taunts, the teasing—it all lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you can’t escape.

So, you reach for your straightener.

You barely get the chance to turn it on before a familiar warmth appears behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist. Se-mi leans down, resting her chin on your shoulder, watching you through the mirror. Her dark eyes flicker to the straightener in your hand, and she frowns slightly.

“Baby…” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. She reaches out and gently takes the straightener from your grasp, setting it aside. Then, with delicate fingers, she runs her hand through your curls, twirling one around her finger. “I like it better this way”

You blink, your breath catching in your throat. “Really…?” you ask, disbelief lacing your tone.

Se-mi tilts her head, eyes filled with so much love it makes your heart ache. “Of course, love. I love everything about you.” She presses a soft kiss to your temple, then trails her lips down to your cheek, planting another on the mole there. “Your hair,” she whispers against your skin, her fingers still tangled in your curls. Another kiss. “Your cute little nose.” Another. “Your lips.” Another. “Your eyes.” More kisses, slow and intentional, as if she’s trying to erase every insecurity with the warmth of her touch. “Your moles. Everything.”

A giggle slips past your lips, your cheeks heating up at the affection. Se-mi pulls back slightly, her eyes studying your face with an adoring gaze.

“Do you promise, Se-mi?” you ask, your voice small, uncertain—but hopeful.

Her heart clenches at the way you look at her, eyes wide and filled with a quiet vulnerability that makes her want to kiss every inch of your face all over again.

“Of course my sweet” she murmurs, brushing her nose against yours. “Now let’s go yeah? We’re gonna be late”

You nod, finally feeling a little lighter, a little more confident. As you reach to turn off the straightener and stand up, Se-mi suddenly stops you.

“Wait—one last thing”

She reaches over to your vanity and picks up a pair of pink hair clips—your favorite. With gentle hands, she carefully places them in your curls, securing a few strands away from your face. When she pulls back, she smiles, looking entirely too proud of herself.

“There we go” she says, admiring her work. “Perfect”

Something warm blossoms in your chest, a kind of happiness that makes your insecurities fade, even if just for now.

Se-mi takes your hand, intertwining your fingers as she leads you out the door. The moment you step outside, the wind catches in your curls, and instead of feeling self-conscious, you feel… free.

With Se-mi beside you, it’s easy to believe—just for tonight—that you’re beautiful.

@semisasseater

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kindaasrikal · 5 months ago

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Whose to say the ninja would actually recognise a living, breathing Morro when they only knew him green, see through, and dead.

I highly doubt the whole green and see through thing made it easy to see all his facial features when you can also see a chair through him.

So i personally find it likely that Morro could just wear a baseball cap to hide the green streak, maybe some makeup if he still has his under eye markings or a green glowing scar like Cole’s, and just walk freely around Ninjago.

Like maybe Wu might recognise him, that was his first student after all and technically his kid, but the last time he saw a living Morro was decades ago and when he was ten, so.

But Morro might still get away with it seeing as Wu doesn’t seem like the type to be around Ninjago city often, so all he really has to deal with is the ninja and their friends.

He actively avoids Chen’s noodle house unless he’s feeling self destructive enough, he has to hide from Jay and Lloyd at the comic book store in the isle right next to theirs, he actually does frequent Dareth’s restaurant until he almost bumps straight into Nya, he goes no where near that large tower in the middle of the city (Borg tower) and instead frequents the library where he comes face to face with Zane, and when he runs off barely making it by he almost runs head first into Cole who just picked up some cake and was now meeting up with Zane.

If this was a fanfic, Cole and Zane would end up talking to a very reluctant Morro, somehow forcefully convince him for his number from a phone he magically got, and would be stuck with two ninja trying to interact with this guy name ‘roe’

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aliceintheworld · 7 months ago

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PURE ATTRACTION | JJK | TATTOO ARTIST

Pairing: TattooArtistJungkook X NaiveReader

Summary: "I shouldn't be watching a man undressing, especially not from the house next door."

Warning: Intolerance, toxic religion, parental relationship, Jungkook taking off his clothes 😮‍💨🤲 very dumb reader.

A/N: This is my first fanfic on Tumblr and my first BTS one. I know, it's embarrassing. The story isn't that great, and it probably shouldn't be the first one I post here, but the characters took on a life of their own without my consent, and I've been writing this since 2022 (fuck), so here we are. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language and that the reader is extremely annoying. See you on the next chapter! Thank You.

Next Chapter

Chapter 1

I organize the things from the bazaar as I go through the accessories spread out on the table. It's a calm easy task and I've done it more than a thousand times, so even with my eyes closed the job is done masterfully. My mother is next to me, quietly, listening to music on an old radio that she refuses to throw away. It seems that, since it's a radio she got as a teenager, the object has a deep meaning for her and she doesn't even like the thought of exchanging it for something more modern. I hum along too, trying to tune my voice in some parts where the music gets harder and the notes get higher.

Usually on the weekends, every Sunday, my mother and I go to church and the bazaar after the service, to raise money and help the pastor's project. Pastor Leen is a good man and always helps everyone in need, so this semester, during these last months of the year, he has been focusing on the animals that live on the streets. Everyone in the community who goes to church participates and helps in whatever way they can, whether through donations or fundraising, like my mother and I do. That’s why we gathered some clothes and items for the church bazaar, and with the sales, we can do our part. It's exhausting, but rewarding in the end.

During the week, I study at the university in my town and work at the library, so there's not much time for rest, but I like having a busy life. Although I know that, for some people, my idea of a busy life might not seem busy at all. At twenty-one, I’m supposedly supposed to be somewhere else in the world, enjoying my youth and partying with my friends, but strangely, I never wanted that. Whether it’s because of my mother, who always instructed me not to follow that path, or because I’m just introverted, I’ve never gone to parties or had adventures that I could look back on later. The most out-of-the-ordinary thing I've ever done was drink beer when I was eighteen and regret it the next day, feeling guilty for being influenced by a friend.

I’ve never left this town. I’ve never dated. I’ve never been to a party. I haven’t done many memorable things in life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll regret not having these experiences someday, but I’m so tied to the way I live my life that it’s hard to change, even just a little. Habits are hard to break, whether for better or worse. I’m pulled from my thoughts when the store door opens and Mrs. Jeon walks in with a smile on her face and two heavy bags in her hands. I quickly get up intending to help her, but my mother is faster.

“Good morning, Eunji,” Mrs. Jeon greets my mother, letting out a relieved sigh as the weight of one of the bags is lifted from her hands. “Good morning, Y/N, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Jeon. How has your week been?” I ask, taking the other bag from her. I peek inside and notice that it’s full of men’s clothes, judging by the size and the predominantly dark colors.

“Radiant, actually. My son arrived in town last night,” she says, her smile widening. I’m surprised because I didn’t know she had a son. Mrs. Jeon moved to town six years ago, and I don’t recall any son visiting her or her mentioning him. This is the first time she’s spoken about it, at least in front of me.

“Your son, Jungkook?” my mother asks, curious, and our neighbor nods, still beaming. “Doesn’t he live in Seoul?”

“Yes, he does. But he’s been expanding his business, and I invited him to visit, and coincidentally, he decided to open a branch here,” she explains, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. My mother instantly flashes a smile. An interested smile that I know all too well.

Of course, because I’ve never dated, my mother is always trying to set me up with someone. Not that I want her to. I never asked her to make all this effort, much less to convince the church ladies to introduce their sons just because I’m single. It’s embarrassing, as if I’m not capable of finding someone on my own without my mother’s help, but she doesn’t listen, even when I had an honest conversation with her asking her to stop trying to play Cupid.

"What kind of business?" my mother asks, and I try not to roll my eyes. For a woman of God, she worries way too much about money and status. It's a controversial topic that has led to arguments between us in the past.

"He's a tattoo artist. He owns a tattoo studio in Seoul," Mrs. Jeon explains with a proud smile, and my mother's face immediately turns serious. The charm of a potential son-in-law is lost. Of course, no one is ever perfect enough for her—or for me, in her eyes.

I love my mother. She’s strong, and many times I look up to her when making important decisions, but she judges people too harshly. Ever since she joined the church when I was younger, she’s changed. She changed her clothes, the way she speaks, and even her thoughts. I can’t even remember what she was like before, and even though all these changes were a support for her after my father passed away, some aspects of the situation still bothers me. The fact that she believes people are going to hell just for having different opinions and ideas is one of them. Of course, I don’t argue with her about it and rarely express my point of view. If she knew how I really thought, I’d be a princess locked in her room, with no peace and even less freedom than I already have at home.

"He's a tattoo artist?" my neighbor nods, not noticing the bitter tone in my mother's voice. I decide to step in, anticipating some sharp comment from the woman beside me.

"Mrs. Jeon, thank you so much for the clothes and for your help. Just today we had three customers, and the clothes you donated sold very quickly," I interject, changing the subject. The tension in my shoulders eases as my neighbor shifts her focus to the bag in my hands.

"Oh, no need to thank me. I want to do as much as I can to help the animals. I adopted a puppy last week and I’m in love!" she says, placing her hands on her cheeks with joy, and I can’t help but smile. Mrs. Jeon is one of the few older people from the church that I enjoy talking to.

"What’s his name?"

"Gureum. He’s an angel," she says, forming the small size of the puppy with her hands.

"Gureum? Don’t tell me he’s all white," I guess, laughing at the name.

"He is!" she laughs with me, jingling the keys in her hand. "Anyway, I hope we get plenty of donations this month. I can't wait to see the results of our work."

"That’s true, Misuk. This month the winter will be harsher, so we have to act more quickly this year," my mother continues, and the conversation shifts to the church project. I feel more relieved as the minutes pass and Mrs. Jeon leaves. Not because of her, of course, but because of the situation itself. My mother is very straightforward and usually says what she thinks, no matter who it hurts. I don’t want my relationship with our neighbor to be ruined just because my mother doesn’t know how to hold her tongue.

"Did you hear what she said?" Eunji asks, her eyes wide, one hand on her chest as if she’s deeply shocked. "Her son is a tattoo artist! Do you think he has those awful marks all over his body?"

"Probably, Mom," I sigh, trying to focus on the clothes Mrs. Jeon just brought. "And Mom, don’t talk like that. She’s our neighbor."

"Even so! Y/N, that only happens when parents don’t know how to properly guide their children. How can a mother, who goes to church, let her son go down such a horrible path in life?"

"We don’t know how her son lives, and it’s none of our business, Mom!" I try to keep calm as I fold a large black T-shirt, but then I remember that before organizing the items, we have to wash them, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

Usually, the clothes are washed at our house, and my mother still has to stay at the bazaar for a while longer. Honestly, I don’t want to be around her listening to how good of a mother she was just because I go to church and don’t have a tattoo on my arm. It irritates me, and it’s hard not to let her notice, but for the sake of peace, I try my best, nodding and agreeing with all the nonsense she says.

"Mom, I’m going to take all these things home and get everything ready for the bazaar, okay?" I try to force a smile, but my face feels stiff. My head is throbbing, and I can’t wait to get home. I’ve been out of my room all day, and there’s nothing more exhausting than that, at least for me. She murmurs in agreement, probably annoyed that she can't keep talking badly about Mrs. Jeon’s son, but I don’t care and just leave.

I regret it a little halfway home because the bags are heavy, and even though the distance isn’t long, it’s hard to carry all the clothes by myself. I arrive home out of breath. The sky is overcast, with dark gray clouds covering it, but I’m sweating as if I just ran a marathon. I laugh a bit at my lack of fitness, promising myself that I’ll start the morning walks I keep putting off, and I head to the laundry room to start organizing the clothes.

When I open the bag, I’m surprised by the items. Not only are they of good quality, but I’m also certain they don’t belong to Mr. Jeon. He dresses well, but not in this style. I can hardly imagine him wearing black jeans or a heavy jacket. I’m intrigued by who the owner might be, but I don’t waste time pondering it, too tired to unravel mysteries that aren’t even important. I leave the laundry room once everything is organized and head to my room, throwing myself onto the bed.

My room isn’t particularly special or different, but what I love the most about it is the bookshelf filled with books covering almost the entire wall. It was my dream from a young age to get a job and buy every book I was interested in, and luckily, that’s been possible since I started working at the library. It’s the perfect job for me, even if it’s temporary. I’m studying literature to become a teacher, and I can’t wait to start working in my dream job.

I sigh and pull my phone out of my dress pocket, too lazy to take off my clothes and go shower. I groan, placing my hands over my face, knowing there’s no escaping it after being out of the house all day. There’s no way I’m going to bed like this. Reluctantly, I get up and untie my hair, which falls in waves, heavy against my neck.

I bend down to grab the hem of my dress and start pulling it up, feeling even more tired. Today was such a long day. I can’t wait to go to bed and sleep until tomorrow. I take off my socks, lifting one foot behind the other, and as I head to the towel inside the wardrobe next to the bed, I unhook the bra that’s been bothering me all day. The relief is so immense that I let out a sigh, touching my breasts with my fingers and playing with my nipple, hardened by the cold air.

On my way to the bathroom, I stop and look at the window when I notice that the neighbor’s window—the one that had never been opened until now—is, in fact, wide open. I need a few seconds to realize that there’s someone on Mrs. Jeon’s balcony, and worse, it’s not her on the other side. It’s a man. The most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life.

I hide behind the bookshelf in my room, afraid that he might think I’m spying on him, but for some reason, I keep watching him with curiosity, hypnotized by the way he moves around the room and among the furniture. His dark, wavy hair falls over his face when, out of nowhere, he starts pulling his shirt over his back, taking it off lazily while focusing on the phone in his hands. He gives a small smile, almost as if he subconsciously knows the effect he’s having on me. My heart beats hard against my chest, and my breathing quickens; my mind fills with fantasy images of his pink lips and large, seemingly soft hands.

He is... gorgeous. Different. With tattoos all over his body. One of his arms is completely covered in designs, and his chest is adorned with images that I can’t quite make out. My mouth waters as my eyes roam over his strong back and shoulders. His pale skin glows under the dim light of the yellow lamp, and it’s hard to catch my breath. It’s like observing a work of art. A forbidden work of art, I know. It’s wrong. But I can’t convince my mind that I should stop. The man, still a stranger, smiles at his phone as the screen lights up his face. Unlike his body, which exudes sensuality and is intimidating, his smile is sweet and gentle, and the most charming I’ve ever seen. He tosses the phone onto the bed, unbuckling the leather belt around his waist and deftly undoing the buttons of his jeans. That’s when the trance that literally had me delirious breaks. I slam the window shut, desperate at my own madness.

What was I doing? How could I have seen a stranger stripping like a complete pervert? I feel so bad, guilty for having crossed the line and done something as wrong as this. I gulp, covering my face with my hands. I let out a tortured sigh and feel my heart racing uncontrollably. I am sweating, as if I had done a heavy workout, when in fact, I had been standing still the entire time. I peek through the gaps in my window to see the room in Mr. Jeon's house, but I can't see anything anymore and I don't have the courage to open the curtains and try to look at the man again.

It's the first time in many years that I have felt something like this. Could it be desire? I can't remember the last time I felt anything like this. I recall having a small and first crush on a boy at school, something innocent, when I didn't even know what it meant to like someone romantically or as a friend. This was, throughout my life, the only consistent experience in recent years. It scares me that suddenly I feel something different for someone, even if it's minimal. I let out a sigh and cover my face, embarrassed by my own behavior. To make things worse, I'm not even wearing clothes. I rush to the bathroom and close the door, staring at myself in the mirror. I am so dazed that even my cheeks are dark red. I close my eyes tightly and head to the shower, trying to let the water wash away my thoughts. It doesn't work. I spend the whole night gazing at my bedroom window, full of images that I can't forget or erase.

I have a normal day after the almost exhausting night. I study in the morning about different approaches with children on the autism spectrum, which I find completely interesting and complex, and then I work in the afternoon at the college library on campus. This is actually great because I can study even during my work hours with free access to all available books, which has saved my life in recent months. The first semester of classes was tough, but this second one has been terrible, with piled-up assignments and deadlines that are almost impossible to meet, at best. My life has revolved around this routine, and the ordeal of exams hasn't even started. On my way home, I stop at a convenience store to buy something to eat and bike towards my house, which, honestly, isn’t very far but is extremely tiring.

I get home exhausted, collapsing on the sofa almost immediately. My mother appears from the kitchen with a serious face and a tense expression, as if something very grave had happened.

"You won't believe who invited us to dinner." she comments, placing one hand on her hip.

"Who?" I ask, just out of courtesy. Besides not being hungry, I'm not interested in the subject, too stressed with college stuff to pay attention to my mother.

"Misuk."

"And what's the problem, Mom?" I roll my eyes. Until yesterday, my mother had no problem with our neighbor, and now she acts like the woman is forbidden or not good enough to be her friend.

"Did you forget, YN?" she asks, crossing her arms. "Her son, the one from Seoul, will be at the dinner."

I turn pale, my mouth dry. How could I have forgotten this? College has consumed all my thoughts during the day, but I would never forget that man. The man I saw through the window is Mrs. Jeon's son, I suppose. I concluded this after spending the whole night mulling over my thoughts and reliving that body and face, which I can’t even recall without blushing. I’ve already eaten at college and feel satisfied, but the first thing I do when my mother mentions the dinner is smile.

"I’ll go with you." I affirm, unsure. If my heart raced so much from a distance of Mr. Jeon's son, I can't imagine what will happen if I see him up close. But I'm so curious that I can't avoid it. I want to see him. I want to prove that everything I felt last night wasn’t just a product of my imagination tainted by romance novels.

"The truth is, I wanted to cancel the dinner."

"You didn't cancel, did you?" I ask, trying not to sound too desperate. My mother shakes her head, which makes me sigh with relief.

"No, but I'm curious about the guy. I want to see what he's like and make a better judgment about him. I just ask that you don’t get involved with that kind of person. He’s a tattoo artist and lives alone, so young. Who knows what he does alone in a city like Seoul." she says, and I agree with a noise in my throat.

I’m also curious about him, Mom, but not for the same reason as you. I stay silent as I go upstairs to my room. I look for some slightly nicer clothes without much expectation but I don’t have anything different from conservative or old. I feel sad for no reason and convince myself that it doesn’t matter what I choose to wear; a man like the one I saw last night will never be interested in me, no matter what I put on. I quickly shower, then, after my mom calls me from downstairs, I look at myself in the mirror, staring at the dark blue dress that goes down to just below my knees. I roll my eyes and simply go, with little enthusiasm.

My mom has a bowl with a freshly baked cake, and after saying it's for the neighbors, we head out. It’s the house next door, but the short walk feels like an eternity to me. My heart races as we approach, and I let my mom lead the way, walking ahead. She knocks on the door with three taps, and we don’t wait long before Mr. Jeon appears. He’s a man in his fifties, but very handsome and friendly, wearing a long-sleeve shirt and comfortable house slippers. He smiles at both of us, still holding the doorknob and giving us space to enter.

"Good evening, Eunji, good evening, Y/N." he greets us. I nod, a little embarrassed. Unlike Mrs. Jeon, I don’t see him often, as he is very busy with work and doesn’t attend church regularly.

"Good evening, Yejun."

"Good evening, Mr. Jeon. Thank you for having us." I smile, genuinely grateful. I truly like the couple, as every time I see them, they always treat me very well.

"What a polite girl, isn’t she?" he says to my mother in a joking tone, then looks at me kindly. "You don’t need to thank us. We love having you two here. Please come in and make yourselves comfortable."

"I brought a cake for after dinner." my mom says with a smile. "Where is Misuk? I want to give it to her."

"She’s in the kitchen, finishing organizing things. Shall we go there?"

I follow them in silence, having little to do. My mom is more accustomed to the environment, as she comes here a few times for church meetings. I take a few steps toward the kitchen when a noise on the stairs catches my attention. Then he appears, and like magic, everything I felt before resurges, ten thousand times worse. I catch my breath as I see him slowly descending the stairs. He is much taller than me and different from what I imagined, now up close.

His eyes are dark, bright and large, which strangely complements his sharp jawline. His lips are a beautiful pink that makes me run my tongue over my mouth, enchanted by their apparent softness. Pink is now my favorite color. He exudes a powerful aura with his heavy clothes and his body built like a big mountain towering over me, but when he smiles, I am captivated. His smile is sweet, friendly, and inviting, making me want to get closer. However, the thing that catches my attention the most is the eyebrow piercing. My God. What a man.

"Hello, how are you?" he says with a boyish smile, and I blush instantly. I try to maintain a mantra in my mind, repeating several times: calm down, calm down, calm down! "My name is Jungkook, are you my mother’s neighbor?"

"Y-yes." I stammer and almost instinctively close my eyes, frustrated with myself. He smiles even more, squinting his dark eyes as if he finds me amusing.

"Nice to meet you. What’s your name?" he asks with a soft voice, and I feel embarrassed for not having said my name earlier.

"My name is Y/N. Nice to meet you." This time I don’t stammer, but I speak so quietly that I fear he might not have heard me.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N. My mom talks a lot about you." he says, confirming that yes, he did hear me.

I open my mouth to try to say something, but suddenly my mother appears. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. I wanted more chances to talk and discover new things about him, but all I was managing to do was look like an idiot who hasn’t left the house in years, completely antisocial. My shoulders slump, and I follow my mother to the dining room in silence, feeling embarrassed. I can almost feel Jungkook’s presence behind me, but I don’t have the courage to turn around and glimpse his expression. I almost automatically remember him taking off his clothes, showing the tattoos that are now hidden, and I flush even more, almost choking on my own saliva.

"Good evening, Y/N!" Mrs. Jeon smiles at me, already seated at the table. I feel guilty for almost drooling over her son earlier but I smile, greeting her in the same way.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jeon. The smell of the food is delicious, as always." I say, seeing the vegetables on the table and the meat next to it that looks divine. If I hadn’t eaten earlier, I’d be attacking the food, with respect, of course.

"Always so sweet, Y/N." she smiles. "Please, have a seat. Jungkook, sit next to her." she requests. I try to not choke again, just nodding, watching the man I am incredibly attracted to sit to my right side.

His parents and my mom engage in a lively conversation, and I try to pay attention in case they ask me something, but the truth is, I can’t follow along at all. Jungkook eats in silence and occasionally answers my mother’s questions, which I’m sure are meant to gather more material for judgment when we get home, but I can’t follow any of the reasoning. Besides being handsome, polite and kind, he also smells good.

With the clothes he wears and the tattoos decorating his body, I would swear his perfume would be woody and strong, but it’s quite the opposite. His scent reminds me of spring, or nature like a field full of flowers. It’s a scent I could absorb all day. Lost in thought while I play with the fork on my plate and the cabbage kimchi I served myself, I don’t notice him coming closer to me and my ear. My whole body shivers with his breath. I try to not make it too obvious, but I think it’s in vain since I hear his soft laugh even closer to my neck.

"Do you want to go to the kitchen, Y/N?" Jungkook asks in a whisper so close that I look around just to make sure no one is watching, especially my mother, who seems to have already formed a prejudiced opinion about him.

"Why?" I ask in a whisper, confused.

"I want to ask you something." he smiles crookedly, which makes me even more disturbed. I nod, still unsure about what I’m agreeing to. He quickly stands up, and I almost instantly follow him. When we get to the kitchen, he turns around quickly, watching me attentively, crossing his arms over his chest.

"W-what do you want to ask me?" I swallow nervously.

"I was thinking whether I should talk to you about this, but after meeting you tonight, I think it’s for the best, anyway." he says with a serious face. His previously relaxed attitude changes completely, as if all the fun from earlier had drained away.

I become worried, my mind filled with questions, until something occurs to me. What if last night, somehow, he realized I was watching him? My body turns to jelly at the thought, and my heart beats faster as I look at his face. I would die, seriously. I would fall to the ground and never wake up again. My hands tremble as I wait for his question.

"Are you and my mother very close?" he asks in a whisper, this time with a weak voice, looking at his own intertwined hands. I nod in agreement, even more confused. Since Mrs. Jeon moved to my city, we’ve become something like friends, despite the significant age difference. I consider her, even if mistakenly, like a mother.

"Yes. I think we have a close relationship. Why the question?" he shifts uncomfortably. He tries to smile but can’t. I am worried but silent, waiting for his answer.

"My mother is sick, Y/N." he says quietly, with a weak voice. My eyes widen at the news. I never imagined this is what he wanted to talk to me about. From his seriousness, it seems to be something very grave. "That’s why I came to the city. She had depression years ago and last month she tried to take her own life for some reason."

"She didn’t tell anyone, I’m sure." I say as much as I can, still shaken and shocked. Mrs. Jeon seems so happy lately that I could never imagine something like this. My eyes fill with tears, but I try to contain the flood of emotions inside me, embarrassed to act this way with a previously unknown person.

"I know. I was shocked when I found out." he explains, running his fingers through his dark hair as if he were tired. "She wants to spare people from the situation, but I wish everyone could know and support her. She shouldn’t be thinking about anyone’s well-being right now, except her own. That’s why I came to Busan, to take care of her."

"I understand." I whisper with a lump in my throat. I want to take his trembling hands and assure him that everything will be okay, but I don’t have that much courage. I wish I were casual and authentic and had the ease to simply say what I’m thinking. It’s the first time that not being this way makes me upset and sad. I wish I could be someone else right now. I wish I could help more.

"I apologize for bringing this up so suddenly. I hope I haven’t ruined your evening. I’m sorry." he smiles awkwardly, puffing his cheeks, and a previously hidden dimple appears. His face turns red and I can’t help but like him even more.

"Don’t worry. Really. Thank you for telling me the truth. I want to help in any way I can. I'll try to keep her company more often."

"Thank you so much, Y/N." he smiles, with his eyes shining. "I knew it was a good idea to tell you the truth. I knew I could count on you."

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dark-dawn · 15 hours ago

Text

rites for a dying planet // caleb | xia yizhou

you wake up in a body that isn’t yours, in a world that shouldn’t exist. you’re not sure if it’s a dream, a punishment, or some cosmic joke—but you’re definitely alive, and unfortunately, very aware of it.

✭ pairing: caleb x mc | reader

✭ contains: isekai and transmigration, worldbuilding, politics, dubious science, handwaving: the fanfic, unreliable narrator, mental health issues, exploring the horrifying logistics of canon, angst, canon-typical violence, slow burn, found family, caleb is his own warning, eventual romance, moral ambiguity, only canon-compliant if you squint and lie, read too many naruto self-insert fics in 2013 and it shows.

✭ word count: 5.5k | part one ✭ a/n: listen. I barely understand this game. I went down one (1) reddit rabbit hole hoping for answers and emerged with more questions, three contradictory timelines, and a headache. So—like any reasonable person—I wrote fanfiction. [ read on ao3 ]

You always thought death would be cruel. A tearing, or a rending—something final. You imagined pain, or perhaps light, or the sudden silence of being extinguished like a flame, and you thought there would be meaning in it, some last, flickering clarity before the dark. But it wasn’t like that. It was quiet. Not kind, but not unkind either. Just indifferent, the way the sea is indifferent to the drowning, the way fire never pauses to consider what it consumes.

And then—smallness. Small hands, small feet, the shape of the world too big to hold. A room washed in yellow light. Your mother’s voice—new and warm and unfamiliar in a way that felt right anyway. Your father’s hands lifting you too easily, like you weighed nothing at all. None of it should have made sense, but it did. Not in the way memory is supposed to make sense, neat and linear, but the way dreams do: loose, flickering, stitched together by feeling more than fact.

Some would call it a blessing, to be born twice. To start again. But you’ve learned it’s not a clean slate, not really. It’s more like a palimpsest. Something overwritten, but never entirely erased.

Your childhood was happy, all things considered. There were warm meals and scraped knees, paper kites and sunburnt shoulders, the easy rhythm of routine, of growing older without noticing. You learned to read with your back pressed against your mother’s arm, mouthing words out loud while her fingers traced letters in the air; you learned to run across fields that smelled of dry grass and river clay, to fall and laugh and cry and keep going. You had friends, or something close to them, and the kind of endless summer days that blur together into one long, golden memory. You were loved, and it was enough.

The dissonance came slowly. At first, it was only a feeling, like stepping into a room where the furniture has been rearranged: everything familiar, and yet not. You looked for signs without knowing you were searching—hoped someone would mention a name you used to know, or a song, or a brand of cereal, something small and anchoring—but no one ever did. You started noticing the strangeness of the machines, how they didn’t hum or buzz the way they should, how the screens were too clean, too thin, too quiet. The interfaces responded before you touched them. The trains never broke down. Everything worked too well, moved too quickly, skipped past the imperfections you’d learned to live with before.

You knew what was happening before you really let yourself believe it. It crept in at the corners—quiet, certain—the unfamiliar holidays marked on the calendar, the children’s books with their strange alphabets and kingdoms you’d never heard of, names of countries that didn’t exist.

And yet, they did.

You lived in Linkon City. It said so on your school ID, your library card, the crumpled paper wrappers from the bakery on the corner. You could draw its subway map from memory. You knew which districts smelled like engine oil and which ones flooded in the spring.

Where else would you live?

(Your mother had never heard of London.)

But it was the sky that solidified things, in the end. The stars were all wrong. No North Star. No Orion’s Belt. Just a sweep of unfamiliar constellations, bright and sharp and wholly indifferent. A completely different sky, a new part of the universe, one where the rules had shifted in ways you couldn’t quite name. And standing beneath it, you felt something loosen in you—some last thread to the world you’d once known pulling taut, then snapping clean through.

This is was a new world. This was a new life.

Maybe you were supposed to do something with it—this second chance. Maybe there was some grand purpose you missed, some fate you were meant to fulfil, some cosmic checklist you failed to tick off before the universe got bored and filed you under miscellaneous. You were reborn, weren’t you? Isn’t that supposed to mean something? You should have come out special. Glowing, chosen, blessed. A prodigy with ancient wisdom tucked behind your teeth. A voice in your head whispering secrets. Powers. Insight. Anything.

Instead, you got mild seasonal allergies and a lopsided birthmark on your hip.

In your worst moments, you wonder if this life is some sort of punishment. Not a dramatic punishment, of course. Not fire and brimstone. Something quieter. Smaller. A life that just goes on, day after day, full of minor joys and minor failures. No grand battles. No tragic fate. Just the constant, lingering what if?

Because if it were awful, you could rage. If it were perfect, you could surrender. But this—this not-quite, this maybe, this waiting-for-a-sign-that-never-comes—is unbearable in a way that’s hard to name.

And still. You wake up. You brush your teeth. You go to school. You come home. You eat dinner. You laugh when people expect you to. You go to sleep. And some nights, you dream of vending machines and broken streetlights and a world that was uglier, slower, louder—and yours.

And then things go to hell. Because of course they do.

Your parents die when you turn seven, and for a moment, you think—this is it. This is the turning point, the part where the strangeness cracks wide open, where your destiny finally limps onto the stage, late but dramatic. You wait for the letter with the wax seal. The sudden inheritance. The shadowy stranger who knows your true name.

But no. There’s just grief.

Not the cinematic kind, either. No thunderstorm, no funeral in the rain. Just soft voices and drawn curtains. Empty rooms and a suitcase you didn’t pack. Their shoes still by the door because no one’s been brave enough to move them. People say they’re sorry and mean it, but that doesn’t help when the silence is so loud you start talking to yourself just to fill it.

And still—still—some part of you watches from a distance, thinking, Is this it? Is this the moment I transform?

But you don’t transform. You just survive. Messily, gracelessly. You go back to school with red-rimmed eyes. You forget homework. You stare too long at strangers, hoping one of them will look back and say, Ah. There you are. We’ve been looking for you.

They don’t.

And after a while, you stop expecting them to.

The memories of this time are a little hazy. You chalk it up to grief, at first—the way your brain fogs over to protect you, how people say trauma softens the edges of things. You tell yourself that’s normal. That forgetting whole days is just part of the process. That it’s nothing to worry about when you wake up with bruises you don’t remember earning, or when you find notebooks with pages torn out, or when someone from school says, “We talked about this yesterday,” and you nod like you remember.

Sometimes, you do. Probably.

Sometimes you dream about white light and metal walls and voices just out of reach. You wake with your heart racing, certain something was done to you—is being done to you—but then the thought slips away, too smooth to hold. It’s always just out of focus. Like trying to stare straight at a shadow.

You’ve always had an overactive imagination, your teachers say. You read too many books. Spent too much time alone. You once tried to keep a journal, to track the days that slipped when you weren’t looking—but whole weeks were missing, and the entries stopped making sense. Dates out of order. Gaps you couldn’t explain.

Still, you survive. Or you pretend well enough that it passes for the same thing.

And most of the time, that’s enough. Most of the time, you can almost forget there’s something missing. That you’re walking around the hollow shape of a person with gaps in the middle. That sometimes you catch your reflection and for a split second, you swear it moves wrong.

Caleb makes things easier, but Caleb always makes things easier.

He was there in the early years, the scraped-knee summers and playground bruises, when everything felt half-formed and full of promise. He knew how to fill in the silences, how to make you laugh when your chest felt too tight, how to say “You’re fine,” in a way that almost made it true.

He doesn’t ask questions you can’t answer. Doesn’t press when your memory skips or when you forget entire conversations. When you say, “I think I lost some time,” he just shrugs and says, “Happens to the best of us.” Like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. Maybe it is, when he says it.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. If he’s ever noticed the blank spaces and decided not to speak. If maybe he remembers the things you’ve forgotten.

But you don’t ask, and he doesn’t say, and the silence between you has always been a comfortable one.

And anyway, Caleb is steady. Caleb is real. When the world feels too sharp at the edges, too bright, too fast—he’s the one thing that doesn’t blur.

It makes living with Grandma easier, having him with you.

She’s a kind lady, the sort who smells like lavender and keeps biscuits in a tin shaped like a cat. Her knees crack when she walks, and she sings old songs to herself while folding laundry, soft and tuneless. She doesn’t ask too many questions, which helps. You get the sense she’s known loss too, though she never talks about it—not directly. Sometimes you catch her looking at you like she’s trying to remember someone else’s child in your face, but then she smiles and pats your head and tells you there’s more soup on the stove.

Your room is small, but it’s yours. Slanted ceiling, pale yellow walls, a window that fogs up in winter and lets in birdsong in spring. There’s a bookshelf with mismatched titles, a desk that creaks when you lean on it, and a bed pushed up against the wall with too many pillows and a blanket that smells faintly of mothballs and safety. You’ve tacked up drawings and pressed flowers and book pages, little things that make the space feel more like home. It helps.

Caleb’s room is next door. You can hear him through the wall sometimes—shuffling around, tapping out rhythms on the floor, singing under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. Some nights, when everything feels too loud inside your head, you knock once on the shared wall and wait. There’s always an answer: three knocks back. Then a pause. Then the soft creak of his door opening. He doesn’t say much when he sits at the edge of your bed—just offers you a hug or a joke or a leftover biscuit from the tin. Sometimes that’s all you need.

Other times, you just fall asleep knowing he’s close, and that’s enough to keep the shadows from rearranging themselves while you dream.

You’re ten years old when you see a Wanderer for the first time.

It happens in the middle of an ordinary afternoon—clouds low, air heavy with the threat of rain, the street humming with delivery drones and kids on bikes and vending carts rolling over cobblestone. You’re walking home from the market with Caleb, arms full of groceries and stupidly arguing about which of you could win in a sword fight, when the world tilts.

The sky doesn’t split—not exactly—but it fractures. Like something huge and hidden behind it finally pressed too hard.

You don’t know the name for it then—don’t know it’s part of something bigger, something called the Chronorift Catastrophe, don’t know this is only the beginning. That somewhere, deep in the government’s hands, they opened something called the Deepspace Tunnel. A corridor through time, they said. Or space. Or both. A marvel of science. A new frontier.

Instead, it became a wound.

The first one you see is enormous. Bone-white and many-limbed, with a head shaped like a ram’s skull and eyes like dying stars. It moves like something remembering how to move, awkward and predatory and far too real. People scream. The sky dims. Caleb grabs your hand so hard it hurts, and still, you can’t look away.

It feels mythological. Beasts from storybooks made monstrous, folklore made flesh and invited in through a door no one should’ve opened. You don’t even know how long you stand there—how long you stare—before the soldiers arrive. Sirens. Gunfire. A blur of motion and commands you don’t understand.

And for the first time in your life, you feel very small, and very real, and very awake.

This changes things.

The world doesn’t end, but it forgets how to be ordinary. There are checkpoints now. Curfews. Emergency drills at school. The news cycles between denial and panic. The grown-ups talk about “rebuilding efforts” and “containment zones” like that means anything, like anyone understands what’s really happening. The military presence increases. The sky hums differently.

And you—well.

You used to lie awake imagining some ancient power would call your name from the dark and everything would click—your past life would make sense, your strange instincts would sharpen into something useful, and you’d finally, finally become what you were meant to be: great, magical, extraordinary.

But that was before you saw a Wanderer tear through a street like paper. Before you saw what “chosen” looks like when it’s screaming for help and no one comes. Before the sky split open and something vast and ancient and wrong looked back at you.

The Wanderers cured you of destiny.

You realise you don’t want to be brave. You don’t want to be the one who runs toward the monster. You just want to stay alive. You want to go home. You want Caleb to keep singing in the room next door, and your window to keep fogging up in winter, and the universe to completely forget you exist.

(It doesn’t.)

So you start running laps in the school gym, even when no one tells you to. You time yourself when no one’s watching. You start noticing exits in every room, counting steps between doors, between windows. You learn which alleys to avoid after curfew and how to move without being seen. You don’t tell Caleb. You don’t tell anyone.

They haven’t started recruiting yet, and maybe they won’t. You’re a civilian, technically. A child, legally. But rules bend in a crisis. Expectations shift. And you suspect this world will ask more of you than you want to give.

You get faster. Quieter. Meaner, when you have to be. You learn to say the right things so the teachers stop looking at you with too much concern. You learn how to pass unnoticed in a crowd. You learn what fear looks like in other people’s eyes, and how to keep yours steady.

Then you turn eleven.

And suddenly, you’re not strange anymore—you’re gifted. The adults stop whispering about trauma and start talking about potential. They say you’re quick. Observant. Strategically minded. Someone prints your name on a school leaderboard you didn’t know existed. You don’t ask what it’s for.

At first, it unsettles you. You weren’t doing anything special, just surviving. But then you realise: no one cares why you’re quick, just that you are. No one asks why your test scores jump from average to perfect, why you watch the news with too much intensity and flinch when the sirens start before they reach your street. They think you’re bright. Promising. The kind of child the city can be proud of. Something salvageable from the wreckage.

You let them believe it. You nod when praised. You smile when necessary. You answer questions with just enough personality to be liked, but not enough to be known.

They see discipline. They see talent.

They don’t see the Wanderer in your dreams. Or the bruises you don’t remember getting. Or the fact that some days, you still don’t recognise the handwriting in your own notebook.

But Caleb notices.

Of course he does. He always has.

He doesn’t say it outright—he never does—but you catch the way his eyes linger on you a little too long when you’re quiet. The way he notices when you skip a meal or disappear into your room before sunset. He starts sitting a little closer at the dinner table. Walks you to school even when he doesn’t have to.

One evening, after you get back a perfect score on an exam you barely remember taking, he knocks on your door and asks if you want help studying.

You blink at him, surprised. “I don’t need help.”

He shrugs, casually, like it doesn’t matter. “I do.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe he’s really just trying to keep up—he’s a few years ahead of you, but lately you’ve caught up in ways neither of you expected. He’s still taller, still stronger, still better at most things, but it’s starting to narrow. The difference between age and ability. The space between you, closing inch by inch.

And maybe that’s why he starts pushing himself, too.

He studies harder. Trains longer. You catch him at the park running sprints alone, long after everyone else has gone home. He starts carrying extra textbooks and scribbling formulas on his arms in ballpoint pen. He says he’s just trying to set a good example, but you know better. Caleb’s always been the calm in the storm, the one who grounds instead of rises—but now, there’s something sharper in him. Like he’s decided that if the world is going to fall apart, then the least he can do is not let you face it alone.

It’s around this time that you first meet Zayne.

He’s older—by three years, maybe four—and already something of a legend in the upper school halls. Top of every class. Reads textbooks for fun. The kind of student teachers smile at like he’s their personal success story. You hear his name before you ever see him, always in the same breath as ranking reports and advanced placement. The kind of name that makes other students grit their teeth.

You meet because someone decides you belong in the same orbit.

A teacher pulls you aside after class, gently enthusiastic. “We’ve arranged for you to sit in on the upper-level track for now,” they say, like it’s a reward and not further proof that the universe hates you.

Grandma is thrilled. You’re just tired.

They bundle the exceptional students together now—streamlined education, post-Rift efficiency, all that—and suddenly you’re sitting in a small seminar room that smells like old whiteboard markers and overconfidence. You’re the youngest by far, and Zayne is at the front of it all, spine straight, handwriting neat, correcting instructors without a hint of arrogance. Just certainty.

You sit in silence through most of the session, only half-listening. The room is full of numbers and diagrams that should feel complicated, but your brain catches onto them too easily. It’s not that you’re smarter than the others. It’s that the answers are already half-formed in your head, just waiting to be remembered.

You don’t feel brilliant. You feel like a fraud with a head full of loose wires and secondhand thoughts.

Zayne answers every question without hesitation. The kind of sharp, assured intelligence that feels clean and earned. He doesn’t stumble or second-guess. You catch yourself watching him more than the lesson.

And then you realise he’s noticed you, too. He sees the way you finish your work too quickly, the way your fingers twitch when the material is too easy, the way you seem at once too young and too knowing. You can feel his gaze like a pressure behind your ear.

He approaches you after the second week.

“You missed the extrapolation in problem seven,” he says, flipping your worksheet around without asking. “It’s subtle, but it throws off your entire hypothesis.”

You glance at the page. He’s right, obviously. You were sloppy.

(You were thinking about white light and metal walls and the wrongness humming beneath your ribs.)

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t trust yourself to say anything smarter. “Right.”

Zayne doesn’t smile. He just nods, like he’s confirming a hypothesis.

“Are you autodidactic?” he asks.

You blink. “Am I what?”

“Taught yourself,” he says, still watching. “You learn unusually fast.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth, either.

Zayne doesn’t press, which somehow makes it worse.

After that, it’s like you’ve been filed under Interesting. He starts sitting closer. Starts asking you questions in that quiet, clinical way of his. Why you skipped a step in the solution but still landed on the right answer. How you saw the pattern in the data set before it was introduced. Whether you reverse-engineered the formula or intuited it.

“You don’t think like the others,” he says once, matter-of-fact. “You solve backwards. That’s interesting.”

It’s not meant to be flattering, but it lands that way.

You tell yourself not to let it matter. That he’s just another student. But something about the way he speaks to you—measured, never condescending—makes your brain light up in places most people don’t reach. Zayne doesn’t talk down. He talks across. As if you’re already fluent in whatever strange mental language he’s operating in.

Caleb hates him immediately.

Caleb, who has always been good at most things but never the best, who has worked hard and stayed steady and smiled through every project where Zayne outscored him without trying. Caleb, who mutters “robot” under his breath when Zayne walks past, and loudly announces that “real people don’t talk like that” after one too many overheard comments about theoretical models.

(You’ve never seen him act so petty. You almost find it endearing.)

“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” Caleb says one day, slumped beside you at lunch. “Bet he doesn’t even have friends. Just facts and spreadsheets and whatever’s shoved up his—”

“Caleb,” you interrupt, without looking up. “He’s not that bad.”

That’s the first time you realise you’ve started defending Zayne. You’re not sure you like that. But it’s true. He’s not kind, exactly, but he’s precise, and there’s something in that precision that feels familiar. Comforting.

Caleb doesn’t say anything after that. Just peels the label off his water bottle and refuses to meet your eye.

And you get it.

It takes a moment—longer than it should—but you do. Because this isn’t about Zayne. Not really. It’s about you. It’s about the way your world has always had two people in it: you and Caleb. The way he’s always been there—beside you, ahead of you, behind you, whatever the moment needed. And now you’re in rooms he doesn’t enter. Speaking in shorthand he doesn’t know. Drifting.

And for the first time, you think: he’s afraid.

Not of Zayne. Not of being outscored or overlooked. He’s afraid of being left behind.

It’s not an easy thing to spot—Caleb doesn’t do open vulnerability. He isn’t the sort of person who makes a scene. He just folds into himself, grows sharper at the edges. Throws out a few more barbed jokes than usual. Hovers over your shoulder and bears his teeth.

He’s always been a protector. That’s how he exists in the world: guarding things. Guarding you. Even when you didn’t ask for it. Especially when you didn’t ask for it. He walks on the street side of the pavement. He memorises your schedule without meaning to. He’s the one who knocks back when you tap the wall at night.

Even now, with Zayne in the picture and things shifting underfoot, he doesn’t push you away or accuse you of changing. He just circles a little tighter, stands a little closer, like he’s trying to remind the world you’re already spoken for.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse—the way he never demands anything. Never asks you to choose.

He just braces himself to be left behind and pretends he isn’t afraid.

It pisses you off.

Because Caleb is home. Caleb is the first face you learned to trust. Your first friend. You don’t know where he ends and you begin. That if the universe cracked open tomorrow and you had to choose someone to stand beside you in the ruins, it would be him.

But he’s a stupid teenage boy, and completely oblivious to any of your emotions. So he just sulks a little more than usual. He takes longer to respond to your texts. He avoids eye contact when you catch him looking. He kicks pebbles into storm drains, and gets into fights at school.

You think maybe he wants you to ask what’s wrong—just so he can say nothing in the most unconvincing tone humanly possible. But you don’t ask. You don’t push. You just walk beside him like always, your backpacks bumping slightly as you fall into step, the silence stretching long and uneven between you.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, head ducked like the pavement’s suddenly fascinating. Every so often, he mutters half-hearted complaints—about school, the weather, how Zayne probably practices blinking in a mirror and still hasn’t nailed it.

You let him talk. You let him not talk. You let him exist in that strange space between anger and sadness where Caleb lives when things get too complicated to name.

At the corner near your street, he finally says, “You don’t even like him that much, right?” Not looking at you. Not quite managing to make it sound like a joke.

You glance over. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer he won’t like.

“I don’t not like him,” you say, and immediately regret it. Because it’s not the kind of answer that softens things. It just makes him shrug too hard, like he’s trying to shake something off.

“Right,” he says. “Cool. Yeah.”

He kicks another pebble, harder this time. It hits the curb and skitters into the gutter with a sound that feels unnecessarily final.

You sigh. “Caleb. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer. But he walks a little slower after that.

And when you reach your street, he hooks his pinky around yours, like he used to when you were smaller and scared of thunderstorms and neither of you knew what to say.

No deal is spoken. No vow is made. But it feels like one anyway.

You’re fourteen when you start realising that the feeling of wrongness you’ve been carrying around with you might mean something.

It’s not just dreams anymore. Not just phantom bruises and flickering gaps in your memory. It’s more insistent. Closer. A low-frequency hum beneath your ribs that no one else seems to hear. Sometimes it feels like your heart is stuttering—like something inside you is trying to move in a rhythm that doesn’t match the rest of you.

You try to ignore it. You try to pretend it’s nothing, just growing pains, just too much caffeine, just you being dramatic. But the world is changing, and pretending is starting to feel harder.

Because around this time, you start hearing more about Evolvers.

They’re no longer background noise on the news or a quiet topic for academic panels. They’re everywhere now—featured in public service announcements and splashed across front-page headlines, on billboards with stylised codenames and blurred-out faces. Hunters being praised, feared, marketed. Children in your year whisper about Evol Classes like they’re houses in a fantasy novel—Psychic, Elemental, Simulation. Everyone wants to know which one they’ll be. If they’ll be anything at all.

The school nurse starts carrying Evol detection kits. Guidance counsellors begin holding “talent assessments.” There’s a quiet kind of hysteria underneath it all, dressed up like opportunity. Like evolution is the next academic stream. Just another test to pass.

You try to play along. You listen. You nod. But none of it feels real.

(Because this world is still strange. Deeply, fundamentally strange. You doubt you’ll ever fully acclimatise.)

Zayne starts talking about it more. He has theories, of course. About Class distributions and gene expression, about combat bias in Hunter selection and the ethics of private-sector augmentation. His Evol is public knowledge now—ice, sharp and efficient, just like him. Elemental Class. A perfect fit.

Caleb pretends not to care, but he always has a way of being exactly what people want to see. Top marks, captain of the basketball team, the kind of smile that makes teachers trust him and classmates fall a little bit in love with him.

But you know him better than that. You’ve seen the way he stiffens, just barely, when the subject of Evols comes up. The way he makes a joke and changes the subject whenever someone mentions Class registration. The way he keeps his hands in his pockets when he’s angry.

He’s not careless. He’s careful.

You haven’t seen anything float. Nothing dramatic. But sometimes you feel the air going still around him, the weight of a moment stretching thin, like the world holds its breath when he’s near.

He hasn’t told you. You’re not sure why he hasn’t, but you trust him.

Caleb doesn’t lie—not to you, anyway—but he withholds. He gives you everything and nothing in the same breath, and you’ve long since stopped expecting clean answers from him.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that he guards what matters most. And if this is something he’s keeping quiet, then it must matter.

So you trust him. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

And you—well, you have nothing.

No classification. No listed Level. No registered Evol.

Just that feeling. That quiet, insistent hum.

You start reading late into the night. Medical journals, declassified reports, scraps of data buried deep online. You learn about Levelless Evolvers. About fluctuations. About undocumented Classes. You learn the word Anhausen—a strange, archaic thing buried in a footnote, a misrecorded Class, maybe even a mistranslation.

But something about it sticks.

To raise. To heighten. To make someone better.

You don’t feel better. You don’t feel anything good at all. Just the weight of something you can’t name curled around your heart like a second pulse.

No one else seems concerned.

Grandma pats your shoulder and says you’re probably just a late bloomer. The school nurse shrugs at your clean scan results. The guidance counsellor smiles too much. No one questions the blankness in your file.

And so the silence settles in. Official, approved, unremarkable.

Caleb is pleased. He says as much, that first evening after school when the topic comes up and you shrug, trying to look unbothered.

“Good.” he says, without hesitation. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-expecting the usual teasing—but no. He means it. He’s genuinely relieved.

“No limelight,” he adds, tossing a chip into his mouth. “No agencies tracking you. No recruiters with pamphlets. No creepy uncle-types offering you custom weapons in alleyways.”

You snort. “No one is offering me things in alleyways, you dork.”

He leans back on your bed, arms crossed behind his head like this is the best news he’s heard all week. “You’re safe. You get to be normal. That’s a win.”

You nod. You say, yeah, sure, because it’s easier than explaining the thrum under your skin. The way your hands sometimes shake for no reason, or how your vision flickers when you stand too close to certain people.

You don’t want to worry him. You’re not even sure if your research is right, or if what you’re feeling is just some leftover residue from the Rift—something your body never learned to process.

It could be anything, really. Aftershocks. Nerve damage. Ghost data from a life you’re not supposed to remember. You’ve tried to explain it to yourself a dozen different ways—hormones, trauma, something metaphysical that hasn’t been named yet. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. There are so many things wrong with you that trying to name just one feels almost pointless. Like picking one crack in the glass and pretending it caused the whole shatter.

So you nod. You smile. You let Caleb be relieved.

And you keep digging.

That night, you fall down another research hole and stumble across a name: Lumiere. No Class, no Level, no face. Just grainy footage buried in a decade-old crisis report.

You swear you recognise him.

This changes things.

98 notes · View notes

strvngeweather · 1 year ago

Text

It's All Greek to Me; a one shot.

🕮 PAIRING: collegetutor!jimin x partygirl!reader 🕮 GENRE: College AU, smut 🕮 WORD COUNT: 4.8k 🕮 WARNINGS: Smut, Smut, Smut 🕮 SUMMARY: After failing your college classes, you need a tutor. But if tutor, why so damn hot? 🕮 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was originally going to be a full-length fanfic, but I decided to make it a short one. I still may expand on it. Let me know what you guys think. Also, my bestie gave me the idea when she said, "Jimin look like he likes ass." LMAO.

Despite your hatred for hangovers, you always ended up with one.

Today was no exception. As the resident party girl at Loren University, there was no way you would ever miss a weekend rager, but as your alarm clock went off for the fifth time that morning, you began cursing at yourself. Maybe going to a party on a Sunday night wasn’t a good idea.

Scheduling a tutoring session at eight in the morning was an even worse idea.

You had many strong suits, but English wasn’t one of them. It was the one subject you had struggled with since you were in high school. Analyzing the words of dead white men from centuries ago was just about as much fun as watching paint dry. Numbers were much more your thing. They were easy and in the words of Cady Heron, ‘Math was the same in every language.’

But you needed to pass. It’s not as if you were here on your parents’ dime like the other kids. You were a scholarship kid and if your grades slipped, so did you. Out the doors and on your ass. So, when you got your last paper back with a big fat ‘D’ written on it, you knew it was time to take action. And that meant getting a tutor.

You just happened to forget that today, on this bright and early morning, with a pounding headache and dry mouth, you were supposed to be meeting him.

Again, you ask, who the fuck schedules a tutoring session at eight in the morning?

With a groan, you grab your phone, hoping to hit the ‘snooze’ button on your alarm one more time before you really had to get up but when your eyes read the time you realize that it’s damn near eight-thirty. How many times have you hit the snooze button? You wonder but realize you’re only wasting more time. Without a second thought, you hop out of bed and into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and running a comb through your curly hair. Your make-up is smudged, and you still have on the shimmering dress from last night but there’s nothing you can do about it now. You grab a hoodie off your desk chair and hightail it to the school’s library.

Inside study room 007, you find a very annoyed, albeit very handsome senior waiting at the table. Laid out in front of him are a stack of books, notebooks, and flash cards. Pens and pencils are lined up neatly in a row. He all but glares at you as enter. Before you can speak, he glances at his watch and then looks back at you. “You’re late.”

“I know,” you say, out of breath. “I got caught up …” you scramble, trying to think of a lie instead of admitting you had spent the night throwing ass to Megan thee Stallion and Cardi B but your folder of excuses in the very back of your brain shows up empty. That might be for the best, you realize as you look over your tutor.

“Partying?” He finishes the sentence for you. His eyes rake over you in judgment. “Maybe that’s why you’re failing English.”

Now wait a damn minute. You scoff, crossing your arms. Your brain is foggy, you desperately need a glass of water – and, not to mention, your skin feels beyond icky. The last thing you can do right now is come up with a proper comeback so the only thing you manage to utter is, “Or maybe English is just hard.”

“You speak it every day, how hard could it be?”

“Whatever,” you say, sitting down across from him. “Can we just … start?”

Jimin checks his watch again. “We might as well. We’ve got thirty minutes left. Let’s make the most of it.”

“I thought I had you for an hour.”

“Yes, and you were late so that hour has turned into thirty minutes. I’ve got things to do, Ms. L/N. I can’t wait around for you all day,” he replies, picking up a black ballpoint pen. “Let’s get started.”

“I’d much prefer it if you called me, Y/N,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “And you’re Jimin, correct?”

He nods curtly. “Alright, Ms. L/N, your form said you have an upcoming paper that focuses on the themes from Nella Larsen’s Passing. What part of the story are you at?”

You roll your eyes but choose not to correct him about your name and instead just answer his question. “I’m not on any part.”

His eyes brighten. “You mean you’ve already finished? Well, great, let’s jump right into discussion –”

“No,” you cut him off. “I’m not on any part because I haven’t started the book.”

Jimin looks at you as if you grew another head. “Your essay for the book is due next week. The book is less than two hundred pages. What do you mean you haven’t started yet?”

You shrug. “I figured since it’s such a short book I could probably finish it and write the essay in the same day.”

“And what day were you planning on doing that since our study session is right now?”

That day was last night but as you both knew you had gotten caught up with … other things. “I guess I figured we’d start the book together and I’d just get the essay done next week.”

Jimin sighs. “Ms. L/N, whatever you manage to vomit onto paper will not bring your grade up in the slightest if you follow your method. I guarantee that.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes – again. “That’s what you’re here for. You’re my tutor so tutor me in the right direction.” Jimin studies you for a moment and then he begins carefully putting his things away into his messenger bag. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“Ms. L/N, you can reach out to me once you’ve read the book but until then, we have nothing to discuss. I only meet with students who are serious about their education,” he places his bag over his shoulder and nods toward you. “Have a good day.”

“Um, hello! You can’t just leave,” you say, getting out of your chair.

“I can and I am,” Jimin replies, and with that, he walks out of the study room. You begin to follow him but decide against it. What good would that do? He was rude and had judged you from the moment you walked in the door. You didn’t need a tutor like that.

You decided you were going to go to the campus café, buy a large coffee, and then go home to take a much-needed shower.

. . . .

“He was a jerk,” you tell your best friend, Winter, taking a long sip of your mango-pineapple smoothie. “He left right in the middle of our session.”

Every Tuesday was the same. A morning class and then a lunch date with your bestie, Winter, at your favorite smoothie place about twenty minutes away from campus.

She shakes her head but not at him. “Y/N, I love you, but you were late. You didn’t read the material, and you had the nerve to have an attitude. I would have walked out on you too.”

Harsh but it was the truth. You weren’t quite ready to admit that you were somewhat at fault too. “Okay, but I’m saying, he didn’t have to be rude about it though.”

“What’d he look like?”

“He would be fine as hell if he wasn’t so rude,” you answer honestly.

She shakes her head, amused. “What did you end up getting on your essay anyway?”

After the last encounter with Jimin, you decided you’d find another tutor, but in the meantime, you were going to stick with your tried and true. You did exactly what you had told Jimin you would do. You read most of the book in one evening and managed to type up a paper in the same night, confident that you had aced it. But when you looked online, checking your grade, you realized Jimin had been right. Regardless, you weren’t going back to him.

You sigh. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Winter replies. “Because if Jimin is right, then I think you should give him a call.”

“Jimin Parker?”

You and Winter look up to see Jennie Kim hovering above you. Her freshly dyed blonde hair cascaded in waves down her slender face. You may have been the resident party girl, but Jen was the resident party queen.

“Hey Jen,” you say, motioning for her to take a seat. “Yeah, Jimin Parker. You know him?”

She sits between you and Winter. “You mean that gorgeous senior? Ugh, I had him as a tutor last semester.”

“How’d he do?” Winter says, giving you a knowing look.

You lean forward. Jennie was known for many things but having good grades was not one of them. In fact, you wondered how she managed to make it this far without being kicked out. But, if Jimin could manage to get her grades up, then he truly was a miracle worker.

“Amazing,” Jen gushes. “I got an A on my last three papers. I wanted him again this semester but apparently, he’s all booked up.”

You groan as Winter gives you another look. You pull your cell phone out of your pocket and dial Jimin. “Hello?” You reply as he answers. “Hi, yeah, Jimin, it’s Y/N. I was wondering if we could set up a session …”

…

For his sake (and mostly yours) you schedule an afternoon session and this time, you show up prepared. When he arrives, he’s shocked to see you already in the study room.

“Good afternoon,” he says, rounding the table to sit across from you. You get a whiff of his cedarwood cologne. “I see you’re on time.”

“I’m early,” you correct him. “You’re on time.”

“That I am,” he says, taking a seat. You watch him closely as he carefully takes out various pens and pencils, notebooks, and flashcards. He really is handsome, you think, even if he is an ass. “I see we’re studying Oedipus Rex by Sophocles?”

You nod your head. “I read it. I don’t understand it.”

“What exactly don’t you understand?”

“Not a single word in that book. They might as well be speaking Greek.”

He sighs. “Well, it is a Greek book.”

“Clearly,” you reply. “So where do we start?”

“I guess at the beginning.”

. . . .

Things were going smoothly. You found yourself actually understanding the material and surprisingly, enjoying it. But you also found yourself getting lost in Jimin at times. The more time you spent with him, the more you developed a crush. Your mind would wander as your eyes looked over him. You wondered how soft his full lips were. You wondered what his eyes looked like in moments of passion. You wondered how good it would feel to be wrapped up in his strong arms.

Your eyes were on his arms when he called your name. “Huh?”

“I asked did you want to go over the scene between Antigone and Polynices again?”

You shake your head. “No, I think I understand. Antigone wants him to call off the war, but Polynices’ pride won’t let him.”

“Correct,” Jimin replies with a smile.

Fuck, you think. Jimin had a smile that would make anyone melt. “Jimin,” you begin and mentally kick yourself for what you’re about to ask but you’ve started so you might as well finish. You put on your best flirtatious smile. “What do I get if I ace my next paper?”

He seems to know what you’re hinting at. “You get an A and the satisfaction of knowing your hard work paid off.”

Well, if that wasn’t a blaring rejection, you don’t know what is. “Do you have a girlfriend?” You blurt it out before your brain can even process whether the question was appropriate or not.

He blinks, slightly taken aback. “Yes, yes, I do. Why?”

You shrug, trying to be as nonchalant as possible even though you feel as if you’ve just gotten stung by a million honeybees. “No reason. You just seem so into your academics; I didn’t think you had time for that kind of stuff.”

“Well, a human being still needs a social life to thrive,” he replies coolly. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You nod. “Yes, and his name is Jose Cuervo.”

He laughs. “I’m sure you have a line of men knocking on your door.”

“Nobody I want though,” you say, mostly to yourself.

. . . .

If crushing on him wasn’t enough, now you were dreaming about him. A week of erotic dreams plagued you. They felt so real. You could smell his signature cologne as he pushed in and out of you, your legs on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around your thick thighs. Each dream ended the same though, just as he was about to finish, your alarm would wake you up and you would spend a good five minutes finishing yourself off before getting ready for the day.

Instead of a study room at the library, Jimin asked you to meet him at his apartment for the study session. He mentioned something about time constraints, appointments, and being unable to book a study room but your brain had been stuck on, “Wanna meet me at my apartment? We can have a quick recap sesh before I have to run out?” He could barely finish his question before you agreed to it.

So, sue you for being curious.

It’s not like anything will happen, you thought as you parked, he has a girlfriend. You arrived twenty minutes early. Your excitement had gotten the best of you and you knew how much Jimin liked it when you were on time. When you knocked on the door, a man almost as handsome as Jimin answered.

“You must be Y/N?” he asked, sticking out his hand. “I’m Taehyung.”

You nodded, the thought of becoming a Wattpad heroine and having two incredibly attractive men fight over you danced around in your head. You shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Taehyung.”

As he let you in, he explained he had somewhere to be, but that Jimin was in his room and to head right in. You gave the door a light knock but didn’t receive an answer. The door was slightly ajar, giving you the smallest view of a very neat bedroom. You spotted Jimin at his desk, looking at something on his large computer monitor. It looked familiar. Your curiosity ate at you, forcing your hand to ever-so-gently open the door further. This time you could see what Jimin was looking at clearly.

It was you. It was your Instagram feed. He was scrolling through your pictures, pausing at every photo that was a bit risqué.

“Fuck, Y/N …”

That was your name. Leaving his lips. In a moan. Your heart fluttered with excitement. But wait, was he …

As you tilt your head to get a better view, you can see the tip of his elbow on the armrest, bobbing up and down. And up and down. And up and down.

Oh, he definitely was.

You slap a hand over your mouth and tiptoe back to the living room. A few minutes later, you hear a shower turn on and ten minutes after that, you see Jimin emerge in a navy blue V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants.

“Hey,” Jimin looks at you with a face full of guilt. You can’t help but smile. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” you lie, looking up from your phone that you were pretending to be engrossed in. “I haven’t been waiting long.”

“Good, good,” he says. “Let’s go to the kitchen. The lighting is better in there.”

. . . .

After three weeks of hard work and several study sessions, you submit your paper with all the confidence of Scott Disick. Winter, the best friend that she is, decided that this was the best time to reward your good behavior with a couple of jello shots at your favorite bar. You gobble up the first two and then decide to sip on a blue Long Island iced tea. That’s when you spot him. Sitting in a corner, next to his roommate and another man with tattoos up and down his arms. Instead of his usual tweed blazer and grey slacks, his outfit looks more modern, more casual. A white graphic tee hugs his toned body, and you can’t help but eye his biceps. His cheeks are slightly red, his eyes are glossy and he’s laughing harder than you’ve ever seen him laugh. He looks delicious but you turn around and decide to order another shot from the bar.

You spot Winter getting her mack on with a fellow classmate, Karina, and it’s then you realize that you’re probably going to be alone for the rest of the night. Just as you begin to grab your wallet to pay your tab, a familiar figure approaches you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he’s wearing a smile you’ve never seen before, and it makes your insides flutter.

“I could say the same thing,” you reply. “I never thought I’d see Jimin Park in a bar.”

“I don’t spend all my time in the library,” Jimin says.

“Could have fooled me,” you tease, taking a sip of your drink. “What brings you out among people?”

He orders a whiskey sour before turning to you. “I, Y/N L/N, am finally a single man. My girlfriend of two years has decided that she no longer wants me.”

He’s smiling but you can see sadness behind his glossy eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. “Her loss.”

“Oh definitely,” he says with a slight slur. “You want to know the real reason she broke up with me?”

You shrug. “Lay it on me.”

He leans in close, so close his body is pressed up against yours. He angles his lips to your ear and whispers, “I was too much for her.”

“Oh …”

“Yeah,” his words spill out in a rush, his eyes darkening as they take you in. They pause at your mini-skirt before crawling up your body slowly. You suddenly feel exposed, as if he just completely undressed you, but it would be a lie to say you didn’t love it. His voice lowers to a sultry whisper, “You don’t seem like that though.”

“Seem like that?”

“Like I’d be too much for you.”

“In what way?” You ask, genuinely curious.

He leans toward you, his lips brushing past your ear, forcing every hair on the back of your neck to stand up. “Sexual. You look like a good girl who knows how to take a pounding.”

A million thoughts ran through your head as Jimin broke out into a sardonic laugh. You were called back to that time you caught him masturbating to your pictures. You began to wonder if the prim and proper Jimin was just a façade to hide the sexual deviant he really was. His eyes look over you in a way they never have, and you swore they were clouded with lust. He licks his full lips, and you want nothing more than to kiss them, but you don’t. Instead, you take a step back and laugh, motioning to his roommate. Jimin was drunk and even though it looked like he wanted to bend you over the bar and give it to you, you knew better than to take advantage of a drunk man.

….

A week later, when you enter the study room, the moment you and Jimin exchange glances, you feel awkward. He looks embarrassed as he gestures for you to sit down.

“We need to talk,” he says. “I want to apologize about the other night at the bar.”

“It’s okay, I barely even gave it a second thought,” you lie. You had thought about that moment ever since it happened.

“No, it was inappropriate, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

“Jimin, you were drunk, it’s fine. Besides, it was nice to see a different side to you,” you reassured him with a smile.

“That’s not a side that I would like to be representative of who I am,” Jimin admits. “I don’t want to be known as the guy who makes people uncomfortable.”

You laugh. “Believe me, I was the farthest thing from uncomfortable.”

He locks eyes with you for a moment before clearing his throat and motioning toward your phone. “Have you checked your grades yet?”

You gasp, suddenly remembering the paper you had submitted a week earlier. You quickly bring up your most recent webpage, searching for the most recent grade listing. As your eyes glance over your paper and the notes, you realize that Jimin lived up to his reputation. You get up, shoving the phone in his face, squealing.

His eyes brighten, and he gets up as well. “You got an A!”

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Jimin, to your surprise, doesn’t push away. Instead, he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. You take the moment to breathe in his intoxicating scent. The both of you remain intertwined far longer than you both know is appropriate but for some reason, neither one of you makes the move to let go.

Finally, Jimin relents first. He stares you in the face and says quietly, “I knew you could do it.”

You let out a small laugh. “I couldn’t do it without you. Thank you, Jimin”

“As a reward, we can end the session ten minutes early today,” Jimin replies and sits back down.

You find yourself shaking your head. “Can I request a different reward?”

Jimin looks up at you and nods. You look around the small study space. The room you chose was in the back, the library was relatively empty today and the small window the room provided was on the door and could easily be covered up the shade provided. You mentally prepare yourself for what you’re about to say next. Things could go downhill, fast, depending on his reaction. Still, you steady yourself, look Jimin in the eyes and say, “I want a kiss.”

“What?”

“A kiss,” you repeat confidently. “I want you to kiss me as a reward.”

“I can’t kiss you,” he replies back, taking study materials out of his messenger bag. “That would be highly ina –”

“Jimin, if you don’t want to kiss me, just say so but don’t use the tutor-student relationship as a reason.”

He sighs. “I …” You watch as he struggles to find the right words.

“You were right about me,” you say, giving him a flirtatious smirk. “At the bar. I can take a good pounding.”

His face turns a beet-red, but he quickly recovers. He stands, walking to stand in front of you. “Just one kiss?”

“One kiss,” you repeat.

He leans in and places a soft kiss on your lips, lingering for only a few seconds before breaking the kiss. “That good?”

You shake your head. “I hardly think that’s worth all the work I put in.”

He smiles, genuinely amused, and says, “Really?”

You nod. “Maybe if it was longer …”

Jimin sighs. “Y/N, if it’s longer, you know what that will lead to …”

“Then let it lead to that,” you challenge, you push. “I don’t know why you have to act so anal-retentive all the time. Not everything has to be perfect. Just k—”

He cuts you off with a deeper kiss. It’s slow and sensual. His hands wrap around your waist, one of them running down the curve of your ass as he palms it slowly, indulging in the fleshy softness. You can feel his dick hardening on your thigh as he slips a tongue into your mouth.

Jimin is using both hands to palm your ass now, his dick grinding into you and a low, deep, moan leaves his mouth forcing an electric sensation to shoot down your spine and vibrate in your core.

“You sure you want this?” he asks through a searing kiss.

“Yes,” you think you say but you’re not sure. Your head is spinning that this is actually happening.

He responds by lifting your pleated skirt and smacking your ass, the sound echoing throughout the room. Fingertips dance between your ass crack, and he uses a knee to part your legs slightly further. You break the kiss, throwing your head back as you feel Jimin’s fingertips slowly rub your pussy from the back. He slips a finger into your underwear, running it up and down your slit.

“How long have you wanted this?” He asks, nipping at your neck. “You’re already so fucking wet.” You try to answer but all that comes out is a moan as he slips another finger inside. “Shh,” he tells you. “You want the whole library to hear you?”

He gives you a bit of a reprieve when his hands slip away. You watch as he pulls out one of the chairs and sits, beckoning for you to stand in front of him. Your skirt is still at your waist, so he pulls your underwear down before pulling you close. You feel his large hands grope your ass again, peppering kisses up and down your hips. Another smack echoes through the room before he uses a hand to caress clit. You move your hips in response, holding on to the table for balance.

He pauses. “Turn around and bend over.” He doesn’t have to ask you twice. You obey, and not a second later, you feel him placing one of your legs up on the study table. “Arch that back, baby.” Your ass juts out just a little more as you follow his directions. A moment later you feel a cool, wet, sensation going up and down the slit of your core. It’s slow at first, as if he’s taking the time to let the taste of you marinate on his tongue but he quickly picks up his pace. The tip of his tongue flickering over your clit. Meanwhile, you can feel his thumb, massaging your anus.

Jimin was an ass man, and he was making that very clear.

Both hands were gripping your ass now as he guided your pussy over his tongue. You work your hips in tandem, stifling a loud moan as your world begins to go white.

But he wasn’t done with you yet.

He moves his tongue from your pussy up to your anus, and you jerk, having never quite felt something like this before. You can hear an amused laugh leave Jimin’s throat as he begins to massage your ass with his tongue. His fingers working your pussy, begging for another orgasm. You oblige, your wetness dripping all over his fingertips.

“Don’t move,” he demands. You can hear his belt unbuckling, followed by the tips of his dick moving up and down your incredibly wet slit. He slides it in with the patience of a saint, excruciatingly slow, forcing whimpers out of you, begging him to go faster. “You sure you want it faster?”

“Please,” you moan.

“Please, what?”

“Please, Jimin,” you manage to utter out.

He gives you your wish and begins to pound you like he said he would. His pace quickens and you can feel every inch of him inside of you. Your pussy wraps around him which causes him to smack your ass, and a deep moan leaves his lips.

You realize he can’t have all the fun though and you begin to throw it back on him, your ass bouncing against him, and he lets you. You can hear your wetness as you begin to drain his dick. You can hear his low grunts of satisfaction as you pick up your pace and when you look back, you can see his dark eyes looking at you in a way you never wanted to stop. “Good fucking girl,” he whispers in a low voice.

You make eye contact which forces him to grip your hips and pound into you harder, faster (stronger). “One more time baby,” he says to you, maintaining eye contact. “Cum on this dick.” You had already been close, and his words only sent you over the edge further than you had ever gone. You close your eyes, your body shaking in pleasure as you have your third orgasm on his dick.

He follows suit, his cum shooting deep inside of you. You feel his body on top of yours as you both try to catch your breath.

“Was that worth all your hard work?’ He asks.

“I think I’ll have to get A’s for the rest of the year,” you reply.

“The rest of your life.”

#bts fic #bts x reader #bts x black reader #jimin x reader #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #smut #bts smut #bts x reader fic #jimin x black reader

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petrichal · 2 months ago

Text

Role-reversal as a concept is really simple imo BUT things like change of environment and plot-related stuff personally makes this fic so fun for me to write :)

So I ended up writing a bunch for what was supposed to be a simple concept, wanted to compile my word vomit so far and, hey, maybe this might be enjoyable for people to read too, who knows (ᵕ,—ᴗ—,).

(⚠️ long post ahead!)

Timeline:

10 y.o - Ace swaps with Sabo before he sails off to sea, while Sabo goes back to Dadan's. The day after the explosion, Ace is found drifting on a piece of wood near Shimotsuki village by Marco who had been around the area with some members of the crew.

15 y.o - Ace eats his devil fruit on his "birthday" (the day the WB found him).

17 y.o - Sabo sets off to become a Revolutionary.

18 y.o - [2 years before canon/Luffy sets out.] Ace gets his first bounty. It's been 1 year since Sabo entered the RA, and it's also when he finds out about Ace. (<- we are here)

※ Some time when Sabo was 14-15 years old, he became aware of the Revolutionary Army when he first heard Garp mention his son in relation to it during one of his drinking sessions with Dadan. He went to a library in Goa's Town Center after the fact, saw some information and connected the dots, then confronted Garp about it when he visited next.

※ Garp doesn't know that Ace is alive prior to his wanted poster, but had heard a rumor of a kid on board Whitebeard's ship. The rumor came later than when he first heard of Ace's incident in Goa though (both did not seem connected), and it isn't rare for Whitebeard to pick up a stray, so he hadn't pressed on anything. He will later confront Whitebeard on Ace's whereabouts in the future.

※ Ace isn't allowed to be off the ship when he was younger in case of any danger from enemy pirates but made a habit of sneaking off on his own without any of the crew knowing sometimes. He'd spend his time in the mountains or making friends with the forest animals (for reasons unknown to him) after getting bored of being in towns. The crew had been lax about the rule until an incident when he was fifteen, resulting in Marco forbidding him from getting in fights for a while.

※ Sabo met the Revolutionary Army by tracking them down. Word of mouth by the marines made the job easier, and he found himself joining after getting involved in a coup of a kingdom in East Blue.

※ Sabo is not the Chief of Staff, nor is he anywhere close to being one at this point in the story. He initially judged Dragon for not being present for Luffy but understands that the risk of being connected directly to the leader of the RA would be dangerous. He'd share letters and drawings from Luffy with him at times, where Dragon would keep them in a drawer despite Sabo's playful insistence that he should pin them to his board.

** This is a personal headcanon but I believe that (in canon) Ace still felt some guilt for not taking Sabo with them instead of letting Outlook drag Sabo back to High Town resulting in Sabo running away and getting blown up by the Celestial Dragon, and that Ace would have resorted to unhealthy coping mechanisms because of it- except, Ace is a fire logia, and he can’t get drunk because he’d just burn all the alcohol away.

In this fanfic I kinda took that headcanon for Sabo and because he’s not a fire logia, he has an easy time drowning himself in his own misery. This gets progressively worse especially after he sails off on his own, when Luffy's not there with him.

(Everything below this was made before I started chapter 2, and they’re all just how I put together my thoughts so I could write ch. 2 & 3)

The Plot (up to ch.3):

Summary; In which I provide you with sea routes?? because why not:

(Kind of a bastardized version of this from One Piece Novel A, where the boss of an island under WB’s territory gets outed for being involved in slave trades.)

** “Feltor” is an island I made up and carried over from the original version of the story, but the region I specified in chapter 2 “Las Camp” is canon and was said to be one of Whitebeards’ territories. “Port Marina” is also made up, except it’s kind of a nod to Port Chibaralta.

Rumour says Feltor has been used by slave traders as a rendezvous point between ships.

Logbook received by the RA from Sabaody confirms that a “merchant ship” from Feltor frequently docks in the shipyard before being sighted near Sabaody’s lawless zone (Human Shop location).

Sabo & Koala go to Feltor to steal their logbook. The logbook records should tell them about the location (slave trader's base / Port Marina) the first ship came from before they transport passengers over to the "merchant ship".

I actually didn’t realize how stupid the route was (like wouldn't it be easier for all of this to be in the Grand Line instead??? ugh) and was too stubborn to change anything, but I got rid of the discrepancies and end up a happy writer because of it yippee ;_;

Of course this isn't all there is to it. I haven't written up the rest so the notes for Port Marina stays in their notes.

(This part is genuinely super self-indulgent. I need to have it make sense in canon worldbuilding and that’s why I write at a snail’s pace orz Moving on - )

Emotional Process??:

Chapter 2 was hard for me to write because I couldn’t keep track of how Ace and Sabo feel towards certain things (their main conflicts, what they wanted to do, what they feared or hoped, etc.), so I made a mindmap of their thoughts about stuff like that:

I tried putting this into text but how I put it [above] was easier to understand 😵‍💫 There’s a bit of dialogue that’s for the next chapter but don’t worry about that lol. If you can read through my atrocious handwriting then all the power to you :’)

This is genuinely not supposed to be a long fic and was supposed to be 4 chapters long, but that didn't go as planned lmao ⚰️ My target for now is 6 chapters (2 chapters + an epilogue, hopefully).

(If you've reached this far, here's an experimental draft of Chapter 1 that didn’t go anywhere, but I still consider it part of the story):

Eight years have passed since Ace was shot at the age of ten, when he gripped Sabo by his shoulders and told him to be free. It’s been eight years since he had worn Sabo’s clothes to act as a lousy decoy and sailed under his pirate flag - “Just the letter S on some crossbones? Come on, Sabo,” - and it’s been eight years since Sabo’s brother died because of it. Growing up without Ace had been a challenge he didn’t think he’d face. They saw his ghost sometimes, young minds longing for a voice gone too early, and it existed in the forest they used to hunt in and the room Dadan had for the three of them, now two. They seldom stayed in the treehouse anymore- too many precious memories they didn’t dare disturb- but Sabo’s heart was stronger because of it. Colder, sure, but there was something about seeing bent nails hammered clumsily into the treehouse’s flooring and childish drawings on the battered wall that served as a reminder for what Ace had left, and before long, it hurt too much to bear. So Sabo stayed at Dadan’s, and after a while, Luffy followed him too. It got easier to breathe as Sabo got older. Holding on to Ace’s memories and Luffy’s permanence by his side gave him some sliver of strength to continue, and if it wasn’t for them then it was his rage for the world above all else. So he joined the Revolutionary Army at seventeen, and it’s been one year since then and eight years since he’s known hate like he was born out of it.

The second truth came close to the first; That the world was rotten to its core, and it was why his brother was dead in the first place. Because Ace's death made no sense. He was someone whose dreams were greater than anyone Sabo's ever met, someone who would stand tall and grin in the face of danger, someone who was destined for the world beyond Goa and the East Blue. Ace whispered wishes in his ears, Sabo remembers, to be someone greater than his father. Maybe he can be his mother's pride, too, someone she won't regret giving up her life for. Ten years of living, five years of wishing. A life cut too short. (From Ace’s demise stands Sabo, this turncoat noble, the boy who was handed everything on a silver platter from a young age just so he could shove it all away, and, what, his dream is to write a book? That's all?) Luffy was the one to bring what was left of him back around, in the end. It had been a week since they'd heard the news about Ace, and Sabo had spent most of his time in the forest to think, as he called it. Sunlight pierced through the canopy of leaves above him where he swung his pipe against Luffy's outstretched punch. It made the boy stumble, and soon enough, his arm snapped back and made him fall to the ground. “14 - 0,” Sabo exhaled. The metal pipe felt rough underneath his grip. He was distracted; His mind was elsewhere. “Luffy, this isn't really-” “No!” Came the petulant reply. Luffy got back up as fast as he went down and resumed his stance. “Next round!” And maybe it was frustration, or maybe it was something more harsh, because Sabo could remember throwing his pipe down and sitting cross on the ground instead of parrying Luffy's attack. Sabo ignored how the punch missed him by a whole two inches and how Luffy tumbled forward in surprise because of it. He mussed up his curls instead, and he didn't really get what was making him feel this trapped, this suffocated, but all he knew was that he just wanted everything to stop so he could think. “Sabo?” But he couldn't really ignore Luffy completely, could he? Slowly, the blonde lifted his head up, and through the beaming sun rays piercing through the canopy, Luffy's frown fixed itself like a picture on his face. “What's wrong?” Everything, Sabo wanted to say, but Luffy knew that already. “Just tired,” he said instead before burying his head between his knees. “Oh.” He could feel Luffy settling down on the grass next to him and the boy leaned on Sabo's shoulder like he was worth relying on. “I'm sad about Ace, too,” Luffy said after a beat. The mere mention of their other brother felt like ice nowadays. It froze Sabo, and maybe this was what he feared, this talk with Luffy. “.... I don't think we'll ever stop feeling sad about Ace.” His little brother had nothing to say to that. He only pushed himself more on Sabo’s side. The morning was still young with birds chirping in their homes, and it filled the silence that lapsed in between them like some kind of healing balm. But that wasn’t enough. Sabo knew his wounds, and this one in particular was heavy and deep, something that couldn’t possibly be reconciled in just a week after losing Ace. (And the second truth, really, was that it was unfair of him to blame the world for Ace’s death, when he was the one who led Ace down that path to begin with.) “Don’t you blame me at all?” Sabo found himself asking after the quiet started to feel unbearable. “If I hadn’t tried to leave, he would still….” “Sabo’s stupid,” Luffy said instead, and before Sabo could react in any way to that, “Ace saved you so you can be happy. Why would I get angry about that?”

Aaaand that's it! I really like thinking about this fic! Sorry it's a bit much but thank you for reading until the end!

#AU:desiderium #watch as the post-clarity hits from posting this and i delete everything out of embarrassment #jk. maybe?#looking back on this made me go wtf but i recognize that people actually do like my stuff (bonkers)#so i hope that this is enjoyable to.... at least one person aside from myself #i didn't like how I wrote the draft that I shared but I liked how I worded *some of it. it's still part of the fanfic in my head anyways #portgas d. ace #ace #revolutionary sabo #sabo #one piece au #my art

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