#surrounded by stacks of unread books

[sunflower-graveyard]

With enough grit and determination you, too, can turn old, nearly forgotten hobbies into new hyper fixations.

[moonjxsung]

When the Rain Stops

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Read part 2 here.

Pairing: Lee Minho x fem reader

W/c: 9.8k

Warnings: mentions of drinking, mentions of smoking, mentions of cheating, brief comment about calories, use of pet names, sex in a public establishment (no one is around), oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting

Synopsis: A passing storm during a road trip forces you to seek shelter in a little dive bar on the outskirts of town, and you find yourself drawn to the bartender.

18+. Mdni!

•

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, wringing out your stringy wet hair onto the black carpet below you. You know the weather forecast predicted rain- hell, your family even warned you about it when you left their place this morning. But true to your bad luck, you severely underestimated just how much of it. Now, you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere while you wait for the storm to pass.

Okay, maybe not technically the middle of nowhere. But a shitty dive bar surrounded by nothing for miles upon miles isn’t really something to write home about. You know it could be worse- at least here you have access to unlimited alcohol and mozzarella sticks. But a quick look around tells you that’s not enough to redeem it for you.

The place is undoubtedly small, pool tables and red leather booths housing most of the space. Where there’s vacancy at the tables, the servers haven’t bothered to clean up yet, passing by stacks of dirty plates and silverware to serve guests sitting at other tables. A group of men chatter amongst themselves at one of the pool tables, and a single man is sat at the open bar.

You settle on a spot at the open bar, sitting two barstools away from the man and drying your feet on the rug below you.

“What can I get you?” A voice overhead says dryly, and you respond without looking up.

“Just a Coke, maybe? Diet, please.”

You hear the man scoff a little as he retreats, and then you finally look up, slightly offended at his reaction.

He’s walking away from the bar when you see him, only the back of his head visible from behind the counter where you’re sat.

As he disappears into the back to grab a coke, you pull your cell phone out of your bag. You wipe raindrops off the screen with the sleeve of your sweater, pushing the lock button to catch up on unread texts. There are only two, both from your parents, warning you about the rain and requesting you turn back for the night.

You shoot them back a text, assuring them you’ve found someplace safe to stay, and that you won’t be driving in this rain until the storm blows over. But the truth is, you’re rather unsure of that yourself. Your phone currently reads at 26% battery, the storm is predicted to go on for several hours, and there are seemingly no hotels nearby to stay the night. Chances are, you’re going to be here for a good while.

A veiny hand places an iced glass of your Diet Coke in front of you as you finish sending the texts, and you look up to lock eyes with the bartender.

He’s rather tall, with light brown hair that falls just above his soft round eyes, totally contradicting the sharpness in his jawline and nose bridge. The man is dressed formally in a white button-up shirt and a black tie, rolled up halfway at the sleeves, the top two buttons undone to reveal just a glimpse of his broadened chest.

“Is that it?” He asks. His stare is cold and serious, and you find yourself a little intimidated in this proximity to him.

“Yes, thank you. Do you happen to have a phone charger?”

He scoffs again.

“This isn’t a convenience store.”

“I’m aware,” you reply with narrowed eyes. “I just need to make a few calls.”

“There’s a pay phone in the back.”

It’s your turn to scoff. He’s calculated with his words, like he’s trying his best to get you to leave the bar. But you’re as stubborn as they come, and it’ll take a lot more than rude customer service to make you leave in this storm.

“Look, I’m not using a pay phone unless you’re supplying quarters. You don’t have an iPhone charger?”

He rolls his eyes.

“No, I don’t have an iPhone charger. And I’m not supplying you with anything- this isn’t a convenience store. Unless you want a vodka sprite or some chicken wings, I think we’re all done here.”

Before you can reply, he turns on his heel, making his way back to the kitchen and disappearing behind the double doors once again.

The doors swing in and out a few times before coming to a halt, and you stare through the circular window as he resumes cooking something in the kitchen.

Unpleasant- the personalities of everyone in your parents’ neighboring town, miles away from your apartment in the city. It reminds you precisely why you seldom visit these parts.

“Don’t take it personal,” a voice from beside you says. He shifts to face you from his bar stool. “He’s always like that.”

The stranger is well-dressed in a coat and slacks, his black hair styled neatly out of his face.

“Surprised he keeps any business at all with an attitude like that.”

“The locals don’t get the worst of it,” he continues. “Mostly us city-dwellers he despises.”

A small smile forms on your face. “You’re from the city too?”

“Yeah!” he replies enthusiastically. “I’m just passing through for the weekend.”

“Me too! Though I got stuck on the way back home. Doesn’t seem like we’ll be able to leave for a few hours.”

“Oh yeah,” the man says. “It’s really bad out there.”

You shift your attention to the large window at the back of the bar- the rain is still coming down in sheets over the glistening black pavement, nothing visible beyond the blurry traffic lights as the trees melt into an abyss of darkness. The roads appear empty and the parking lot seems fuller than usual for a bar like this.

“I’m Jisung, by the way,” he says finally.

You turn back to him and nod once. “Y/n. It’s great to meet you.”

*

As Jisung indulges you in conversation about city life, you learn he’s a businessman who visits the area on Saturdays when he gathers in the town with old friends. He also lives alone in a high-rise apartment, he’s single, and he comes to this particular dive bar for the chicken wings. Ones he insists you have to try, so you waive over the bartender to place another order.

“Excuse me, could we get an order of chicken wings?”

The bartender scribbles something and walks away quickly, hardly acknowledging you the way he did earlier.

“You know,” Jisung says. “Maybe the rain isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve been talking to the prettiest girl in this bar for the last 30 minutes. Beats being stuck in traffic any day.”

You feel your whole face turn a bright shade of crimson as he grins flirtatiously. Of course, the other way around stands true, too; his features resemble that of a model’s, and you're pretty sure the other girls in the bar have been eyeing him since you walked in.

Before you can respond, the bartender returns, setting a plate down in front of you and some silverware.

“Enjoy,” he says plainly, and he blinks a few times before leaving again.

“Jeez, it’s like he doesn’t even want to work here,” you tell Jisung.

He says nothing in response- he simply slides the plate over to you, ushering for you to choose a piece.

And you do, carefully balancing the saucy cut between your forefinger and thumb as Jisung taps his against yours.

“Cheers,” he says happily. “To the rain.”

The chicken is the best you’ve had in a while- in fact, you can’t recall having better food at any bar before this.

“Wow, you were right, Jisung. this is phenomenal!”

“It’s Minho’s recipe,” he replies with a mouthful of food.

“Who’s Minho?”

Jisung nods in the direction of the bar, where the bartender is cleaning off a glass with a white towel. He raises his eyebrows once at you, as if to confirm he’s indeed the topic of conversation, and you turn back to Jisung.

“It’s really good,” you say loudly, with the intention of Minho hearing your compliment.

But Minho doesn’t respond, instead sauntering over and refilling your Diet Coke. His eyes visibly avoid yours, guarded, like you might instigate another quarreling match with him at any given second. But he also blinks rapidly as he pours your beverage, almost as if he’s trying not to say something himself. You analyze his mannerisms briefly, before brushing them off and enjoying your food again. He’s probably just still peeved from earlier.

“Do you want to play a round of pool?” Jisung interrupts your thoughts. “Not to scare you, but I’m kind of terrible at it.”

His eyes form little crescents as he laughs loudly, and the gloomy vibe in the bar seems to brighten from the sound alone.

“Yeah, I’d love that.”

Three rounds in, Jisung is practically sober again, reeling off the high from winning three times against you. He might be terrible, but you’re evidently far worse than he claims to be.

“If I win this match, you let me take you out on a date. How does that sound?” Jisung says through laughter, though he’s entirely serious about the proposal.

Your cue stick prods at his ribs as you smile back in agreement. “And if you lose?”

“I won’t lose,” Jisung retorts. “Might as well pick a restaurant now.”

It’s a failure already, Jisung having only two stripes left while you’re still stuck with all 8 solids. He takes his aim at the cue ball, halting his laughter briefly to position his cue stick, and then cheering loudly as the ball disappears into its nearest hole. You watch with bated breath as he repeats the process, only this time, he misses.

“Hey,” you whine. “You only brought up our proposal midway through this round. At least I deserve a chance card!”

He scoffs. “Pick a chance then. I doubt it’ll get you 7 balls closer to your competition.”

You scan the room in deep thought, one hand resting under your chin and atop the cue stick; and then, the idea hits you.

“He’ll play for me,” you announce, nodding toward the direction of where Minho is wiping down the counter with a rag. He looks up momentarily, furrowing his brows when he notices the shared looks of you and Jisung.

“Get over here!” Jisung shouts, and a few patrons of the tables nearby encourage the invitation, cheering and applauding.

“No,” Minho says as he shakes his head shyly. “I’m busy.”

“There’s literally no one around,” Jisung retorts. “Come on, I know you can try at least once.”

“He’s scared he’ll lose,” you chime in. “And then you’ll have to take me out on a date.”

You swear you see Minho’s eyes narrow, and then he dries his hands with the same rag before setting it down.

“One round only. If I win, you tip double.”

“Deal,” says Jisung, and you watch Minho strut over to the table.

He’s taller than you assumed, towering over you in a black pair of slacks that lengthen his muscular legs. In preparation, Minho cuffs up his sleeves a few more times, buttoning them at the forearm and loosening his collar. You try your hardest not to stare, but it’s a seemingly impossible task, you quickly realize, as he takes your cue stick and positions himself over the table. One loose strand of brown hair falls into his face, and you resist the urge to move it out of the way for him.

The tables nearby are quiet as Minho pulls back, and then aims, the first of your solids rolling into the hole with ease.

“Oh fuck you,” Jisung groans, and Minho positions himself over the next target. Aim, roll back, perfect shot.

Tables around you begin to gather around yours, watching silently as Minho repeats his method. Aim, roll, shoot. The heavy sound of a solid rolling down the velvety surface, and the satisfying plink as it finds its home inside the hole.

Only two solids remain, and Jisung rests his head on his cue stick as Minho takes aim again. “I can’t watch. Someone tell me if he gets it.”

Aim… roll… and double plink- both solids disappear into the hole beneath them, effectively ending the match between the two. The patrons clap and cheer loudly, and Jisung throws his hands in the air, groaning in annoyance. “Fuck, man! You didn’t say you knew how to play pool?”

Minho shrugs, not a hint of a smile on his face as he retrieves the balls and organizes them on the table again. Jisung slides him a twenty, and he shoots you a quick glance, nodding once as he leaves the table and disappears back into the kitchen. You wonder again what he’s thinking about, briefly worried you’ve annoyed him by pulling him away from his work.

“Hey,” Jisung says, snapping you out of your tranced state. “Did you want to… maybe… get out of here? I know a hotel just a few blocks from the bar. We can walk fast.”

You think it over momentarily, weighing your options. The rain has no intention of stopping anytime soon, and you’re dying for a shower at this point. You’re also persuaded by the idea of a warm bed- not to mention, a warm body, for the night.

“Sure! I’m just going to run to the bathroom, I’ll meet you outside.”

*

The reflection in the mirror looks rough, staring back at you like this, desperately fixing the smudged makeup to the best of your ability and spritzing perfume. It’s been a while since you hooked up with a random person- especially one from a dive bar like this, but somehow you trust him. He’s funny, sweet, and he’s undoubtedly attractive. Plus, maybe a hookup will distract you from the current state of things.

When you exit, you make your way past the barstools, thanking Minho briefly. His lips curl up into a hint of a smile, and you can’t help but feel bad for him- he’s stuck in this shitty bar regardless, dealing with obnoxious patrons seeking shelter from the storm and cleaning up after their drunken messes. He may be a little rude, but it’s deserved, you think, as he cleans off your dishes.

Finally exiting the bar, you look around for Jisung, shielding your eyes from sheets of rain and squinting against the dark sky. The only source of light is a hanging light beside the wooden bar sign, and it illuminates nothing past your immediate eyesight.

“Jisung?” You call, being met only with the sounds of heavy rainfall and swaying leaves.

“Jisung?”

The wind blows violently, and you wrap your arms around yourself, shivering against the brutal cold. A man enters the bar beside you, keeping the door open and ushering you inside. And you do enter again, marching straight to the bar to search for Jisung.

*

“Excuse me,” you say to Minho, who is busy preparing a beer on tap for another patron. “Did you see the man who was here earlier? Tall, black hair, suit?”

“You mean Jisung?” He says without looking at you, and you perk up at his name.

“Yes! Did you see where he went?”

“Yeah,” Minho replies dryly. “I told him you changed your mind about him.”

“You- what?”

Minho says nothing again, filling another mug of beer and sliding it across the counter to a patron.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“He’s bad news,” Minho shrugs.

The words circle in your head for a good minute while you make sense of them. Minho ruined your chances at going home with Jisung- because he’s “bad news”? What does he even know about him?

“Why do you say that?” The question escapes your lips before you can ponder a more insightful one.

“I know him,” he replies casually. “Like I said- bad news.”

Frustration builds up steadily inside of you, turning your ears a bright shade of crimson and knitting your brows together in pure confusion.

“Who are you to determine that? You’re just a bartender! It’s none of your damn business who I leave with!”

He slaps a palm on the counter, not particularly hard, but enough to startle you a little.

“Actually, it is. I have a legal obligation to ensure my patrons don’t leave here inebriated behind a vehicle, or with strange men. And I saved you from the latter. You should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you?” You scoff. “Since I walked in here you’ve been nothing but a complete douche! There’s nothing to thank you for.”

“Then don’t,” Minho says. “I did my part either way.”

You stutter momentarily, settling on silence as he exits back to the kitchen and leaves you standing at the counter. The current state of things feels much like they did when you first entered- drenched from the rain, frustrated, and annoyed with the bartender. Only now, you can add cockblocked to the list, all thanks to Minho.

*

Two hours past the incident, your phone is completely dead. It’s just past 11 when the rain stills just for a little bit, and hoards of patrons file out of the bar to complete their short trips home. You remain stuck however, knowing the rain will pick up again if you attempt the six hour drive back right now. The bar is nearly empty at this hour, only two people sat at a far table, and the quiet swing of jazz music is now audible from your little booth. The peeling leather of the red seats below you is rather itchy, and the dim lantern hanging over you gives an orange-ish glow to the wooden table beneath you. You scribble mindless doodles on a stack of napkins in front of you, trying your best to pass the agonizing time spent here.

As you finalize the petals of a messy flower drawn on the napkin, a plate is set down in front of you, along with a glass of what you presume is Diet Coke. The smell instantly makes your mouth water- a cheesy omelet coupled with a side of french fries, steam still wafting off the plate and up into the glow of the booth’s lighting. You look up to see none other than Minho, and before you can protest, he slides into the booth across from you, setting a fork down on your napkin.

“You should eat,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s on me,” Minho emphasizes, and you finally look up from your drawing.

“Look,” he begins. “Jisung has been coming here for years. He’s a cool dude, I get it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly like I have a chance with him anymore,” you turn back to your drawing.

“He’s also married,” Minho finishes.

At that, your head snaps up at him, eyes widened in shock.

“What? But he said-”

“Yeah, that’s what he always says. It’s kind of his thing- picking up girls from the bar and taking them to that one hotel. I told you, he’s bad news.”

Silence washes over the booth as you swallow nervously. He shrugs apologetically, fiddling with his fingers as you begin to speak.

“Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t. I just didn’t want you to come back here crying tomorrow morning like the last girl did.”

It hits you like a ton of bricks- Minho really was looking after you. You’d almost left this strange dive bar, in the middle of nowhere, to sleep with a married man in a sketchy hotel. In hindsight, it was stupid you ever agreed.

“At least eat some fries,” he says, and you remember the plate in front of you. You comply with his request, taking a bite of the still-warm fries which almost melt on your tongue.

“These are really good,” you tell him. “He was right about the food, at least.”

“I’m kind of a big deal here,” Minho says as he leans back. He smirks- the first time you’ve seen an expression on his face tonight.

“I’m sure. How did you get so good at pool, anyway?”

“I work at a dive bar,” Minho says. “Girls ask me to play with them all the time.”

“Do they now? Your reluctance earlier says otherwise.”

“Oh they do,” Minho says. “When they’re as shitty as you, I’m the chance card.”

“Hey!” You shout. Minho giggles, his head thrown back as his eyes form little crescents in amusement. His laugh makes you laugh, too, the musical sound of it making your heartbeat quicken a little. It’s melodic and lighthearted, and you almost forget you’re stuck with him in this hell of a bar. There’s a glow to him at this time of night.

“Run it back,” you say as his laughter dies down. “And I’ll show you I’m not entirely terrible.”

“Better hope you don’t lose,” he says. “You won’t have a chance card this time.”

*

You still suck at pool. Minho clears the table in two quick rounds, and you’ve barely had time to practice with your cue stick because it’s hardly ever your turn.

“Alright,” Minho says. “I’ll let you have this turn. It’s boring watching you stand there all night.”

You approach the table, positioning your cue stick and taking aim at your first solid of the match.

“Use your thumb on the front hand,” he chimes in.

“Like this?”

“No, it should be between your thumb and pointer finger.”

“Like I’m pinching it?” You ask confused, and Minho chuckles.

“Here.”

Before you can adjust your cue stick again, Minho is behind you, one hand finding yours at the front of the cue stick and positioning it between your thumb and pointer finger like he explained. His hands are cold to the touch, and you’re intimidated having him this close to you. The other hand gently grips your elbow, moving it back a little as he scans the current trajectory. His face is dangerously close to yours, hair falling beautifully into his eyes as he moves, lips parted in concentration and the gentle flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks.

“There. Try now.”

You do as he instructs, rolling back and taking aim at your solid. Aim, shoot… and the familiar roll of your ball across the table. Only this time, it’s followed by the satisfying sound of falling into its respective hole.

“Oh my gosh!” You exclaim. “That’s only the third one I’ve gotten tonight!”

Minho chuckles, amused with your ardent reaction. “Your aim isn’t bad at all. It’s just your positioning.”

He turns to smile at you, momentarily unaware of how close he is to you. He’s towering over you, lips pulled into a mischievous grin as your eyes glimmer, still reeling off the high of scoring. For a brief second, your eyes flicker down to his lips, maybe a little too obviously, and then back up at his eyes.

“I should probably get back to the kitchen,” Minho says nervously. “I think that table ordered drinks like one round ago.”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little hurt that he’s leaving again. “I’m pretty tired, anyway.”

“You want something else to eat?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Good luck with work, though!” You avert his gaze fully now, mentally tracing the pattern on the rug below you.

When Minho leaves, you can’t help but mentally scold yourself. He’s just a bartender- one whose job is to serve you drinks and keep you out of trouble here. Not some friend to stand around and play pool with, regardless of how good he is, or hypnotizing it feels when he touches you.

*

At 1am, the bar is officially empty. The last few patrons leave after a round of gin vodkas, somehow getting an Uber despite the storm and leaving home for the night. You debate getting a room at the nearby hotel, but there’s no way you’ll be able to reserve a room this late, and your phone is still dead. It would probably be smart to attempt some method of getting home, but a part of you strangely doesn’t want to leave the bar anymore. It feels like a vessel into another universe, like time doesn’t exist here, like the storm or the ride home aren’t important as long as you’re sat in this little booth. You’re well aware the bar closes in an hour, but you’d rather wait until the hour to decide what to do.

Of course, part of it could be the bartender. You don’t want to like Minho, but you can’t quite make sense of him, either. He’s attractive, but reserved. He’s outgoing, but he has his guard up. And his walls break down when he’s enjoying himself, but he builds them up quickly again, and you can’t understand what triggers it. He’s much like the bar is- safe and homely, yet mysterious and alluring.

As you take a sip of your Diet Coke, neck craned to watch the show playing on the tv above you, a familiar face scoots into the booth across from you.

“Subway,” he says.

“What?”

“Jeopardy. Restaurants by slogan: Eat Fresh. It’s Subway.” He's referring to the episode of Jeopardy you’ve been watching for the past half hour.

“Everyone knows that,” you say with a smile.

You expect him to defend himself, but instead he laughs and shakes his head.

“Either our diet cokes are really good, or you’re not in any rush to get home.”

You sigh, swirling your straw around your third can of Coke and shrugging.

“I can’t make it home in this rain. The roads are closed going my direction, anyway.”

“Where’s home?”

“Far from here. In the city.”

Minho sits back comfortably now, arms crossed in front of him as he listens to you speak.

“City girl. I guessed it.”

“What gave me away?” You ask with a smile.

“iPhone charger request. And you drink Diet Coke exclusively.”

“I don’t like to waste my calories!” You argue.

“You’re in a dive bar.”

The two of you share laughter at your admission, and you can feel your cheeks heat up again. He sure knows how to make you laugh.

“I’ll probably get a motel room for tonight,” you say. “I think there’s one walking distance from here.”

“The nearest one is a shithole. I’m pretty sure someone died there, like, a few months ago.”

You exhale deeply, poking around at your drink with your straw.

“I have work on Monday. I have to get some shut-eye or I won’t be able to get home even if it does stop raining.”

Minho glances around the bar, observing the vacant tables and empty parking lot.

“Yah, Jeongin-ah!” He shouts suddenly, and a figure appears around the kitchen door, peering over at your table.

“Yeah?”

“Clock out,” Minho says. “We’re closing an hour early.”

“An hour? But what if-”

“No one else is coming in this rain. Just grab your stuff And get home safely. I’ll handle the rest of the tables.”

Jeongin’s gaze darts over at you quickly, and then back to Minho, as he nods without saying another word. He disappears into the kitchen once again, presumably to gather his belongings.

“You don’t have to close on account of me,” you say finally, a little unsure of his motives. “I can walk to the motel from here.”

He scoffs, sliding out from the booth and gathering a stack of dirty dishes from the table beside you. “I told you, it’s not safe. You can chill here for the next hour while I do closing procedures, and if it’s still raining, I can at least give you a ride there.”

“Why should I trust you?” You ask, hint of sarcasm present in your voice, but still cautious.

“Technically you shouldn’t,” he says with a smile. “But you’re free to call the cops on me whenever you want.”

“Nice try. My phone's dead.” You shoot him a smile, knowing he’s just messing with you, but wanting to entertain his little game nonetheless.

“Back room, third drawer in the file cabinet. There should be a phone charger there.”

You gasp and scoff. “I thought this wasn’t a convenience store!”

“It’s not,” Minho says, flashing you a toothy smile as he makes his way to the kitchen and calls out over his shoulder. “It’s a dive bar. My dive bar.”

*

Minho scrubs grease off the plates while you dry mugs on the counter adjacent to him and arrange them neatly in a row.

“So you haven’t left this town in years?” You ask Minho, continuing the conversation you’ve been having with him for the past 45 minutes.

“I drive to the city probably once a year,” he replies. “Hate it.”

“Why?”

“It’s too busy. I prefer simple. Simple people, simple places. A simple life.”

“How can you say that when you’ve never experienced it the other way around before?”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Experienced a simpler life. Outside of the city.”

“Well… kind of. I mean, I moved out the second I turned 18. Grew up in the suburbs, but I traveled to the city every chance I got. I always knew I wanted to be there.”

“So you’ve never lived without the notion of wanting to migrate as soon as possible?”

“I guess not.”

He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm.

“I grew up in the city.”

“You did?”

“Hated it,” Minho says.

“Why’s that?”

“I was… easily distracted. Got involved with a lot of bad crowds. Never knew what I wanted. Worked as a private chef for a while, actually.”

You stop drying the mug you’re working on and look at him in utter shock.

“You?”

“Me,” he affirms with a chuckle. “I quit one random day five years ago and moved out here with every penny I saved. Obtained ownership of this bar and haven’t looked back since.”

You nod at his words, resuming your task as he shuts off the water.

“Takes some courage, I’ll give you that.”

Minho leans back against the counter and rests his hands on the table behind him. He smirks at you knowingly, and you can feel his eyes pierce through you out of your peripheral vision.

“What?” You say with a blushing grin.

“Nothing,” he replies. “You make a good employee here.”

“Yeah, right,” you say sarcastically, lining up the last mug on the counter and turning around to face him.

“I’d probably start a fire with running water or something crazy.”

He laughs again, shaking his head as you cross your arms.

“I need to close up the registers,” Minho says. “You want to hang out here until I’m done?”

“Sure,” you reply, and he bows slightly.

“I’ll try to be fast.”

Minho leaves to the back office as you wipe your hands with a dish rag, smiling in a daze.

*

While Minho counts change in the office, you explore the place a bit, making your way around the pool tables to the back of the bar. It’s then that you notice a tall staircase almost hidden away in a back corner. You slowly make your way up the stairs, tip-toeing so as not to startle Minho while he’s in the office closing up for the night. The creaky wooden stairs are muffled by the sound of the rain outside.

When you reach the top, you lean on the banister, looking down on the bar and taking in the view. It looks especially charming like this, illuminated only by the golden neon sign hung over the bar counter and reflecting off the big glass cabinets. Entrance through a small doorway leads to a single, dark room, and you turn on the dim light to explore the room.

There are only two things in the room- another pool table, visibly much older than the others downstairs, and an old arcade game. Upon closer inspection, you find that the game is a run-down version of Pac-Man, one of your favorite arcade games growing up. The giant yellow display is decorated with whimsical little drawings of Pac-Man and ghosts, and you can’t help but crack a smile at the sight, remembering the days you used to play as a kid.

You try the on switch, being met with a buzzing noise and the glow of red marquee lights, but nothing appears on the screen. Bummer, you think to yourself.

“It’s never turned on,” a voice says behind you, and you let out a shout, startled at the sudden noise.

When you turn around, Minho is standing with his hands in his pockets, a black blazer thrown over his button up shirt and a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Got it as a donation a few months ago and it’s lived up here ever since. I think it’d be a hit, if it actually worked.”

You turn back to the machine, observing the gentle hum from the static on the monitor display.

“It’s probably something with the PCB,” you reply, and Minho turns to look at you.

“The what?”

“The printed circuit board,” You repeat, setting your purse down on the floor beside you. “You have a screwdriver?”

Minho’s brows furrow together in confusion, but he nods slowly. “Yeah, sure.”

He leaves momentarily and returns with the requested tool, watching as you drop to your knees and unscrew the door to the cabinet.

“The lights turn on, which is a good thing,” you explain to him. “Means the monitor is still in good condition. So It’s probably just slowed down with general wear.”

When the cabinet door is off, Minho leans back against the pool table and observes as you pull out little parts from the myriad of pieces along the circuit.

“I figured,” You say, sitting back with a tissue in hand. “The EPROMs and ROMs are all warped.”

You pull a bobby pin out from your hair, gently wiggling the pins back in place before cleaning them off with a tissue.

Minho is lost as he watches you, mouth agape at the level of focus in your expression, tongue poking out between your lips as you move with purpose and determination. He realizes he may have undermined you this whole time, thinking secretly you’d crave a simpler life, when all along it was your intelligence and wit that drew you to the city. You’re as complex as the city, he thinks. You can’t be confined within the safety of these four walls like he can. And maybe he’s complex, too. But he’s not sure of himself the way you seem to be.

When you’re finished wiping down the acronyms of pieces, you fit them back in and screw back on the door. Minho watches curiously as you plug in the machine again, reaching around the frame for the switch and flipping it on.

The familiar hum of the screen starts up again, only this time it flashes a bright white color, and then displays PAC-MAN as soft music begins to play.

“Holy shit,” Minho says with a breathy chuckle. “That would've been thousands to get repaired.”

“Take it as a thank you,” you say. “For helping me out tonight.”

You hoist yourself up on the pool table and gesture to the display as he stares in awe. “Try it!”

Minho presses the red START button, chuckling when the familiar tune starts up and the game begins. He makes it through a few rows before getting eaten by a pixelated ghost, groaning when the game flashes GAME OVER and starts up another round.

But he doesn’t resume playing, instead turning around to face you with an unmoving expression.

“It’s drizzling,” he says, looking past you out the little window.

“Mhm,” you reply, though you’re not registering a word he's saying anymore. He’s dangerously close to you again, eye-level with you while you’re sat atop the pool table and not taking your gaze off him.

He seems to be trembling with anticipation, his gaze flickering down to your lips and back up to your eyes, hoping you’ll notice the motion and do something, anything with it.

“We should probably get going,” You say in a whisper.

He swallows cautiously. “Yeah.”

“Right now that the rain is a little lighter.”

“Yeah,” he says again, though neither of you make any move to leave.

“Thanks for tonight,” you reply, your eyes fully locked on his lips now.

Minho begins to say something, but his voice hitches in his throat, instead opting to swallow and and take a single step forward. And before you can say another word, his face tilts in front of you, gently pressing his lips to yours.

He kisses you gently, but he doesn’t waste any time, hands caressing your waist in his embrace and pressing up against you. He tastes like mint, his tongue mixing the flavor with the taste of Diet Coke still in your mouth. When he pulls away, he says nothing, searching your expression for a sign of how you’re feeling. You say nothing, too, eyes flickering over his serious gaze and waiting for him to break the silence.

When he still doesn’t talk, you reach out to grab his collar, pulling him toward you again. You kiss him first this time, slipping your tongue inside his parted lips to taste him fully, gripping his collar like you might lose him if you let go.

“Fuck,” Minho says, pulling away and breathing heavily. He squeezes his eyes shut, a nervous expression tugging at his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t do this,” Minho replies. “With patrons. I just… I don’t know what got into me…”

His words trail off as you work little kisses down his jawline and neck, nibbling over his clavicle and humming greedily against him.

“What if I wanted you to?”

Minho stares at the ceiling as you work him, breath hitching in his throat as you trail even lower.

You pull away from him, tilting his gaze down to meet yours with a hand on his cheek.

“Say you don’t want to kiss me again,” you clarify. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

His eyes narrow, piercing through yours as his hands rest gently on your upper thighs.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Minho says seriously.

Your heart drops instantly, the anticipation that had built up pending his answer quickly fizzling as his words pierce through you. Your throat is dry, dozens of questions circling your mind, but nothing that comes to fruition amidst your disappointment. Guess it wasn’t the way you’d read into it all night.

“Okay.” Your voice is shaky, doing nothing to mask your disappointment.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Minho says again quickly, his thumbs tracing circle patterns on your thighs. He leans in again, lips just barely grazing over yours as he speaks in a whisper. “I want you right here, on this table, right now. I want to do a lot more than just kiss you.”

Your heartbeat resumes, pulsing wildly as he scans your face for a reaction. You don’t grant him one through your facial expressions- rather, you pull him in by his collar once again, closing the gap between you and kissing him even harder this time. You can feel Minho smirking into the kiss, amused with how desperate you are at the simple admission.

His hands snake up your sweater, grabbing desperately at your lower back and pressing into you with his hips. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, neck craned to the side for easy access while he begins to work kisses down your neck now.

“You really suck at pool,” Minho says as he smiles against your skin. His lips find yours again, giving you repeated chaste kisses as you tangle your hands in his hair. His lips feel familiar on yours- almost like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You can’t imagine a version of him you weren’t kissing like this.

“You’re calculated,” you say, smiling as you loosen the black tie around his neck.

“How so?”

“No phone charger, you only agree to play pool when a date with Jisung is on the line, and you’ve gotten me to stick around this long? You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

Minho throws his head back a little, his eyebrows arching as he laughs loudly.

“You might be a genius at fixing arcade games, but you don’t have everything figured out the way you think you do.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

He pulls away again, completing your task of loosening his tie, and then discarding it completely on the table beside you.

“It stopped raining 15 minutes ago,” he says slyly. “And suddenly you’re in no rush to go home anymore.”

His eyebrows are raised as his hands caress your thighs, moving higher until he’s grazing your hip bones with his fingertips. You don’t reply, suddenly hot at his words, and knowing he’s in fact entirely correct about it. It’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting around for all night- a break in the rainfall to get back to your car and make it to a hotel for the night. But paired against the other opportunity right in front of you- the one wearing nothing but a loosened white shirt and a devilish smirk on his face, you can’t do much but resort to the latter.

“You gonna spread for me?” Minho asks in a gentle teasing tone, his voice much quieter than before as your breath hitches in your throat. You nod, disregarding his first statement and doing as you’re told, slipping off your jeans and opening your legs just enough so that he can move his fingertips to graze your inner thighs. It feels dirty like this, so sinful for your skin to make contact with the velvety table below you. But you’re too dazed with lust, completely encapsulated by his movements to do anything except obey him.

“Good girl,” Minho replies, and your heartbeat quickens at the praise.

His hands dance in gentle back and forth motions along your thighs, gradually getting closer to your core, until his middle finger rests gently atop your clothed clit.

Your eyes dart down to his hand briefly, waiting desperately for him to touch you, to kiss you, anything.

“Look at me,” Minho says.

And you do, making eye contact again with his cold stare, piercing salaciously through your doe eyes.

Another smirk grows on his face as he crouches lower, and lower, dropping to his knees until he’s eye level with your aching pussy.

“Please…” you say, resting your weight back on your palms and spreading your legs further for him. Your breaths are labored, eyebrows arched up at just the thought of his tongue on you.

“Please what?”

“Please, would you… eat me out?” You request quietly, somehow internally panicked that he’ll decline.

But he doesn’t- instead he loops a finger through your underwear, pulling down in a sudden motion, eyes widened at the sight of you like this. You’re swollen with arousal, clit visibly quivering at the proximity of his breath against your folds. Your pussy is deliciously sopping for him, glazed juices painting your cunt all for him.

“God,” he breaks the silence. “You’re soaking. I could probably put it in now and you’d take it, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t answer him, tucking strands of hair behind your ears and looking down on him with anticipation.

“Okay,” Minho says with a slight chuckle. “Just relax for me.”

And without wasting another minute, his hands find purchase on your knees, scooting you closer to the edge of the table before finally burying his face in you. His tongue licks a long stripe along your pussy, smiling at the taste, before his lips latch themselves around your clit and suck harshly.

Your eyes roll back almost instantly, completely lost in the sensation of his tongue gliding back and forth over your folds like a starved animal. His plump lips remain latched to your clit, suckling with lewd wet noises and basking in the flavor of your arousal for him. As your legs tremble with pleasure, your hands quickly find themselves tangled in his hair, grinding him up against you and using his face to satisfy the delicious ache between your legs. Minho is well aware of your desperation, pulling away mere centimeters to grin at your reaction.

“Don’t stop,” you say, massaging his tresses in encouragement to keep going. Minho chuckles, this time latching on to your bundle of nerves with a gentle graze of his bunny teeth. He nibbles tenderly, eyes rolling up to watch your reaction as you sense the shift in his actions.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out frantically. “That feels so fucking good."

Minho smiles into your pussy, giving one small lick with his tongue before utilizing his velvety lips on your clit once again.

“Mmh…” he hums into your pussy, sending divine vibrations that tickle your arousal and instinctively make you moan for him.

“You taste so good,” Minho says between suckling. “I wanna make you cum for me.”

You nod down at him, rubbing little circles on his scalp and throwing your head back when he dips his tongue into your entrance.

“Oh god!”

At first he takes little kitten licks at your entrance, coming back up to kiss your clit repeatedly while you wait in anticipation. And then he brings a hand up to your entrance, sliding one finger in and working it around your pussy as he continues the unwavering attention on your bundle of nerves.

“Yeah, just like that,” you encourage him.

“You like it when I do both at once?” Minho inquires with a knowing smile.

“Yes, fuck” you can hardly answer him between the high-pitched moans that fill the dark room.

“Like when I fill you up?” A kiss on your clit. “Like when I taste you?” He laps at your folds. “Like when I fuck you like this?” Two fingers pump in and out of you now, smearing your arousal back on your clit which he wastes no time lapping up on his tongue.

“Yes, fuck Minho! Please, I’m gonna cum-”

“Cum, then. Want you to make a mess on my face.”

His fingers pump at an even faster pace while he sucks your clit between his teeth and emits a deep moan against your wetness. The vibration of his voice gives attention to the rest of your aching pussy, which finally contracts desperately around his fingers as you leak cum on his tongue. Minho licks you clean, chuckling against you when he takes your clit between his teeth again and hears you gasp in overstimulation.

Both of you say nothing as he stands back up, eye-level to you once again, his chin glazed in your juices. He rests his hands on your thighs as he did before, leaning in to press a sweet kiss on your lips and smile against you. Your hands toy with his belt buckle, tracing the pattern in your fingertips before slowly undoing the buckle and snaking the belt out from the loops on his trousers.

“Let me return the favor?” You ask against his lips, and he takes a sharp breath when you unzip his pants.

“Can I be honest?” Minho replies, and you pull away to look him in the eyes. His round eyes are dark, hooded with lust and curiously peering back at you.

He grins sheepishly, massaging your thighs with the palms of his hands as he speaks. “I think I’ve been hard for you the second you walked in here.”

The words make your heart flutter, suddenly much more aware of his contact against your skin, an insatiable desire to satisfy him and let him do whatever he may please.

Maybe you were the one mistaken all night- maybe Minho’s curt attitude and cold demeanor wasn’t in fact discourteousness at all. Perhaps he was just as drawn to you as you were to him. And now here you are, each drawn to the other like moths to a burning flame, eager to explore and make the fleeting moment last in any way you could.

You laugh at his admission, moving strands of hair out from his face and tucking your face in the crook of his neck, where he presses a chaste kiss to your temple through nervous laughter of his own.

“Yeah?” You say finally. “What are you going to do about it?”

Minho narrows his eyes with a challenging expression, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you off the table, where he now towers over you and intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Turn around,” he orders candidly. Your heart flutters again at the implication- him ordering you around like this when he’s already satisfied you once. But the tone he maintains is both sweet and inviting, and you know his intentions are the same as yours.

You follow his command, facing the pool table as he presses you against the edge, arms wrapping around your waist and peppering your shoulders in little kisses.

His hands snake up your sweater, where he now cups your breasts in his large palms and unclasps your bra. Once you’re bare, you hear him pull down his trousers, the muffled sound sending chills down your spine. If you weren’t dripping with anticipation before, you certainly are now. Minho latches his lips onto your throat, suckling just enough to mark purple bruises along your neck and collarbones. Part of you wants to deny him the little pleasure, reminding him that you have work on Monday and you can’t show up looking like you spent the weekend at a frat party. But the way his skewed front teeth nibble at your flesh stings delightfully, and you can’t bring yourself to protest it.

It’s then that you feel him behind you- his erection pressing into your upper thigh. He pushes into you with force, grinding softly on your skin and moaning against your neck when he feels you lean back into him.

One of your hands reaches out to palm him over the fabric of his boxers, and he lets out a soft whimper at the contact.

“Jesus,” he says “I can’t wait anymore. Prop your leg up for me, baby. On the- yeah, just like that.”

He guides you with one hand, moving your thigh up so that he has better access to your cunt as he palms himself more with his other hand.

“Is this okay?” Minho asks, now freeing his cock from his boxers and tapping gently at your entrance. The sensation of his bare flesh against yours has you in a daze, desperate to be filled up by him.

“Mhm,” you say, drunk off the feeling of him behind you like this.

“Gonna put it in now, okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathing heavily as he jerks himself a few times. And without another minute to spare, he’s sliding himself inside of you, bottoming out almost instantaneously as your pussy takes him with ease.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out. “You’re so big.”

Minho smiles against your neck, pressing one chaste kiss and gathering your hair out from in front of your face.

He starts with gentle thrusts, panting in your ear and letting his hands wander all over your body as he moves. Your eyebrows arch up in pleasure, mouth agape as he picks up the pace, the wet sounds of his thrusting teeming all around you.

“God, you take me so well,” Minho breathes. “You’re so wet for me still.”

You can barely respond to him, one hand reaching up to tilt his jaw toward you so you can kiss him on the mouth again, your lips drooling with saliva and fucked-out with pleasure.

“I’m close,” Minho says into your mouth, pausing his thrusts momentarily to then pick up the pace again, much faster and with even more force.

“Ah- me too.”

As he moves in and out of your sopping cunt, one of his hands sprawls out across your tummy, pushing down with gentle pressure as he thrusts. You feel your insides contract at the sensation, now much closer to your release.

“Fuck, M-Min I’m gonna,”

He smiles against your neck again, amused with your reaction to the little move.

“Let go,” he says breathlessly into your ear. “I know you can give me a second one.”

His hand pushes down a little more, now tickling your insides with the constrained sensation against your abdomen.

And between his thrusts, you feel yourself let go around him, letting out a series of breathy moans as you cum on his still-moving cock. Only this time, you let go of everything, trickling fluids over him and the edge of the table, soaking the floor with remnants of you.

Minho’s orgasm follows just seconds after, breathing out melodic whimpers and moans as he feels you squirt, shooting ropes of his cum inside of you and fondling your breasts through his orgasm. He thrusts every last drop back into you, pulling out when he feels you shudder from overstimulation once again.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses as he pulls out. “You made a mess for me, baby.”

When you’re both finished, you’re quick to dress yourself, pulling your sweater back over your head and buttoning your jeans once again. Minho turns around while you get dressed, well aware that he was inside of you just minutes ago, but wanting to respect your boundaries now that you’re no longer being intimate. He gets dressed too, observing through the little window how the rain hasn’t started again in the entirety you’ve been up here. When you’re done, he turns back around, shooting you a little smile as you fix your hair.

“What?” You inquire, mirroring his expression as he stares back at you.

“Where have you been?” Minho asks simply.

“Hm?”

“Where have you been all my life?”

You cock your head a little, not missing the way he blinks nervously a few times after asking the question.

“Not the suburbs,” you reply with a smile. “That’s for sure.”

*

The gentle lull of jazz music rings through Minho’s ears as he wakes, glancing around to take in his surroundings. He’s sprawled out on the dingy red couch in the back room, still wearing last night’s clothes, hair glued to his forehead under a sheen layer of sweat. The clamoring of dishes startles him, and he furrows his brows together in annoyance as he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Minho?” A voice says, and he shuts his eyes preemptively at the inquiry. “Did you…sleep here?”

When his eyelids flutter open again, he’s met with Jeongin, who’s already showered and dressed for his noon opening shift, clutching the till in both hands as he observes Minho’s disheveled state.

Beside him, the little folding table is in disarray, empty bottles of coke and peanut shells scattered everywhere. His mind goes back to last night- the arcade game, kissing you in the spare room upstairs. Fucking you over the pool table at ungodly hours of the night.

After you’d both finished, you agreed to stay in the back room downstairs until daylight when it was a bit safer to be on the road again. You and Minho chatted over diet cokes and a game of cards, between makeout sessions and desperate groping at each other in the dim light of the room. He wanted so badly to make love to you all over again, resisting the urge only because he didn’t want you to think all of this was just for sex. And maybe it started that way, when he fled back to the kitchen after helping you adjust your cue stick during a round of pool in an attempt to hide his raging hard-on. But somewhere along the way, he was also encapsulated by you- by your endearing obsession with Diet Coke, your ability to carry a conversation with a total stranger in these circumstances, and undoubtedly, your unique talent at fixing things.

It was just past 5 when you left, doing a double-take at Minho’s snoring figure to ensure he was actually asleep. You wanted to thank him- in fact, you stood over him for several minutes, playing the conversation in your head of how this would go.

“I’m leaving now- thanks for the life-changing sex and the free sodas. Call me if you’re ever in the city you despise.”

There was no good way to go about it- any which way, you knew that the two of you were destined for very different things, to live completely separate lives.

“You’ve never lived without the notion of wanting to migrate as soon as possible,” Minho had said to you earlier, and you knew he was right, even still longing to one day get out of this province, and maybe even this country. A simpler life scared you- exactly what Minho chased after. And perhaps by extension, chasing after Minho scared you, too.

The dive bar suddenly feels suffocating to Minho, still looming with the rotten scent of cigarettes and beers. For the first time ever, he feels boxed in, much too confined by the four walls and the foggy window at the back.

“I’m leaving,” Minho says, quickly gathering his bag and his blazer from off the floor.

“Where are you going?” Jeongin asks, still holding the till and scanning Minho with a worried expression on his face.

Minho isn’t sure where- in fact, he’s not quite sure about anything right now. All he knows is that you’ve sparked something in him, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. The days of working as a private chef paint vivid memories in his mind, days which he still had passion within him, trying new recipes late through the night and never ceasing to better his methods. A time that now feels one lifetime ago, much more complex in juxtaposition with this new life. Except maybe simple wasn’t the solution all along- for once, he’s determined to bask in all your complexities, even if it means sacrificing everything he left the city to pursue.

“I’m going to the city,” Minho says, combing through his hair with his fingers.

“The city? I thought you hated it there?”

Minho says nothing, sauntering to the door and fishing his car keys out of the drawer by the register.

“Oh, and Jeongin-ah?”

“Yes?”

“Call someone to move that arcade game downstairs.”

“The Pac-Man one? It doesn’t work-”

“It does now,” Minho replies. “Just promise me it’ll be down here when I get back.”

“Sure thing. But- how’d you get it to work?”

And without looking back, Minho approaches the double doors, keys in hand, no particular destination in mind. The gray clouds have nearly cleared up by now, fresh hues of blue painting the vast sky that overlooks the day ahead. The city calls out to him from afar, bustling traffic and busy roads clouded in pollution. But this time, he answers, in hopes you’ll be there, too.

*Part 2 out now, available here.

[tsumuus]

meet cutes | karasuno

a/n so random and not proof read at all. also photographer tsukishima..? idk just seemed like a cute idea lol

characters shoyo hinata, tobio kageyama, kei tsukishima, tadashi yamaguchi

masterlist

shoyo hinata

The bustling city streets were a blur of colors and sounds as you hurried to your next appointment. The air was crisp, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of autumn leaves. Turning a corner, you nearly collided with a vibrant blur of orange hair and infectious energy.

Shoyo Hinata, was out for a jog, his bright smile lighting up the gray morning. His laughter echoed as you both stumbled back, a small leaf fluttering down from your hair. His eyes sparkled with recognition and curiosity, a brief moment of connection in the midst of the city’s chaos.

Without a word, he handed you a stray leaf that had landed on his shoulder, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a silent apology. Your heart fluttered as you watched him jog away, a sudden warmth blooming in your chest.

tobio kageyama

The coffee shop was warm and inviting, a refuge from the chilly winter air outside. You stood in line, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloping you like a comforting blanket. As you reached the counter, a familiar figure in a dark coat caught your eye.

Tobio Kageyama, was intently studying the menu, his brow furrowed in concentration. The barista handed him a cup just as he turned, and the collision was inevitable. Coffee spilled, a sharp intake of breath, and then the warmth of his gaze as he apologized, handing you a stack of napkins.

His intense blue eyes met yours, a flicker of recognition passing between you. With a shy smile, he offered to buy you another coffee, the simple gesture filling the small café with an unexpected brightness.

kei tsukishima

The quiet hum of the aquarium surrounded you, the soft blue glow of the tanks casting a serene ambiance. You meandered through the exhibits, captivated by the graceful movements of sea creatures. Stopping in front of the jellyfish display, you watched the delicate creatures drift in their ethereal dance.

Next to you, a tall figure adjusted his camera, the soft click of the shutter breaking the silence. Kei Tsukishima, an avid photographer, glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable. He focused back on the jellyfish, capturing their fluid motions with practiced ease.

Intrigued, you stole glances at his work, admiring the way he captured the essence of the moment. Sensing your interest, Tsukishima turned the camera towards you, offering a rare, small smile. The aquarium's blue light reflected in his glasses, creating an almost otherworldly effect.

Without a word, he showed you the photo he had taken- a perfect shot of the jellyfish, with your awed expression mirrored in the glass. The quiet understanding and shared appreciation for the beauty around you forged an unspoken bond, leaving you with a sense of connection that lingered long after you parted ways.

tadashi yamaguchi

The small bookstore was a haven of warmth and tranquility, the scent of old books mingling with fresh coffee from the attached café. You browsed the shelves, fingers tracing the spines of well-worn novels. A book caught your eye, but as you reached for it, another hand brushed against yours.

Tadashi Yamaguchi, stood beside you, his shy smile lighting up his freckled face. The moment was fleeting, but his gentle presence lingered as he handed you the book with a quiet apology. His green eyes held a hint of recognition, a shared memory from years past.

As he turned to leave, a bookmark fell from his pocket, and you picked it up, the small gesture filling the bookstore with a sense of serendipity. His quiet thank you and the warmth of his smile left an indelible mark on your heart.

[cyber-dump-171]

Chapter 3: Insomnia

Objection! Stand your ground! Marvelous! (Twisted Wonderland x Reader)

← Chapter 2 | Masterlist | Chapter 4 →

Word count: 5.3 k.

WARNING: N/A

Note: apologies that this took so long to upload! Thank you for the likes, reblogs, and comments! This chapter is based on chapter 2 of the manga “Disney Twisted Wonderland - Episode of Heartslaby

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The walk towards the vacant dorm is rather quiet, save for the few times you hear Yuuken’s equipment shifting inside his gym bag and Fígaro asking some questions to the crow man, whom you know learned his name is Dire Crowley. You, on the other hand, take some time to cool down, to shut your brain down from the constant downpour of negative and detrimental thoughts, and instead, focus your attention on the fantastical environment.

Night Raven College feels like it came straight out of one of the young adult novels you read. You can even imagine the story of the young protagonist facing challenges, and fighting against monsters and enemies while keeping their school life afloat. A cheesy novel, but damn, you're a sucker for those stories.

A cobblestone path leads the way, moss and dirt seeping into the cracks, countless orange, red, and yellow leaves fall from Hawthorn and Maple trees planted at the border of the path and as the cold wind passes by the branches, they bump into each other and create a lulling melody. The courtyard is empty, save for a few students in robes running toward their dorms or faculty members returning to the gigantic castle, carrying stacks of documents and portfolios. 

The atmosphere is calm, it’s such a whiplash from the tumultuous event you experienced mere minutes ago. Everything feels completely surreal, it’s as if you just became hyper-aware of your surroundings and everything that your body is experiencing. It feels strange to walk, to think, even to breathe. So much for quieting your thoughts.

Your hand automatically wanders towards your pants' back pocket, seeking the comfort of your technological device. Your feet move forward without much thought, your attention shifting to mildly paying attention to the three men in front of you as your right thumb presses rather harshly on the power button, your lock screen flashing brightly and creating a small source light on this chilly night.

The hour and date on your phone are frozen, it doesn’t move a second forward or backward, on the top right corner a large “X” sits on top of the empty gray reception bars right next to the battery that showcases it only has 89% left. What brings you comfort is the photograph that sits behind your notifications of unread messages and social media updates. It was from a recent three-day school trip to Katsurahama a few days before finals, when your friend and desk neighbor, Momoko Umemoto, dragged you to see the recently inaugurated jellyfish display inside Katsurahama Aquarium.

"Momo, they're not going to run away or disappear, you know?" you laugh at your friend's palpable excitement as she tries to weave you and herself through the crowd of students from your school. 

Her freshly manicured hands gently but firmly grasp your right hand as she drags you towards the aquarium, though she paused momentarily at your comment, her blue eyes swiveling to look at you, a pout forming on her glossy lips. "Shush! I want a good picture before we can't reach the glass!"

You highly doubt that your classmates are as excited to see the fish as you are, as you study their bored and sleepy faces. Most of them have already left for the beach, floaties and coolers in hand, while others have found their seats in the restaurants near the shore after the teachers gave orders to stay in the area and promptly dismissed everyone, the elders walking towards the open bar.

In reality, you know that the gyaru is excited to see for the first time in person the cnidarian creatures that you have seen in books since you were both little. You can't blame her, sea creatures are fascinating and the excitement is eating away at your stomach to see what other unique species are in the aquarium.

You mumble a few excuses as you bump into a guy who's too engrossed in his phone to move out of the way, while Momoko pulls you towards the building, entering the large glass doors and you sigh as the air conditioning inside kisses your warm skin. At a fast pace, the two of you don't stop to admire the other fish as you navigate the winding corridors of the building, you'll do that later.

Finally, as if connected, your eyes find a standing sign, blue and teal construction paper letters spelling out "Jellyfish Exhibit →" accompanied by an adorable paper handmade crystal jelly. In a matter of seconds, your walk turns into a full sprint as you both giggle loudly, interlacing your fingers, excitement bubbles inside you as the room with various glass cases and blue lights comes into view.

You feel like a little kid again. How long has it been since you felt like this? Carefree and excited? It's been so long that even as a child, weighed down by responsibilities and forced independence, that feeling of pure happiness was absent. You can only count with a single hand the fleeting moments that recreate that warm feeling you're feeling right now.

The two of you come to a stop, hands still clasped together, taking in your surroundings. Black sea nettle, lion's mane, blue blubber, Japanese sea nettle, and Mediterranean jellies move in a hypnotic dance in the various glass cases. Their long limbs stretch as far as they can reach and their heads, also known as bells, bob and stretch in different directions, dictating their path.

But what catches your eye is the small glass case of moon jellies. They're ethereal, their translucent, milky-white bells a clear reminder of Earth's only natural satellite, the one that comforts you on lonely nights as you gaze at the starry sky. Momoko lets go of your hand as she pulls out her cell phone to take a few pictures; you copy the same action but focus on the small creatures in front of you.

Minutes pass as the two of you bask in the calm atmosphere of the room, you and Momoko now stand side by side, watching the jellyfish in their natural state. Outside you hear the muffled conversations of passersby and the heavy footsteps of children running through the aquarium.

Suddenly, Momoko’s arm shoots up from her side and quickly grabs your shoulder opposite to her, pulling your body as you place your hand on the middle of her back. You bump your head against hers, smelling the cardamom and vanilla perfume she sprayed on during the bus ride to the beach and you find your eyes reflected on her phone screen as she gives the camera a wide smile. “Say cheese, (Y/N)!”—

Immersed in your thoughts, you fail to notice the trio has stopped in front of a pair of worn gates until you end up crashing into a certain blonde man's back, your phone being crushed against your chest. "Daydreaming, dear (Y/N)?" in a melodic yet teasing tone, Fígaro chuckles as he looks at you over his shoulder. His icy blue eyes stare intently at you and it makes you feel miniscule, as if you were being examined under a microscope.

This man is starting to unnerve you. During the long walk to the dormitory, you noticed several times out of your peripheral vision that Fígaro's icy blue eyes were like pinballs, his gaze drifting from you to Yuuken to the path ahead before repeating the same pattern after a few minutes. He only stopped watching you when Crowley piped up with a question or when Fígaro became curious about something.

You think that maybe he's being cautious around you, examining you and the kendo student to get a good idea of how you behave. But a small thought inside your brain tells you that it's something else because he doesn't seem to be on guard when he's around you, or even to hide his expression like he did when you told him about the missing people.

"Shit, sorry," out of embarrassment and flustered by the way he addressed you, a red blush spreads across your cheeks and you quickly put your phone back in your pocket, skidding away from the man. On the contrary, Fígaro relishes in your sudden awkwardness, wanting to tease you further to get more out of you but his bones are still aching from the fall and he’s in desperate need of a bath. He’ll save it for later.

Instead, he simply chuckles once more before gently poking your forehead with his index finger. “Come now! Just a bit more and you can dream as much as you want,” with that, he turns on his heel before walking towards Crowley, who fiddles with an antique keyring while murmuring under his breath.

“Well, we’re here! What do you think?” the crow man announces before returning to the task at hand. Your eyes scan the gothic building before you, the various cobwebs covering the fence and the dead flora around it adding to the charm and atmosphere of this being a haunted house. However, fear creeps in as you notice the rotting wooden boards covering the dirty windows and the large doors barely holding on to their hinges.

And suddenly, your curiosity about the previous inhabitants of this place vanishes as a thought dawns on you. You’re going to have to sleep in there. Look, you’re more than grateful for this opportunity; the fact that you get to sleep somewhere in exchange for work after being transported to an unknown world with magical beings is nothing short of a miracle. 

But the problem isn't that you're picky or ungrateful... It's the health hazards that lurk inside this house that frighten you the most.

Black mold and mildew, stagnant water, rodents, bugs like spiders, cockroaches, and ticks (your worst nightmare), collapsing walls and roofs, rusty metal, and even asbestos, since from the looks of it, the dorm is pretty old, could potentially lurk inside. Is asbestos even a thing in this world? Suddenly you're wondering when you last had a tetanus shot and if you still have your KN95 mask in your bag.

“It’s a very charming building,” Yuuken suddenly announces beside you, his very flat expression and neutral tone not sounding convincing at all. Yet, Crowley turns around delighted with a closed-eyed smile and you swear he even puffs out his chest proudly. 'He's not beating the bird allegations any time soon.’ 

The worn metal gate creaks loudly as it swings open, one of the doors nearly falling to the ground, but the crow man simply walks forward, his walking cane sweeping the dead leaves from the path. "Right? It is quite a beauty! Well children, let’s head inside."

Oh well, beggars can't be choosers. So you might as well just suck it up and try to find a way to fix this health hazard and building code violation before it collapses on you. You reluctantly follow the three men in front of you as you head towards the house.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The inside is just as you expected. Dim hallways illuminated by the night sky are decorated with dusty or broken furniture, the wallpaper has started to peel off the wall due to the humidity, cobwebs tucked away in the corners of the walls sway gently with the wind and the air feels heavy. The four of you make your way deeper into the dorm, with the crow man leading the way.

“It’s a little broken down, but it can probably withstand the rain and wind,” as soon as Crowley finishes his sentences, Fígaro, who quietly walked beside you admiring a painting caked in dust, lets out a shriek followed by a loud cracking sound that startles you. His decorated hands shoot from his sides and quickly find your arm, gripping your shirt in need of support.

You automatically hold on to his left arm and torso, as you look down towards the sound:  part of the floor has caved in and his foot is now stuck between some floorboards. In a panic, Fígaro begins to harshly pull out his leg, attempting to free it, though you quickly stop him as the sound of his — very expensive — pants begin to rip, the fabric caught in between some splinters. 

“Calm down, breathe in and out. If you move like that you’ll just hurt your ankle further. Here, hold onto my shoulders,” not awaiting his response, you gently let go of his limbs and kneel on the floor, your hands gently grasping his leg to get a better look as to what got caught. A few seconds later, a warm pressure settles near the juncture between your neck and shoulder, as your nimble fingers slip out the fabric threads from some wood pieces.

In a matter of seconds, you’re able to free his foot from the confines of the floor, and you hear the blond above you breathe a sigh of relief. However, a small gasp slips past Fígaro’s lips as you slide up his pant leg to inspect the damage. “Don't worry, nothing’s bleeding or scratched. Can you move your ankle?” your lukewarm fingers softly trace the red mark left by the splinters and you don’t miss the way Fígaro shudders in response. ‘Heh, I’ll take it as payback from earlier’.

Feeling a sudden heat pool in the apple of his cheeks, the blonde turns his head to face the opposite direction, shielding his embarrassed look from the curious gaze of Crowley and Yuuken. Clearing his throat, Fígaro swivels his ankle from side to side, feeling no discomfort other than a slight burning sensation left by the mark, as he places his foot back on the ground. 

“T-Thank you kindly, (Y/N),” he stammers out as you pat his leg in response before standing up and once again facing the other two men, your expression neutral as if nothing happened. “Ah… do be careful… Anyways! Regarding your souls having been summoned here, we are also partially responsible. After all, the carriage brought you here,” Crowley taps his cane on the dilapidated floor before you and Fígaro approach him. 

“As such, while we figure a way to return you to your world, you’re more than free to stay in this place. Of course, as I mentioned earlier, you’ll work around campus to be able to pay for food and clothing,” you nod at his statement, eyes droopy as the events of the day come crashing down on you like a cold wave of water. Yuuken, on the other hand, smiles brightly at the crow man's words, sticking his legs together and slightly bowing his head down with a straight back.

“Thank you very much! We appreciate it!” as the kendo student's eager reply echoes through the empty halls of the abandoned house, another sound catches your attention. A creaking noise, followed by the echoes of glass softly clanging against each other. At first, you dismiss it as the wind moving loose debris or the house settling. But as the sound grows louder and more constant, your head swivels toward the source and your stomach drops:

A dusty metal chandelier with misty glass bulbs, eerily similar to the one in the entrance hall, hangs from the ceiling by a single rusty screw that is slowly being loosened by an unknown force.

“WATCH OUT!” your sudden scream immediately alerts Fígaro, who swiftly jumps out of the way, his nimble movements reminding you of a cat. Yuuken also turns to look at the ceiling, his eyes widen in shock as his hands quickly grab your shoulders and in a matter of seconds, the black-haired boy maneuvers both of your bodies out of the way of the chandelier that, in a matter of milliseconds, falls to the ground with a loud bang. 

Small pieces of glass fly everywhere, though thankfully none of them hit or scratch you, instead they land in front of your feet. The impact of the metal leaves a huge hole in the middle of the foyer and raises large amounts of dust, which sneaks into your mouth and nose, causing the three of you to cough and sneeze, flapping your hands in the air to push away the huge gray cloud.

You try to control your heart, which is beating frantically, your brain is still processing the fact that you almost died from being crushed by a chandelier and the sound of the metal tearing off the roof is still echoing in your ears. Trying to control your breathing, you turn to look at Yuuken, whose face has turned pale with fear, although he maintains a neutral expression.

"HEE HEE HEE! What a shame... it missed~," an unknown voice laments in a mocking tone as the now destroyed chandelier shakes violently. As if a switch suddenly turns on inside his head, Yuuken's brow furrows as he almost rips off the cover of his kendo swords and pushes you behind his back, causing you to gasp in surprise. "Who's there!?" he bellows, tightening his grip on the wooden sword and pointing it at the chandelier.

You didn’t even see it shoot up from the floor, too distracted as your eyes flitted around the room searching for the source of the voice, instead, you felt it. A white misty figure suddenly phases through you, your stomach twisting into cold knots and you feel nauseous as the creature laughs mischievously at your expression. “Welcome to our castle~.”

Your heartbeat picks up again as Yuuken steps away from you, watching in horror as the ghost that's still halfway through your torso flashes him a wink and tips his hat. His attention is torn away from you as another transparent figure phases out of a nearby painting and starts a game of tug-of-war, trying to steal the black-haired man's sword. He’s momentarily shocked at the amount of force this misty being has.

On the other side of the room, Fígaro swats away at a thin, tall ghost that messes with his hair, anger coloring the blonde’s face as the cold figure harshly pulls at his locks while laughing maniacally. “Paskiainen! Crowley, some help over here would be nice!” he shrieks in pure rage, blue eyes glaring holes at the bird man who has not moved an inch and simply watches the chaos unfold in front of him.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you. Some mischievous ghosts took up home here,” Crowley states in a blasé tone and your fingers suddenly ache as a strong urge to strangle the crow man overcomes. But, on second thought, better to not murder him, because if ghosts are real in this world there’s no way in hell that you’d want his annoying ass haunting you for the rest of your stay here.

The ghost continues its incessant giggles, as they fly towards the ceiling and slowly spin in circles, Fígaro taking their distraction as a chance to bolt towards where you and Yuuken stand, with shell-shocked expressions. The blonde man grabs your arm in a rather harsh manner, as he pulls the black haired man to stand in front of you two, acting as a human shield. “It’s been a while since we had any visitors! Please, make yourself at home!”

“Oh, I know! I know!” one of the misty creatures pipes out, the smaller one out of the three. The ghosts exchange various knowing looks for a few seconds, before their expression turns psychotic, with owlish eyes and wide grins staring directly at you, sending shivers down your spine. “Why don’t they become ghosts? We’ve been looking for new friends, after all!”

The three figures dash at you, pushing their faces together as they bounce with maniacal excitement, their faces almost merging into each other from how close they are, creating a Lovecraftian visual nightmare. You feel Fígaro squeeze your arm even tighter and watch in horror as Yuuken’s hand goes limp, his wooden sword clanging loudly as it falls on the floor. 

“The afterlife is a real blast! There’s no death or suffering! Join us! HEE HEE HEE!”

What!? Fuck these guys! Angry that these ghosts think they can rob you of what little life you have left (you know that today's chaos has probably shaved a few years off your lifespan, but damn it, you still have a bucket list to complete), you duck down, almost dragging Fígaro down with you as you grab the wooden sword.

Just as you're about to push Yuuken out of the way and beat the living hell out of these creatures, a laugh from the black-haired man interrupts you. “This is awesome! So ghosts are real in this world!” filled with glee, the Kendo student approaches the three misty creatures who quickly back away in confusion, murmuring to each other about the bizarre reaction.

Meanwhile, you feel your jaw drop to the floor as the man's words slowly work their way through your brain. You are amazed at his childish reaction, doesn't he remember that just seconds ago these beings tried to murder you by dropping a full-size chandelier on you!? Or that they toyed with your bodies, encouraging you to give in to the sweet release of death?

You think for a second that maybe being in this world for too long has made him go mad. “I have to decline your offer to become a ghost, but I hope we can get along as roommates!” his cheerfulness is not contagious, as the ghosts stare at him in bewilderment, fiddling with their fingers and lowering their heads almost bashfully. It's this reaction that reminds you of the person standing in front of you.

Kotohira is a small place, so that meant word got around quickly, and when the Enma’s moved into the apartment above you, they were the talk of the town for a good while. Especially Yuuken. His intimidating and burly appearance was a huge contrast to his sweet and charismatic nature, and your neighbors were constantly cooing about how helpful and determined he was.

But you never really got to know him, you didn't bother, even after your parents encouraged you to. It wasn't that you found him irritating, it's just that you were so busy keeping your house afloat, working a part-time job, and studying to maintain your scholarship that you barely bothered to pursue friendships or interpersonal relationships.

Your group of friends was small, and you were happy with that. So to you, Yuuken Enma was the rather intimidating big dude who took the same bus you did to get to school. He got off first and you two stops later. He knew your name not out of curiosity, but by circumstance. You were neighbors and that was that.

So, to see him in this light, to hear once more the way Chiaki, the elder housewife that lived next to you, spoke about how Yuuken was so adorable and charming is completely… astounding. So much so that you don't even notice when a breathless and incredulous "What?" comes out of your mouth. At your question, Yuuken turns around with a broad grin and points at the ghosts.

“Right!? It’s my first time seeing one… I wonder what other cool things are in this world!” he quietly laughs. For the first time since getting here, you can’t find a response in you and you wonder why this side of him leaves you speechless. 

The phantoms continue to mumble and slowly float away to huddle in a corner of the foyer as Crowley clears his throat to get your attention. “This is quite impressive. Many students tend to steer clear from this place due to the ghosts, but, seeing your reaction, you’ll do just fine!” he laughs merrily before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“Tomorrow, I’ll come by early and give you your respective jobs. In the meantime, feel free to use the library to gather more information on how to return to your world! I am so gracious!” you quietly scoff as he auto-compliments himself; you have a hunch that his rather eccentric attitude will cause you headaches in the future.

Crowley starts to walk but stops a few steps later, snapping his fingers as if he just remembered something. “Goodness me! Where are my manners? I forgot to ask you your names!” he turns around, his beady golden eyes peeking out from behind his crow mask as he looks at you expectantly.

“I’m Yuuken Enma.”

“(Y/N) Pembroke, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Fígaro Koskela, at your service.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Fucking chronic insomnia.

You’ve been tossing and turning around the hard mattress for about an hour now, the exhaustion and sleepiness from the day suddenly disappear as soon as your head hits the old pillow you found hidden inside one of the hallway’s closets. You quick off the comforter, groaning in frustration as you open your eyes to stare at the ceiling.

Not long after the obnoxious bird man left the building, the three of you got to work cleaning the house, or at least the rooms you wanted to use in the meantime. You were able to locate three bedrooms and two bathrooms that were in a decent state, so you got to sweeping and dusting various pieces of furniture, and placing those that were beyond saving in a neat pile in the backyard, hoping to dismantle them for materials in the near future.

Unfortunately, you found out the hard way that you can't use the water system in the dormitory at the moment. It all started when Fígaro decided to test the sink by opening the valves, which caused a terrible sound to pass through the pipes as brown, almost black, water came out of the faucet. It was accompanied by a foul smell that made the three of you almost vomit as you ran from the bathroom.

The next problem was the lack of food. The communal kitchen was a complete mess, with the stove missing several burners, the door of the refrigerator falling off as soon as Yuuken opened it, and several cupboards missing drawers or falling right off the wall. Everything was empty, ransacked by unknown persons, not even a grain of salt left. There was no way to reach Crowley to beg for food, and the cafeteria was closed at this hour.

Tired, dirty, and hungry, the three of you decided it was best to go to bed. And so now, an hour later, you found yourself wishing you could have foreseen the future and packed your melatonin, temazepam, or something strong enough to knock you out and get you through the night. 

An angry sigh leaves your lips as you sit up, your nails raking through your head as you look out the dirty window, the branch of a dead tree tapping gently against it as it swings in the wind. You might as well take advantage of Crowley's "generosity" and check out the library, maybe reading will make you sleepy.

Your padded feet tap lightly on the wooden floor as you make your way to a chair in the corner of the room, where your boots and bag sit. After stumbling a bit, you successfully slip your shoes on and sling your back over your torso, quietly exiting the dilapidated dormitory and making your way to the massive castle that looms in the distance.

After about fifteen minutes of walking in silence and climbing who knows how many stairs, the night air kisses your warm skin and the moon illuminates the large doors of the school that are open. You enter the building and find that a few meters from the entrance, illuminated by green lights, is a map of the entire layout of the building. ‘Nifty.’

However, when your eyes examine the sheer size of this one castle, you can't help but cover your mouth in shock. There are six levels in total, with the first floor mostly containing important rooms like the cafeteria, the infirmary, the library (which occupies at least four levels of the building), and a bizarre room called the "Hall of Mirrors". The second floor and up is where the fun starts, as not only the classrooms and club rooms are on these levels, but also various laboratories.

Your eyes scan the words: Alchemy, General Computer Lab, Robotics, Biology, Physics, Botany, Home Economics, Astrology, Art Studio, and even an Enchantment Room. The list goes on and you can’t help but quietly geek out. If you ever get the chance, you won't hesitate to check these places out. For now, though, your best bet is to check out the first floor of the library.

Fixing the shoulder strap of your bag, you make your way down the corridor and take a sharp turn to the right, your eyes studying the portraits of fantastical landscapes and famous historical figures unknown to you. You also pay close attention to some of their features: animal ears, tails, fangs, horns, colorful hair, and intriguing eyes. It is like something you would read in a fantasy book.

But your admiration is interrupted as you pass the infirmary, a loud crash followed by a series of muffled curses stops you dead in your tracks as you turn to face the door. You're about to head toward, worried about someone getting hurt when a loud ringing in your ears forces you to close your eyes and nearly sends you to the floor in pain.

(̶̺͂Y̸̧̅/̷̨̊n̸̼͒)̸̨̀,̷̖̌ ̵̼͘ǹ̶ͅ��̶͍w̶̮̔ ̶̹͗ȋ̷͖t̶͔̄'̴̥͆ș̸̑ ̴͖͂n̶̻̾ó̸̩t̴͊͜ ̷͖̈́t̴̜̚ḧ̷͇́e̵̹͠ ̵̬͐t̴̮͂i̶͎̊m̶͛ͅe̵̲͆ ̸͔̊t̵̠̾o̸̅ͅ ̵̳̉p̸̫̓l̴̻͐a̸̭̐y̸̩̎ ̶̪͗h̵̼̓e̵͎̊r̶͚̓o̵̩̅.̵̘́.̷̞́.̷̧̓ ̴̣͐h̷͎̾i̶͜͠d̸̫̂e̸̗̍.̵̢̐.̴̯͋.̷̻͐

Something tells you to hide, and you don't hesitate to run behind a nearby pillar, your eyes carefully peeking out from behind the structure to look at where the sound came from. 

Look, you should be scared by the sudden voice in your head, but at this point, you've read enough horror stories and played enough games to know that when something tells you to hide, you hide. Besides, after today's fiasco with the weird mirror talking inside your head, you should start to get used to these things.

Although, the voice does sound kind of different from the one you’ve heard before.

You can't linger in your thoughts much longer when the door to the infirmary bursts open and a figure steps out of the darkness, wearing one of the black and purple robes the students used during the entrance ceremony. In his left hand, the figure tightly clutches a syringe, a strange dark liquid moving inside. The hallway is eerily quiet, so you can hear their accelerated breathing as they look around paranoidly.

The figure is trembling, lips quivering as if about to burst into tears. Their behavior is incredibly suspicious, and your stomach twists in worry as you wonder what is in the syringe they are carrying, so you start to mentally note down some details about the person. 

In the dim light, you notice that the figure is a man, judging by the Adam's apple that bobs up and down his throat as he swallows, he has pale skin, a few tufts of either black, dark purple or blue hair peeking out from under the hood, and his eyes are either green or brown, though you can't see them well because of the distance, but you do notice that his gaze is soft. He looks docile, almost weak.

He whimpers in fear, biting the tip of his right thumb as he stares down at the syringe, which almost slips from his grasp due to his nervousness, though he's able to catch it quickly and breathe a sigh of relief. “This... Master will be proud of my work,” he whispers before making up his mind and running in the opposite direction from where you are standing.

Unnerved by his words, you step out from behind the pillar. Your hands nervously fiddle with the strap of your bag as you run for the stairs. Forget the damn library...

You need to tell Crowley what the hell just happened. Something doesn’t feel right.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Tag list:

@rotknox @agaygothicmushroom @sherryclover @mielle-estelar @yuriluvr2000 @Shironakuronatasa @yourlocalhot-simp @stvrbrighttt @tearsofgenshin @mewmew-dream

[my-castles-crumbling]

Prompt: Library

@wolfstarmicrofic

Word Count: 216

Remus Lupin in the library was a sight to behold.

He surrounded himself with books- stacks of huge tomes, towering above his head as he immersed himself in the millions of words he could consume and comprehend with ease.

He scribbled with intensity, ink splattering on his hand and nose, narrowing his eyebrows just slightly when he paused to think about an answer.

He spoke with a quiet fervor, explaining anything and everything to the many students that approached him with questions. He seemed to be an honorary professor in that way- the younger students respected his knowledge and ability to help.

He was at home in the stacks. He didn't seem ill at ease or uncomfortable, like he often did in big crowds or around those he didn't know. The library was familiar to him. He was happy, there. He loved to be there.

But he wasn't the happiest person in the library. No, that was Sirius. Sirius, who got to watch Remus flip through pages and write complex sentences and whisper to students. Sirius, who got to peer over his unread textbook to admire the quiet boy near him. Sirius, who got to see Remus just unabashedly be himself.

Because Remus Lupin in the library was one of Sirius Black's favorite sights to behold.

[mouwrites]

A little Pixal content to take a break from requests :] hope you guys don’t mind!!

Word count: 714

Ninjago - Book Lovers (Pixal)

“I still do not understand,” Pixal remarked, remembering to keep her voice down. “Why do you come all this way for these books?”

You shrugged while you walked down the aisle, going slow so you could read the spines of the books.

“Digital editions are not only easier to obtain, but more accessible, reliable, and more difficult to damage.”

“I know. But there’s just something special about reading things on paper.”

“Typescript looks the same on paper and screens.”

Anyone else might’ve taken her insistence as annoyance, or perhaps resentment, but you knew it was just utter curiosity; plus a little well-intentioned advice.

“Here,” you said at last, stopping randomly. You held out your palm, letting Pixal put her hand in yours.

You guided her fingers along the spines of the books, watching her eyes glimmer with curiosity. “And, stop,” you whispered, bringing your hands to a halt on the spine of a weathered hard-cover book. You closed your hand (and Pixal’s under it) around the book and pulled it out.

You placed it in her hands, opening the front cover. You ran your hands over the weathered old paper, savoring the texture, breathing deep when the scent reached your nose. Pixal mimicked you, her expression unreadable as ever.

“What is this book?”

“Looks like it’s called The Last Silk Dress.”

“What is the subject?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re in the historical fiction section, though.”

“Which time period does this illustrate?”

“I don’t know!”

Pixal looked up at you for a second, taking in your eager smile.

“That’s the fun part about reading. You get to find out for yourself.”

Pixal blinked, turning back down to the book. She flipped to the first chapter while you glanced around at the other titles surrounding you.

After a moment you decided to keep looking, so you put your hand out. “Here, I’ll put it back for you.”

Pixal jerked the book away. “No. I am reading.”

A smug grin curved your lips. “So, what’s it about?”

“I do not know. I am… finding out.”

Your smile only grew when Pixal dropped to the ground, making herself comfortable right there in the middle of the aisle. She hunched over the book, absentmindedly rubbing a thumb over the yellowed paper.

“Hey, you’re a natural,” you observed.

Pixal looked up at you, cocking her head inquisitively.

You giggled, giving her a thumbs-up and a wink. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll be back when I find my own book.”

You left her there while you browsed the shelves, finding a small stack of books that seemed interesting.

When you returned she had made good progress in her reading, and she didn’t snap her head up as you approached like she usually did. She was completely enamored in the book.

She did look up when you cleared your throat to get her attention. She smiled at you, then widened her eyes at the stack in your hands.

“Can I read those, too?”

You laughed, holding out your hand and pulling her to her feet. You pulled her close, giving her cheek an affectionate smooch.

“Of course.”

“I like books. I am glad you invited me to come with you to the library.”

“And I’m glad you came.”

That night was the first time you curled up together, a book in each of your laps and blankets draped over your legs. This scene became a common one in your relationship, however, and it only consumed more of your hours together as time progressed. Still more hours were spent discussing your books—either giving each other synopses or discussing the books you read together.

And your little bookshelf grew like a garden; books that didn’t fit on the shelves found homes atop the little piece, at least until you bought it a friend. And another. And another. And filled each one with more books that you liked so much that you ended up buying your own copies.

But there was one book you never put on the shelf. Its home was on the coffee table, always ready to be picked up and read for the umpteenth time by a certain individual who always credited you with finding it, and loved you all the more for it.

The Last Silk Dress.

Thank you so much for reading!! As a book lover this was very gratifying for me to write, I hope you lovable duckies enjoyed too <33

(divider by saradika)

[sailtomarina]

Who did this to you?

Another day, another reminder that even though the war was officially over, animosity still festered in people’s hearts. Hermione had finished her prefect rounds for the evening and was heading through the 8th year common room to her private quarters when she noticed Draco Malfoy sitting in the back past the fireplace. He was nearly hidden and only noticeable to her because she often chose the same location for its privacy and proximity to the tea cart.

His shock of white hair was barely visible over the cushion where he slouched. She could have called out his name, but Hermione opted to approach silently—so as not to surprise him, of course.

As suspected, he was asleep. Hermione couldn’t count the number of times where she, too, had passed out in the nook, forgotten or unnoticed to everyone else, only to wake up at some ungodly hour in the early morning before trudging back to her room for an unsatisfying remainder of hours before class.

She approached, but rather than wake him up like she intended, she studied his features. He looked better than he had during 6th year, but that wasn’t saying much given the other times she had seen him since. While his hair still fell in a perfect arc over his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes remained. This time, they were accented by additional bruising that bloomed across his left cheekbone. His lip was also split and still puffy.

His eyes fluttered open just as she leaned in to look closer.

“Can I help you, Granger?” His voice was hoarse.

“Who did this to you, Malfoy?”

He studied her for a moment before answering, voice curiously flat. “Do you wish you could have joined them?”

She jerked backward at the question, brow furrowed and cheeks tinged pink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Rather than answer her question with another question, he just shook his head and started gathering his things.

“Forget about it.”

Hermione chewed on her lip as she watched him stack his books. Despite his injuries, she saw no cuts or bruising on his own knuckles. Whoever did this to him hadn’t received a punch in kind.

“Malfoy, wait.”

He sighed and turned to face her, one eyebrow raised.

“Just, let me—” Stepping into his space she raised a hand towards his face, and his eyes widened.

In what felt like a dream, she watched her own fingertips brush across his lips, now parted, before tracing up towards his cheekbone.

“Episkey,” she murmured, watching the cuts close to only leave bruises. “Please just…wait.”

Light irises traced her movement as she turned to set her bag down and rummage through it. She turned back to him, jar in hand, and as she unscrewed the lid, his nostrils flared in familiarity.

“Do you always carry murtlap essence in your school bag, Granger?” His teeth clicked closed as she stepped back up to him once more.

“It just became a habit after everything that happened last year,” she explained as she carefully dabbed the mixture onto his bruises. His skin was so pale and smooth, and she couldn’t help but continue tracing her fingertips up his jaw towards the back of his neck. Was his hair as soft as it looked?

The moment her hand slipped up and into hair, he tilted his head to press into her hand. Hermione’s eyes snapped back to Malfoy’s. His own were shut as he leaned into her touch. Taking his actions as permission, she turned back to her earlier explorations, kneading the scalp and marveling at the slippery tresses spilling over her hand. She didn’t realize she was moving closer to him until her chest brushed up against his and he breathed in sharply, the sound slicing through the heavy silence surrounding them.

This time, their eyes met, his own as unreadable as a gathering storm. Neither of them moved closer, nor did they shift away. For all Hermione knew, they might have stayed there frozen for everyone to find in the few hours remaining until morning.

The sound of a log splitting in the fireplace startled them from their moment, and Hermione was the first to step back, twisting the container in her hands to and fro.

“I can’t get rid of all the bruising—that will just take some time.”

“I know. Thank you.”

Again, she stilled. The apology was completely natural given the circumstances yet still unexpected. She was hesitant to pry, but the question bubbled out of her again despite attempts to suppress it.

“Draco, who did this to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His lips set into a line, jaw clenched.

“It does matter.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because we’re better than this.”

His eyes widened, and she took it as an invitation to continue.

“We survived through hell and we’re here now–damaged, yes, but alive and, Merlin-willing, healing. We’ll never change anything for the better if we don’t move past all the shite: the hate, the resentment, the old-world entitlement.”

“Pretty words, Granger, but I’m not exactly the one you should be trying to convince. I’m already a believer.”

“Are you?”

“You kind of make it hard not to be.”

And for a moment, so brief that Hermione might have considered it seeing what she wanted to see rather than reality, a glimmer of Malfoy’s smirk reappeared. This time, the idea that it was for her rather than at her expense made her stomach feel all sorts of wonderfully strange and unsettled.

“Well, if you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Was that the start of a drawl she heard in his question?

“I’ll just have to keep you company from now on, your own personal bodyguard.”

“What is it muggles say…a ‘guardian angel’?”

“Where in the world did you learn that phrase?”

He shrugged shoulders that had filled out nicely over the past several months, scanning her appraisingly from beneath a lowered gaze. This time, she let him brush by uninterrupted on his path towards his room, the warmth of his arm leaving a pulsing sensation along her shoulder, his cologne lingering in the air.

“Granger?”

“Hm?” She turned slowly, still caught in a daze of woodsmoke and spice. This time, the smirk on his lips was undeniable, accentuating the roguish charm of his still visible bruises and tousled hair.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

WC 1073 I started this while on vacation not realizing how difficult it'd be to focus and finish what I started. I thought the trip would afford me plenty of time to relax and squeeze those creative muscles, but instead I walked more than I have in months and ate way too much food >.<

[javaghoul]

"I have nothing to read", sighs Kaneki/Rize/Shuu/Eto whilst being literally surrounded by stacks of unread books and full bookshelves.

[fridgemagnethusband]

Die Schöne und das Biest

Chapter Ten: The Weight of Trust

something something burnout’s a bitch, but i’m a bigger one!!! as an apology, here’s a longer than normal chapter. i hope this update finds you unhinged <3

(also, special thanks to our very own @jadedisaster for beta reading my nonsense at odd hours, rain or shine!!!)

Three weeks.

It had taken all of three weeks to bankrupt your patience before you’d returned to the secret cottage, abducting the herbalist’s typewriter and a handful of their journals with the intention of transcribing the most important entries. Just three weeks without Heisenberg’s company before you’d thrown all caution to the wind and gone directly against his orders.

Time better spent piecing things together instead of holding out hope for the bastard, you scoff, still annoyed with yourself for caring in the first place. Your orders with the Duke continued to disappear from the clipboard before returning in the form of crates left outside the hallway leading to the flat, so you knew Heisenberg was still kicking around somewhere in the factory. What business is it of yours whether the man showered, slept, or ate?

You absentmindedly thumb through several more weeks worth of transcribed journal pages, vision blurring as thoughts of what exactly all of this was pointing to chased you through the hallways of your mind. You’d spent countless days and nights slogging through chapter after dense chapter of Heisenberg’s textbooks and the herbalist’s various journals in search of answers to the very question, but every page read only raised more questions. Who was the herbalist, and why did he come here in the first place? Why didn’t anyone speak of him, and what fate could have befallen him? You wished you could find his name amongst his things, perhaps look for it in the graveyard. His journals painted an uncanny picture of the village in so many broad strokes, but betrayed little about himself save for his opinions and the careful treatment of his patients. You throw the stack of papers onto the coffee table with a frown.

The hematology text you’d started with sits beside the dwindling pile of unread books, seemingly as harmless as those surrounding it. Nevertheless, you side eye it carefully as you mentally sift through the slurred chatter you’d occasionally overheard in the bar over the years.

There was no shortage of gossip regarding the goings-on of Castle Dimistrescu - some believed the unsociable Countess’ enriched red wine contained the blood of the village’s most beautiful maidens, or that she drained virgins of their blood and bathed in it, or that her trio of daughters mercilessly feasted on the flesh of men. Far-fetched rumors perpetuated by half-witted peasants, you’d thought; it was more likely that the servant girls had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and run off with their lovers to neighboring villages, or that the men had gotten too drunk and stumbled into the reservoir. Goodness knows there was little else to do here. As far as you could tell, the Countess gave the village’s girls a chance to send money home to their poor families. Perhaps if you had thought yourself a little more pleasant to look at, you too would’ve sought out work in the castle at one point in time.

But then, there had also been the occasional frenzied account of a wolf-demons skulking in the night, and you had chalked those up as cock-and-bull stories too. After your encounter with the beast some time ago, you’d been a little more willing to give these tall-tales some reconsideration. The herbalist’s journal entries only further corroborated the idea that something was deeply wrong with the village, as they often made mention of the village inhabitants coming down with various respiratory and gastrointestinal illnesses, most of which the herbalist had attributed to encounters with something in the church. Could it have been intentional?

You had been given more than a few reasons to distrust Mother Miranda over the years, but to imply that she would intentionally make her followers sick? What did she stand to gain? Perhaps an opportunity to “save” them? And if Mother Miranda isn’t above making her followers sick, then who was to say the Countess isn’t turning maids into wine? You pinch the bridge of your nose, setting aside your absurd speculations in favor of a more rational approach.

I ought to ask Heisenberg about the nature of the Countess’ work next time he’s topside. He may know. Afterall, they attend the same meetings, you submit, completely disregarding the fact that the two of you hadn’t spoken in several weeks.

Or maybe he knows because he has a hand in it, suggests the ever-growing voice of paranoia in the back of your mind.

Your dubious glare lands on the remnants of the drink you’d shamelessly poured yourself some hours ago and you take one last deep gulp of it, increasingly unsure as to whether your employer’s expensive bourbon reserves were helping to drown out the venomous voice of paranoia, or fan its overly suspicious flames. Even momentarily entertaining the thought that Heisenberg could be involved in their machinations fills you with a deep sense of guilt, and you scold yourself for forming suspicions based on chatter, affiliation, and the ramblings of some herb doctor long gone.

But if not that, then what? What else did you have to go off of?

Unrequited glances across the bar? A handful of shared meals? A smattering of evenings spent together in the study? This spell of complete isolation was demonstration enough that you knew nothing about the man, that you had grossly miscalculated both his desire for company and capacity for spite. Had you really been so desperate for companionship after your father’s death that you would jump headlong into the servitude of a man who was little more than a stranger?

The hall clock chimes its disapproval in the next room and you cast your glass aside, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes as you consider the prospect of surrendering to sleep. Taking up the poker with an exhale, you spread the dying embers across the floor of the fireplace before smothering them with ash. You trace the cool wood of the banister with your fingertips, breath catching in your throat at the sound of a stray creak somewhere within the factory. When it proves to be nothing more, you climb the stairs, pulling your door shut behind you with a faint click.

—

You cross your arms, settling back onto the sofa so as to better resist the urge to push the miserable machine over the edge of the steamer trunk turned coffee table. Of course the damned thing was out of ink. It was only a matter of time, the way you’d been going at it. But for it to do this after you spent all that time cleaning it? Gave it a new home, a purpose?

You sag further into your seat as you survey the study, scattered pages littering seemingly every surface. If given enough time, you were certain you could have put everything in chronological order based entirely on how many coffee rings or bourbon spills each page contained. You think back to the room’s state before your initial occupation of the flat. Had you known it would end up right back where it started, you’d have saved yourself the trouble and left it as it was.

At least there’s not cigar ash everywhere this time.

A pang of loneliness echoes in the cavern of your chest before you can even finish the thought. Funny, how willingly you would overlook the abysmal state of the flat if it meant you could have the gruff company that came with it. Funnier still was how quickly you’d grown accustomed to said company after spending so many years by yourself in your little shack. You’d lost track of how many times you had wondered whether or not he’d come to enjoy your routine, whether he’d craved companionship too.

Don’t be silly. He’s got the Duke and the pretty barkeep and all the other Lords. He got on just fine before you came along, and he’ll get on just the same after you leave.

The next stack of untouched journals taunts you from the end table and your lip curls as you consider the prospect of copying out the herbalist’s notes by hand. Surely the time spent looking for a new ribbon or even an inkwell could be made up for by typing them out after you’d found one. The apparatus had become a strange extension of you, a fundamental part of piecing together the mystery of the herbalist’s affairs. No, a pen simply wasn’t the tool for this job. It only served to slow you down. You quickly decided you were better off tearing the flat apart instead; after all, you were the only one who had to live with the aftermath.

—

Despite your efforts, your early morning rummage proves fruitless, and you give in with little more than an “Oh, to hell with it”. At least if Heisenberg found out about your transgressions, he’d be forced to confront you, which meant you got what you wanted either way.

The groan of the gate to the plaza announces your arrival, and the Duke’s face rounds into a soft smile that you can’t help but return.

“Ah, Y/N. I was starting to think Lord Heisenberg was holding you prisoner. I take it he’s kept you busy?” He watches intently as you settle against a barrel with a small huff.

“Busy doesn’t begin to cover it. I’ve spent the last few weeks doing nothing but reading textbooks and doing laundry and governing his ludicrous machines. I’ve hardly got time for anything else, the way the equipment acts up and the way my reading pile seems to grow overnight.”

He waits patiently, giving both you and your words room to breathe. Wishing to avoid speaking about your absent employer altogether, you scan the Duke’s wares, stretching to try to see behind him.

“Say, you wouldn’t still happen to have that typewriter of yours, would you?”

“Well of course, my dear,” his pale brows furrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, my ribbon needs replacing and I was wondering if you had any spools on hand.”

“No new ribbons, no. Mine doesn’t get much use these days, but I suppose I could check to see if-,” he cuts himself off before focusing his shrewd gaze on you. “Wherever did you find a typewriter?”

Shit. You’d grown so accustomed to working with it, you’d nearly forgotten you’d stolen it.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff Lord Heisenberg has laying around the factory,” you shove off from the barrel with an eye roll. “All kinds of gadgets, just waiting to be saved.” It wasn’t strictly a lie.

“Ah, yes. I’m quite familiar with his penchant for tinkering. Still, what use do you have for it? Don’t tell me that you’ve taken up typing?”

“Afraid so. He has me taking notes. I find it’s faster than writing it all by hand.” A bitter guilt washes over you as you lie to your only friend with ease. You’d had a lot of practice with being sneaky as of late, slipping out of the factory at odd hours to make your trek to the cottage. But outright lying?

“Ah, I see. Will you be needing any materials for maintenance? Does it appear to be well looked after?”

“No, not particularly. Go ahead and add those to the list as well, if you think they’ll come in handy.”

“Consider it done, my dear,” he jots down a short list and tucks it into a breast pocket with a smile. “Now, as lovely as it’s been to see your sweet face, I must leave you here. Lady Beneviento is expecting a delivery, and I don’t wish to keep her waiting.”

“I could take it for you,” you suggest, mouth moving faster than your brain. Unsurprisingly, his eyes narrow at the suggestion.

I have to ask her about the herbalist. This is the perfect excuse to speak to her.

“I was actually headed up there myself, on an errand. Heisenberg’s orders.” You lift your bag and pat its side for emphasis, praying he doesn’t inquire further.

He does.

“Heisenberg’s orders?” he repeats, a tinge of doubt seeping into his normally cool tone. “What business does he have with Lady Beneviento that cannot be conducted at one of their meetings?”

Had your subsequent scream not been internal, it might have been heard for miles around.

“I nearly asked the same thing, but I’m not about to let a chance to leave the factory slip me by. Even if I knew, I’m not certain I’d be at liberty to say.” You hold your breath.

His eyes search your face for a few moments too long, and he gives a great sigh, seemingly having found whatever it was he was looking for in it.

“No point in both of us disrupting her day, then. I don’t particularly enjoy the trek anyhow,” he trails, turning to grab something from behind him. Dangling wares jangle a discordant song as the caravan rocks slightly. “I do not need to remind you that my customers’ privacy is-”

“Paramount.”

“Paramount,” he echoes, holding a small parcel and twin spools of used ribbon out to you.

“I’ll take great care in getting it to her.”

“I trust you will, my dear.”

You gently tuck the items into your bag, the weight of his trust heavy on both your back and mind as you make to set off.

“Y/N?”

His voice causes you to freeze, and you turn back to look at him as you grasp the icy cold gate leading to the Beneviento estate.

“Yes, Duke?”

You struggle to hold the man’s gaze, the features of his face set in sad, resigned lines, and sadness floods your heart at having deceived someone who clearly cares so deeply for you.

“Please be careful.”

—

A spectral fog licks the floor of the narrow, steep-sided valley, carrying with it the musky-sweet perfume of decomposition that only belongs to late autumn; crushed moss, dark humus, and wet bark herald the waning daylight — an imminent omen of the long winter nights to come.

Overhead, the twisted limbs of gnarled trees claw their way across the sky, their dark silhouettes little more than blurs in the gray haze. You puzzle at the empty bird cages that hang lifeless from them, and continue to wade through the otherworldly damp – the muffled shuffling of your feet the only discernible source of noise – and a dull sense of foreboding begins to lap at the periphery of your thoughts. Struggling to see more than a few feet ahead, you become less certain with every step that the path you’re on will actually lead you to the Beneviento estate.

After a time, the walls of the ravine open up, unceremoniously spitting you out at the edge of a gorge. You stop, watching as the fog behind you lazily runs over the threshold, spurred on by your momentum. It spills into the chasm below, which flows with an even thicker brume. A quiet fear churns in the empty pit of your stomach and you swallow, willing yourself not to think about how deep the abyss may or may not be. You shift your attention to the bridge that presumably spans it, and your fear cements in your gut. The fibers that make up the ropes are frayed and worn, sticking out from the bridge wherever they’ve unraveled, and a great number of boards appear to be loose, clinging to the rope where they haven’t gone missing entirely. You doubt the rest of the bridge looks any better, but the fog smothers it well before you can tell. You lightly kick the anchoring point of the bridge a couple of times, as though that might further betray its integrity - or lack thereof.

I’m starting to understand why he’s not fond of the trek.

Gripping the main cables of the bridge, you take a timid step. When the first board doesn’t immediately give way, you risk a second, and a third. It’s not until you’re what must be halfway across that you feel compelled to look behind you, the uneasy feeling of being watched making the hairs on the back of your neck stand erect. The caw of a crow cuts through the heavy silence and your head snaps around. You struggle to distinguish its silhouette against the pale gray of the fog, but can just make out the air billowing where it’s been disturbed by the dampened flutter of wings and the glow of a single blue eye. A shiver bolts down your spine and you abandon all caution as you race to cross the rest of the bridge, ropes and boards groaning under the strain of your frantic movements.

Your feet pound a panicked rhythm into the uneven path as they carry you away from the bridge, and it’s not until you stumble over a stray root and pitch headlong into the dirt that your momentum finally stops. The sudden fall knocks the wind out of you, a sharp pain developing in your chest as you unsuccessfully gasp for air.

He’d be glad to know that my disobedience isn’t going totally unpunished.  

Clustered gravestones stare down at you as you lay sprawled on the ground, struggling to regain your breath. You manage to right yourself as it comes back to you in short, ragged gasps, the ache in your arm quickly replacing the discomfort in your chest. You stoop to collect the contents of your bag and rub your wrist reflexively, assessing the extent of the damage. The pain radiates as you test it gingerly.

Sprained, maybe.

“And all because of some fucking crow,” you grumble. “When did I get to be so lily-livered?”

A sudden sense of stillness washes over you as you take in the bunched graves. The names of the deceased are barely visible under the moss and lichens that cling to the neglected markers, their epitaphs as long forgotten as the individuals they were meant to commemorate. At the very least, you could make out that they largely seemed to belong to various members of House Beneviento. Tendrils of fog drift aimlessly between them, tangling in the bunches of yellow, hood-shaped flowers that sprout from the graves.

Must be the Aconitum variety the herbalist wrote about.

On plucking a stem, you fold it into a kerchief produced from your bag.

You turn your attention to the strange, gothic structure nestled into the craggy rocks behind the graves. It stands proud, cathedral-like in its architecture, with a small rose window and red, iron doors. They groan in protest at your intrusion, displeased that you should see fit to cross their threshold. You step into a dimly lit stone corridor and are greeted by a musty smell and the sound of dripping water; you clutch your arms to your chest as though the action might keep the damp air inside from clinging to your person.

The heavy doors clang shut behind you, and you round the corner to find a few lit candles silently standing vigil in a stone alcove, their soft bodies merging where their dripping wax meets. The corridor is punctuated by a small, ornate elevator - not totally unlike the one in the factory - and you press the singular button on the polished brass plate embedded in the wall; after a few moments, a bell buzzes, heralding the arrival of the lift and the gate lurches open, allowing you entry. You step inside, pressing yet again the only button available to you, and the lattice shuts you into its confines. You wince at the sound, and a seed of doubt begins to take root in your stomach as you begin to wonder if you weren’t trading one cage in for another. The elevator jerks to life and you steady yourself, focusing on the clammy stone wall descending around you in an attempt to will your hesitation away.

Surely the Duke wouldn’t have let me come here if he thought it was of any danger to me.

The single lightbulb flickers overhead as if to challenge the notion.

Of course, he’s also operating under the impression that Heisenberg knows I’m here.

Another ding heralds your arrival, and you step out into a stone corridor, swatting the thought aside like an errant fly. The roar of rushing water fills the air, and you freeze in your tracks at the mouth of the cave. A cutting wind howls around you, whipping your hair and cloak into a frenzy as you steady yourself against the cold wall of the cave.

The once-illustrious House Beneviento clings to the edge of a jagged cliff face, the rocky precipice dropping sharply into the churning, frothy waters of the waterfall that cascades behind it. Steeply sloping rooflines and intricate spires stand as proud as the surrounding mountains; the long shadows they cast across the crumbling, ivy-ridden facade of the manor obscure the narrow arch windows that lurk in the recesses, their drawn curtains hanging heavy in the hardwood frames. There was no denying that the light had undoubtedly long since gone out of the manor, but you didn’t have to try very hard to imagine what it must have looked like in its full glory. Beautiful and imposing.

A flicker of movement in one of the windows betrays what appears to be the silhouette of a woman, and you fight to steel yourself against your sudden unease.

Forging on, you push through the wrought-iron gate, taking little note of the overgrown hedges, yellow flowers, and trees that line the stone path. The sense of foreboding that hangs heavy in the air further suffocates you with each step, but your curiosity pulls you along the flags, towards the veranda, up its sloping steps, and before a set of stately double doors. With a slight tremble, you raise a gentle fist to strike the hardwood before the last vapors of your resolve can fully dissipate.

You’re denied the chance as hinges, worn and rusted by years of neglect, strain against the weight of the doors; the old wood itself moans, grudgingly adding its complaint to the eerie chorus. The faint glow of warm lights and a delicate floral scent escape the widening gap, and you apologetically lower your hand as you’re faced by the lady of the house.

–

Despite the obvious ticking of a clock somewhere behind you, time seems to hang suspended in the air.

Anticipation and restlessness quietly coalesce in the pit of your stomach as you look around the informal sitting room in wait of your gracious hostess. The lighting is soft, the various scattered fixtures and candles bathing the tastefully arranged furniture in a warm yellow. Upholstered armchairs and beautifully crafted end tables consort with stray stacks of books atop complementary plush rugs. Sturdy cabinets house sterling heirlooms, fine dishes, and assortments of porcelain dolls. A heavy writing desk stands in the middle of the room, its grandeur only exceeded by the elaborately carved fireplace that stands guard behind it. A mix of old-world charm and faded elegance.

You settle into your seat, only vaguely aware of the sounds of Lady Beneviento busying herself in what you can only assume is the kitchen the next room over. The unmistakable crackles of a gramophone can just be made out over a lush orchestration and the soft clanking of cups or plates, and you wonder which fanciful room in the house it could be coming from.

The gentle aroma of something baked permeates the air, and some of the sense of urgency that had fueled your trek here begins to slip away from you at the thought of getting to eat something you didn’t have to prepare yourself. You close your eyes, pulling the velvety sweetness in, and are almost immediately startled back to reality as Lady Beneviento sets a surprisingly large tea tray down on the polished wooden table with a thud. She begins to offload a number of plates from the tray, the table quickly overflowing with an array of delicacies, and you begin to marvel at how quickly she prepared it all when you recall that she must have been expecting the Duke. Layered honey cakes with jam and cream, sweet breads, plum dumplings, and petite finger sandwiches beckon to you, practically begging to be savored.

You clear your throat, quickly remembering what few manners your father and the Duke had struggled to instill in you.

“Thank you for going to the trouble of preparing all of this. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

She continues as though you had said nothing, placing a delicate saucer and teacup setting in front of either of you. You examine the intricate botanical pattern on the dishes intently, half-wishing to escape what was quickly becoming a suffocating awkwardness, and an aromatic steam fills the room as Lady Beneviento pours a floral tisane. The sound of a tiny silver spoon clinking against the sugar bowl grounds you, and you watch as Lady Beneviento heaps several spoonfuls into her own teacup. She wordlessly offers the bowl to you, and you grab it with a quiet ‘thank you’, taking note of how rough her hands are as your fingers brush momentarily.

You jump, spilling sugar across your saucer as your hostess finally breaks the silence. Barring your arrival, she hadn’t spoken. You had only received a soft but terse ‘come in’ and ‘please sit’ after being whisked out of the main parlor.

“You have impeccable timing. I’ve only just pulled these out of the oven,” she moves to grab the plum dumplings, placing a few on either of your plates. Her voice is cool and even, if not a bit small. “You must try one while it’s still warm.”

You reach for it with a sheepish smile, worried that if you speak she’ll spook or vanish into thin air. Taking a bite, you fail to stifle a groan as you savor the crunchy buttery dumpling that coats the tangy, juicy plum inside.

She sweeps her veil across her face with the back of her hand and tucks it behind an ear in a graceful movement, revealing a single hazel eye. Her gaze is piercing, going well beyond casual eye contact. You’re racked with an immediate sense of recognition as you stare back at her, and you’re overcome with the feeling that she sees you, maybe even knows you on a more profound level. Perhaps as one outsider recognizes another, perhaps something more. A mournful smile plays on her lips, and she continues to peer at you over a sip of her tea. You shift your eyes to the side, the intensity of her look suddenly overwhelming.

One particular porcelain doll across the room catches your full attention; she wears a serene expression, her facial features finely painted, and dons meticulously detailed clothing made from any number of luxurious ribbons and laces and silks. Something like a memory dances on the edge of your consciousness, tantalizingly out of reach.

Lady Beneviento clears her throat.

“Is something the matter?”

“No, not at all. It’s silly,” you tilt your head. “I think I might have had a similar doll as a little girl. Perhaps even the same one,” you trail off, brows furrowed as you strain to remember.

She looks over her shoulder at it briefly.

“Yes, well. The Duke sold them for me for some time. I imagine most little girls in the village had one,” she suggests with a flippant wave of her hand.

“Right,” you smile sweetly, knowing damn well your father couldn’t have afforded something so elegant. You bank the thought for later, taking another bite of the dumpling.

“Tell me then. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

You have the good sense to wipe at the corners of your mouth with the linen napkin provided as you finish chewing, mouth overly full of food. It only buys you a few precious seconds of thought, but it’s enough time to steel your nerves.

“I’ve brought you a package, my Lady.”

“A package?”

You retrieve the parcel from your bag, wrapped in the Duke’s signature brown paper and tied off with a string, and hand it to her across the table. She takes it, looking up at you with more than a trace of suspicion in her eye. “It is unlike him to not make a delivery himself.”

“That would be my fault. I offered to bring it up for him.”

“As a favor? Or has he taken on an errand girl?”

“Oh, not hardly,” you start, trying not to snort at the thought of having to make deliveries to the villagers. “I act as assistant to Lord Heisenberg.”

She stops mid-sip, something like bewilderment briefly flashing across her face, and you puzzle momentarily over another bite.

Perhaps he hadn’t mentioned bringing on an assistant. Or is she simply surprised that he would bother with someone like me?

It only takes her a moment to regain her composure before she presses on, cutting your speculation short.

“So you are here on his account then,” she posits, her voice going somewhat flat at the notion. She reaches for a finger sandwich before settling back in her chair.

Tension begins to weave a tight web across the table and you scramble to unravel it before Lady Beneviento detaches from the conversation altogether. You set your cup down with a clatter, some tea sloshing over the side and onto the saucer.

“I’ve misled you,” you apologize, voice unsteady as you rifle through the contents of your bag. “I’m not here on his business either.” Producing the copy of Alkaloids of Mountainous Plants, you place the book in the middle of the table as explanation. Time stretches further, your certainty that it was a mistake to have come here growing with every passing second, and you search her face for any signs of recognition.

Her tea cup rattles against the saucer as she moves to set it down, and with still trembling hands, she reaches out to take the book. She smooths a hand over its cover, a stray cat come home, before clutching it to her chest.

“You’re not supposed to have been able to-” she starts, her face equal parts disbelief and distress as she calculates exactly how you could’ve come across it. “How did you get this?”

There’s a pregnant pause as you both contemplate what all the other might know. An intense twinge begins to blossom behind your eyes, something foreign exerting pressure on the boundaries of your mind. You glance suspiciously at your tea, squinting against the sudden pain, and proceed as though the question hadn't been posed at all.

“I’ve come to ask if you know the herbalist who used to live outside of the village.”

“Well of course I knew her, she was-” her voice is hasty before faltering, and she presses her hand to her mouth with a small gasp.

The worst of the headache recedes nearly as quickly as it came on, leaving a lingering ache in its place. You rub your temple as Lady Beneviento looks at you, the look of horror on her half-shrouded face thinly veiled at best.

It hadn't even occurred to you that the herbalist might be a woman. Suddenly, the herbalist’s offhanded mentionings of being distrusted by the village made more sense; not only was the cottage grossly removed from the village, but it housed a single woman practicing medicine. You nod sympathetically, no stranger to the sense of alienation that must’ve haunted her.

“What was she like?”

She fidgets with her hands in her lap, and you observe her wrestling with the personal consequences of revealing her thoughts. Her eye darts around before landing on you, and the trust she considers placing in you is palpable. She takes a single deep breath of resignation and reaches for the teapot, pouring both of you more as though you hadn’t spilled it across her nice table linens.

“She was an outcast,” she answers, mouth a little tight as she replaces the teapot. “And kind beyond measure.”

It was evident enough from her journal entries. She cared deeply for the people of the village despite their obvious aversions, and went to lengths bordering on strange to make sure they received the treatments they needed. You relax slightly in your chair, growing more comfortable in your mutual discomfort.

“Is that what drove her to leave? Being an outcast, I mean.”

A sharp, metallic clang echoes throughout the room as Lady Beneviento’s spoon crashes against the wooden floor. A series of softer, arhythmic thuds amplify the noise as it bounces slightly, and the resonant tone reverberating through the room tapers into silence.

“Leave. Leave?” Hysteria creeps into her voice as she chews on the word. “Whatever gave you the impression that she could have left?”

You reel at her sudden change in demeanor, stammering as you rush to make yourself understood.

“I just thought that since she’s not here anymore and nobody speaks of her she might have-”

“No,” she asserts, rising from her spot at the table without warning. There is a dangerous edge to her voice that you wouldn’t have previously thought her capable of, and you watch as she grips the edge of the table with ferocity. “She was overly inquisitive, and took inconsiderate risks despite being warned. Her search for information despite predictable consequences was her undoing. In fact, she’d have been better off had she never come here in the first place.”

Your jaw hangs slack, composure momentarily shattered in the face of raw emotion. Perhaps you weren’t so different, having wandered up here impulsively with little regard for possible repercussions. You close your mouth, swallowing the shock as you struggle to find words.

“My sincerest apologies, my Lady. You have to know I had no intentions of upsetting you when I came here.”

She straightens, brushing her dress front off before folding her hands, the image of nobility if not for her heaving chest. Not wanting to overstay your welcome anymore than you already have, you start to gather your things and stand across from her, watching as she readjusts her veil.

“I had better get going.” The initial strike of a grandfather clock chiming cuts through the charged air, each additional bong seemingly louder than the last as the two of you face one another, motionless. You grasp the strap of your bag, slinging it across your shoulder and tugging it into place before draping your cloak around your shoulders - the first comfortable sensations you’ve experienced since arriving. “Thank you for the tea and dumplings, Lady Beneviento. You’re a talented baker.”

She dips her head, following you out into the formal parlor. You catch a glimpse of her portrait on the wall leading up the stairs and are surprised by how much younger and happier she looks.

Seems not even the Lords and Ladies are immune to the toll this place takes on people.

She opens the door for you, cutting you off as you inhale to thank her one more time.

“I think it would be unwise for you to return here.”

You give a single nod, taking your leave.

The walk home is largely uneventful, save for getting to appreciate the contents of the garden you’d previously ran through and having to navigate the bridge one more time. The Duke’s caravan is gone when you get back to the plaza, somewhat to your chagrin but mostly to your relief. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d be leaving when you’d spoken earlier, but then, you didn’t exactly tell him of your plans either.

Your feet are heavy as you slog up the steps past the ruins, but your thoughts weigh heavier as Lady Beneviento’s words ring out in your mind.

Her search for information despite predictable consequences was her undoing.

“Undoing,” you mutter, chewing your lip. “Undoing as in destruction, or undoing as in death?”

You recall that the herbalist had suspected the villagers of getting sick after being exposed to something in the church - wine or bread if memory serves - but at no point had she outright accused Mother Miranda of having tampered with it. It was Lady Beneviento herself who had urged the herbalist against bringing it to Miranda’s attention. Urged her against crossing Mother Miranda. Perhaps your drunken musings from the night before hadn’t been as baseless as previously thought.

You lean against the bridge a moment, watching as the waters of the reservoir race below. As much as you didn’t want to consider the possibility of Heisenberg colluding with Mother Miranda, it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t know anything about her dealings in the village. After all, what reason would she have to form an alliance with the Four Lords of the Village if not to use their influence to some extent?

You set the line of thought aside for the time being as you squeeze in through the iron doors of the factory, choosing instead to focus on making a beeline for the bath. It would all make more sense after a bath.

–

You linger in the vestibule as you fiddle with the last few buttons on one of Heisenberg’s shirts; you’d tailored enough of them to get you through the work week, and figured there was no harm in keeping one or two of the more stained ones to sleep in. At least any ink smudges acquired while fiddling with the typewriter wouldn’t look amiss.

The hardwood floor is cold under the pads of your feet, and you repress a shiver while you dig your gifted ribbons out of your bag before heading toward the study in search of a drink worthy of tonight’s undertaking. Strange didn’t quite cover the scope of today’s events, but it had certainly left you feeling as such. Maybe had your sleep schedule been more than a sad afterthought, you’d have crawled into the middle of your plush bed and slept it all off, putting some much needed distance between you and your escapade. Regrettably, this was not the case.

You blindly grope for a glass, and when your fingers finally connect, you set it on top of the bar beside your ribbon with a dull thunk. The decanter feels a little lighter than you remember, but then, you hadn’t done much to rectify that. You free the stopper, sloshing the now-liberated liquid into your glass with less expertise than perhaps necessary.

Hope it’s not too expensive.

The soft snick of a lighter’s sparkwheel sounds behind you, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you carefully replace the stopper to the decanter. You raise your glass to your lips, pull a generous mouthful of bourbon across your tongue, and chew it casually, slowly, in the hopes that it might better coat the razor sharp edges of the words to come.

A swallow, an exhale.

When the oak finish has dissipated completely from your palate, you turn around and inhale the heady smoke blooming between the two of you, allowing yourself one last indulgence before you face the music.

You open your eyes to the crimson glow of a lit cigar reflected in a pair of onyx lenses.

“You’ve been busy, doll.”

Taglist: @artist-bby @ambiguous-g @honimello​ @butterflysist3r @spac3witch @xyinparadise​ @fantrashtic-emily @emmathedestroyer @eleeloo @strayczennies @reddbishop​ @cakelover365​ @jackysenpaii​ @lilcocakitty​ @pinemangojuice

[carewyncromwell]

12 or 15 for Jackmon? 🥺

15. watching their oblivious s/o lovingly (Jackmon)

Montelimar Bloom was widely considered to be one of the smartest students in his year. He was always ahead of his classmates in just about every academic subject, having already memorized the Transfiguration alphabet at the beginning of his first year and perfectly sidestepping Chameleon Ghouls while still preparing for his OWLs. He often showcased his intelligence in other ways, though, and one of those types of intelligence was the emotional kind -- most notably, his own emotions. Monty always knew who he was and what he felt, and even in those times he had difficulty expressing what he felt, especially for other people, that didn't change that he still knew what it was he wanted to express.

And oh, and in this moment...he really, really wanted to tell Jackson Knightly that he was the most beautiful man he had ever seen, surrounded by and holding several worn old books on top of a tall ladder with his collar undone, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair lightly tousled.

"Isn't it marvelous, Bloom?!" Jackson called over to Monty excitedly, as he swung gleefully off the ladder with the one hand not holding the stack of books against his chest. "All these books, covered in dust -- likely unread since the owners of these portraits were still living -- !"

"Get down from there before you break your neck!" one of the female Headmistress portraits told Jackson anxiously.

"If he did break his neck, it'd serve him right," growled the portrait beside her, "sneaking into the Headmaster's office like some petty thief -- "

Jackson rather coolly blew the dust off the book he'd taken off the shelf right at the portrait, making the man inside sputter indignantly.

"Bleh -- ptoo! The nerve!" he blustered. "You'll regret this, you little churl! When Headmaster Black hears about this -- !"

"'When he hears about it?' Good sir, I'll look forward to the conversation," said Jackson with a suave smile. "Why, it's positively shameful that Professor Black treats his books so poorly. Take these histories, for instance -- I could see quite a few magical historians being appalled, by the amount of dust they've accumulated, especially when they could be so useful to their research. All these books of spells -- how helpful these could be to the staff, for their lessons -- or perhaps the Ministry, these look a touch dangerous for a school. Even these here -- they must be more personal to the Headmaster, for them to be as earmarked as they are. The Mudblood Menace -- Defanged: The Virtue of Vampire Hunting -- Power for Power's Sake: How to Get What You Want Without Working Too Hard...Professor Black really should be more open with his disgusting world views, rather than just hide them away on such grand old bookshelves..."

A lot of the portraits around the books looked visibly uncomfortable. One or two, however, including the portrait who'd expressed concern for Jackson's safety early, was having trouble biting back a smile, and so was Monty, despite himself.

"'Power for Power's Sake?'" the Ravenclaw recurred. "Well, I must say, that certainly explains Professor Black taking on the Headmaster position in the first place. I had trouble believing it was solely due to masochism."

Jackson laughed. "Indeed, my good Frenchman! I suppose when selling one's soul for power, being surrounded by bratty whiffets is the price one pays!"

Monty came over to help take the books from Jackson before he either dropped them or fell climbing down. With his other hand restored to him, Jackson was able to swing down leisurely, clapping Monty on the back before bustling across the bookshelf to the other side to look over the titles on the other side.

"Why, look here, Bloom! One of the Headmasters actually collected the works of Lord Byron!"

Monty couldn't help but smile fondly as Jackson immediately whipped out the book, blowing off some of the dust before eagerly, but tenderly opening it.

"'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free'..." Jackson sighed through a bright, beaming smile. "Oh, how evil such an archivist is, to start with 'Corsair!' My breath is stolen away, and I've just opened the book."

Monty's eyes became softer and glassier as he silently watched Jackson. The Ravenclaw could feel his cheeks had gotten very warm and hoped beyond reason Jackson wouldn't take notice as he gently put the stack of books he'd taken from Jackson down on a side table.

"Lord Byron is a very talented poet," Monty said slowly.

"Isn't he?" said Jackson excitedly. "I knew you had good taste, my brilliant Frenchman."

Fortunately, to Monty's immense relief, the Slytherin was too distracted with gently parsing through the old book of poems to look up, leaving Monty to happily stand back and watch in peace as he continued to read passages aloud.

"Here we are! Here's my favorite -- 'So, we'll go no more a roving, so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright...'"

Relationship Prompts!

[th3radlad]

Thread Breaker! Vol.1 Chapter 3

Hey There~! Welcome Back For Some More Thread Breaker!

Thread Breaker Vol.1 Chapter 3

The early morning light filtered through the classroom windows, casting long shadows over the rows of desks. Sakano leaned back in his seat, his mind drifting as he replayed the fight from the festival. His newfound powers, the strange revelations Arlen shared about the Threads... they left him restless, on edge. He was carrying around a responsibility he hadn’t asked for and barely understood.

His eyes roamed across the room as he tried to push the thoughts away, stopping briefly on a familiar figure seated toward the back, half-hidden behind her textbook. Yuri Hayashi, one of the quietest students in their class, had always been a fixture of the background for Sakano, someone who avoided attention, sinking into her books with a detached air. But today, her presence seemed oddly significant, as if some hidden connection was there, waiting to be revealed.



 Miyuki then gently nudged him. “Hey, I’m over here, dummy!” She pouted and looked away from Sakano, the latter of which being completely clueless as to why Miyuki interjected like that. He glanced over at her, and noticed a hint of blush on her cheeks, but ultimately decided not to bother her.

Yuri’s gaze lifted just then, meeting his for the briefest moment before her eyes dropped back to her page, her expression unreadable. Sakano felt a shiver—she looked away quickly, but he could have sworn she’d been watching him, almost as if she were measuring him. He leaned over to Miyuki, who was still grumpy and facing away, and whispered, “Hey, did you ever notice Yuri looking at us?”

Miyuki raised an eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder toward Yuri, who was now fully engrossed in her book. “Idiot... uhm, Hayashi? I mean, she’s always been quiet, right? Kind of a lone wolf. Why?”

Sakano hesitated, struggling to put his instinct into words. “I don’t know, just... something feels off. It’s like she knows something.”

“She’s always in the library reading those dense philosophy books. I guess she’s just private,” Miyuki said, then leaned closer. “But it wouldn’t hurt to get a better idea of what she’s about. I’ve heard rumors... about her being able to see things.”
 


Sakano scoffed “Puh-lease... you seriously buy into that shit? We both know that’s just guys picking on her for being different. Like c’mon, can’t we just let a girl enjoy her hobbies in peace? Guys will just be asses...”

The bell rang, cutting off their conversation as the class quieted down. But Sakano's mind continued to turn, a plan slowly forming. If Yuri really knew something, or even if she just suspected anything, he had to find out.

After school, Sakano made his way to the library, hoping to catch Yuri in her usual spot. It didn’t take him long; in the far corner, surrounded by shelves stacked with dusty tomes and untouched novels, there she was, leaning over an old, worn book, eyes completely absorbed in the page.

Sakano cleared his throat, taking a few hesitant steps forward. “Hey, uhm... Yuri, right?”

She didn’t look up, but he noticed her fingers still on the edge of the page. “Mmm... That’s me.” Her tone was indifferent, as if she were addressing someone she barely remembered.

“Yeah,” he replied, taken slightly aback. “Mind if I sit?”

Yuri shrugged, her gaze still on her book. “Free library. Do what you want.”

Sakano sat down across from her, glancing at the book she was reading: a worn anthology on psychology and philosophy. He tried to read her expression, but she gave nothing away, her face as still and composed as ever.

“So... about 2 days ago,” he began carefully, gauging her reaction. “Did you see what happened?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, finally breaking her studious façade. For a moment, there was an intensity in her gaze—a knowing, like she had been expecting this question. “Everyone saw what happened... Mister 'Za Warudo'.” she said coolly, but scoffed at the words 'Za Warudo'. “But not everyone saw it the same way.”

Sakano stiffened, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

Yuri’s lips twitched in what might have been a faint smile. “When you stop time, Sakano, you make it impossible not to notice.” She paused, folding the corner of her page with deliberate care. “You’re not exactly... subtle.”

Sakano's heart skipped. She knew. But how?

"Are you...?” His voice faltered, but Yuri’s steady stare gave him courage to continue. “Are you a Thread Weaver too?”

Yuri tilted her head, an amused glint in her eye. “Ah, quite the smarty we have here... Yes, and my Thread is Perception,” she replied, as if it were obvious.

Sakano leaned forward, eager for answers. “So, can you... read minds? And do cool shit like Aizen..?”

Yuri laughed, a soft, quiet sound. “If only it were that simple. No, I don’t read minds. But I can perceive things—details that others miss. For example...” Her gaze sharpened, examining him with unsettling accuracy. “You, Sakano. You carry the Thread of Time. And you’ve barely scratched the surface of its potential.”

Sakano's face heated, the weight of her words sinking in. “If you know about it, then why haven’t you done anything? Or... warned me?”

Yuri leaned back, a calm detachment settling over her expression. “Because, dummy, the Threads aren’t just powers to be used. They are forces that draw us into conflict, whether we want it or not. Once you step into that world, you’re bound to it, and any Thread Master worth their salt knows to keep a low profile.” She hesitated, a flicker of hesitation breaking her otherwise guarded demeanour. “I didn’t ask for this power, either. I’ve spent most of my life trying to ignore it... its uses... Although it does come in handy from time to time.”

Sakano felt a pang of empathy. He hadn’t asked for his powers either, and yet here they were, his life transformed in a matter of days. “Then why are you telling me all of this now?”

“Because,” Yuri replied, her gaze intense, “your recent actions made it impossible for me to ignore. Someone invaded the school, and they were using the Matter Thread."

Yuri’s expression darkened slightly. “And that’s where the danger lies. If there’s one, there will be others. The Threads are drawn to each other, and they’re unpredictable. Each of us has our own interpretation of what to do with this power. Some use it for selfish purposes, others for ideals.”

“But... I don’t want to fight anyone, i just wanna keep eating mah pocky...” Sakano said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Yuri’s gaze softened for the first time, understanding flashing across her face. “That may be true now, Sakano, but the Threads are interwoven. As one rises, the others are compelled to respond. Eventually, all of us will be forced to choose how we use our power.”

She closed her book, standing up as if the conversation had ended. “If you want to survive in this world of Threads, you’ll need to learn control—over your abilities and yourself, and perhaps... be the first to discover the Time Recludo.”

Sakano clenched his fists, a sense of determination settling over him. “Then... will you help me?”

Yuri hesitated before just sighing, her eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his words. “I’m not a mentor, dummy.” she replied, her tone cautious. “And I’m not here to hold your hand, you fucking baby. But... I don’t want to see anyone get hurt, either. I’ll give you guidance when you fuck up, but the rest is up to you.”

He nodded, grateful but also aware of her boundaries. “Thanks, Yuri. I’ll take whatever help you’re willing to offer.”

Without another word, Yuri gathered her things, glancing back at him only once. “Be careful, Sakano. Time isn’t something to be trifled with. And remember,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper, “sometimes what we see is only a fraction of the truth.”

And with that, Yuri slipped away, disappearing down the rows of bookshelves, leaving Sakano with the weight of her cryptic words. He realised that whatever he was stepping into was bigger than he’d ever imagined, and with each answer, more questions seemed to arise. The Threads weren’t just powers—they were connections, destinies, and conflicts bound to unravel around him.

Sakano took a deep breath, bracing himself for the trials ahead, knowing that each step he took was a step further into the unknown.

"Time Recludo..? Be THE FIRST? This girl has gotta be trippin..." Sakano buried his head in his hands, struggling to take in anything Yuri said... How was SHE a Thread Weaver? does that mean there are more Thread Weavers in this school..?

Regardless of what he felt, he knew that the task at hand was more important. He needed to get to the Vault of Threads. Perhaps Yuri could help..? Or perhaps its best to not disturb her, she hasn't done anything wrong to deserve being forced to help out, after all...

[CHAPTER 3 FIN]

[justaloreaddict]

Pffffff so I saw this reblogged from Sableglass and it looked really cool and fun so I hope you don’t mind that I took a crack at it. @davycoquette

Funnily enough, not many of my characters have consistent bedrooms or large amounts of personal effects so I had to think about this for a second. In the end this time I decided to go with Spitz since he’s been on the brain most recently. I might do one at some point for Maxwell, Landers, and Pik but we’ll see.

Spitz is a Vampire: The Masquerade v5 PC of mine for some minor context. There’s more about him around here somewhere.

Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom while they’re not in it.

A heavy blanket hangs over a custom curtain rod blocking all light and some noise from outside. The large bed shoved sideways against the wall has not been properly made in weeks, even when the sheets were changed, the pillows and blanket tossed around in a heap. They’re all a solid orange color, except for the blanket that is dark blue. The floor has a few t-shirts scattered about but otherwise few hazards.

A television sits across from the side of the bed on a low shelving unit containing a tower PC and a gaming console, as well as several video games, mostly shooters or action games. Those are arranged neatly, kept from falling over by an extra controller. Two stacks of books by the head of the bed imply an avid reader who enjoys Fantasy action. A pair of motorcycle gloves hang from a hook on the sliding closet door, surrounded by several posters for various fighting sport gyms and one for a shooting range.

The walls have a small clutter of band posters and a professional dog sledding themed calendar. There is also a very large poster of a moose, with black sharpie writing about its weak points and potential exploits. Also on the poster is a list of pros and cons to fighting a moose, including them being diurnal and thus invulnerable.

Shuffle a playlist and describe what you “see” for it.

So the song was “This Is War” by Thirty Seconds To Mars and if that isn’t the most Spitz song I’ve heard-

Anyway, this song is Spitz giving up, saying F- the Camarilla and their rules, trashy life-boons and all, and going Anarch with some violence along the way as he goes to find somewhere far away from where he’s been. That being Alaska.

Describe a character by turning out their pockets.

It’d been another long, stupid meeting when Spitz finally got home. He slammed the door shut behind himself not bothering to lock it as he tore off his hoodie and threw it to the ground. Passing an end table in the hallway he paused to dig through his pockets. Keys? Check, into the bowl. Wallet? Yep, in the bowl. He’d probably need to start thinking about the next steps when he couldn’t be him any more, but he loathed the thought. Phone? Yeah, but not for the bowl. Multi-tool? Sure, that can go in the bowl. Lighter? Why not.

Sighing he shook his head as he deposited the unnecessary items into a simple wooden bowl on the table where they settled around some unopened letters. He needed to do something today, but there was nothing he could do. He needed to fight somebody.

An unlocked phone or wallet has been discovered in a diner bathroom. What’s in there, and what does it say about the owner?

The phone was found when Maria had gone into the restroom to start mopping. She’d just closed the doors for the night before coming to make it a little nicer in here. The phone on the sink had a plain black plastic case that had a series of letters scratched roughly into the back. ‘Property of Spitz’ Well, at least she had a name, useless as that was. Flipping it over, it looked unlocked as a homescreen greeted her. The wall paper was of a sled dog team sitting for a rest while someone bundled warmly in a stylish red jacket smiled broadly at the camera.

The next thing she noticed was twelve missed calls and twenty unread texts. She probably shouldn’t look, but they might help her find the owner sooner. The calls were all from a contact labeled “Prince-ass”. A lot of the texts were, with the most recent saying “If you don’t text back, you’ll be considered dead.” No wonder this person forgot their phone, it must’ve been intentional. Two other texts were from an “Ashley [motorcycle emoji]” asking about travel plans.

Great. She’d found the phone of someone trying to run away. Hopefully she wouldn’t be considered related to this, she was just closing shift today. Work was hard enough as is, she didn’t need an overbearing person badgering her about the last time she saw the phone’s owner. Well, she was snooping already, so she looked for the camera roll.

The camera roll had lots of pictures of a sled dog team, as well as several of a different dog throughout. A woman with brown hair and often a red top of some sort also featured heavily. There were several selfies with people, consistently with an attractive man in them. He often wore a red beanie, his dark brown short beard kept tight to his jaw. Though his expression was often a bit sour, he seemed happy. She recognized him from just a few hours earlier, he’d come in and nursed a cup of coffee while reading a book for three hours until just before closing. At least he’d tipped good. This must’ve been his phone.

He didn’t have a lot of apps besides the bare essentials and a couple others. Youtube, Spotify, Audible. Audible? But he’d been reading the whole time he was here. How many books does a guy need? Opening it, he was halfway through a book about… the development of consciousness? His youtube history was full of horror monster explanations and Spotify nothing but horror podcasts. Who was this guy?

A loud knock on glass startled Maria so badly she nearly dropped the phone into the mop bucket. She shut off the phone quickly and stuffed it in her back pocket. “W-We’re closed!” She shouted, grabbing her mop protectively and peering out into the hallway. She couldn’t see anything, so she crept forward until she could look around the corner into the main dining room. An imposing dark form stood in front of the door. An orange gloved fist raised and banged on the door again. She jumped back and steadied her breath. Pulling out her own phone she prepared to call the cops.

One last look at the door she saw the form sigh and drop their head covered by a bright red beanie before pulling out an index card that they tried to pass between the doors. She watched them get it half in before giving up and walking away. She waited a minute watching. When they didn’t return, she hurried to the door and grabbed the card. It was terrifying, should she call the cops first? The note read “I forgot my phone, sorry. I’ll be back tomorrow. -Spitz” Well, that’s nice. It wasn’t someone planning to rob the place. Maria breathed a sigh of relief, then jumped back as she looked up. The guy was outside the door again. He seemed startled too, backing up a step and raising his hands.

“Sorry for scaring you! I was just hoping you had my phone? I really need it.”

Maria took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

“What’s it look like?”

“Black case, my name, Spitz, scratched in the back, got a woman on a motorcycle in front of the aurora for the lock screen.”

“Yeah, I found it.”

“Great. Would you mind giving it to me? It’s a little urgent.” Spitz was talking fast, maybe a little agitated.

“Yeah, sure. Is it because your gf’s been calling all night?”

“My what-? No, that’s not my girlfriend.” Spitz sounded mad. “Just my-... just my friend.”

“Whatever.” Maria shook her head and unlocked one door to pass the phone through the small gap.

Spitz grabbed in and nodded his thanks.

“Have a good night. Stay safe.” He stated as he turned to leave.

Character Writing Exercises

I was going to make this a tagging game & include my taglist, but it's pretty involved and I don't want anyone to feel pressured to do it if it's a chore/they don't want to/it's not helpful to them.

Below are some exercises I find really, really useful for pulling brand new characters out of my ass. Barring that, they're fun to do for existing characters as well!

Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom while they’re not in it.

Whip up a new one right now, fall back on a tried and true OC. Or a canon character; I’m not the boss of you.

Shuffle a playlist on your music player of choice. For whichever song plays, describe what you “see” with your imagination.

For those of you who struggle to “see” imagined things, just tell me what’s goin’ on in that beautiful noodle of yours. Also, please tell me the song so I can listen to it while I read this part!

Describe a character by turning out their pockets.

what has it got in its pocketses?

An abandoned and unlocked phone (or wallet, if you wanna go back a coupla decades) has been discovered in a ratty little diner bathroom. What’s in there? What does it tell us about its owner?

Think photos, payment methods, notes, messages, Internet searches, receipts, etc. If cell phones and Waffle Houses aren't things in your character's world, pretend they are.

If you do all or some of these, please tag me because I would be overjoyed to read them!

[domschwartz]

Building an anti-library for a child

"Adults not only create and publish what young people read but also serve as their literature's gate-keepers, determining what children can-and cannot-access."3

"Teaching a child to read is a family setup," said the man [Theodor Geisel] who helped teach so many. "It's the business of having books around the house, not forcing them. Parents should have 20 books stacked up on tables or set around the living room. The average kid will pick one up, find something interesting. And pretty soon he's reading."1

"Always be reading. Go to the library. There's magic in being surrounded by books. Get lost in the stacks. Read bibliographies. It's not the book you start with, it's the book that book leads you to.

Collect books, even if you don't plan on reading them right away. Nothing is more important than an unread library."4

Although not yet born and with unknown sex until birth, I feel passionate about the idea of an antilibrary2 [for my unborn child]...

Does building an antilibrary... include music?

Of course, it does! 😏 That being said... "Man has an instinctive tendency to speak, as we see in the babble of our young children; while no child has an instinctive tendency to bake, brew or write.'..

Until recently, most children never learned to read or write; even with today's universal education system, many children struggle and fail...

Children are wired for sound, but print is an optional accessory that must be painstakingly bolted on...

We are turning into a nation of illiterates, the victims of misguided ideas about the nature of reading and how to teach it."5 References:

’ R. S. (n.d.). Oh, the places he went! Dartmouth Alumni Magazine | The Complete Archive. Retrieved October 12, 2023, from https://archive.dartmouthalumnimagazine.com/article/1991/12/1/oh-the-places-he-went

Wikipedia contributors. (2023, February 15). Antilibrary. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Antilibrary&oldid=1139479780

Marcus, L. (2019). The ABC of it: Why children’s books matter. University of Minnesota Press.

Kleon, A. (2012). Steal like an artist: 10 Things nobody told you about being creative. Workman Publishing.

McGuinness, D. (1999). The why our children can’t read, and what we can do about it: A scientific revolution in reading. Free Press.

[titoist]

i think another time period that my mind(strategically shifting the blame onto the nebulous idea of a mind disconnected from myself in order to avoid culpability) tends to idolize, but which i've never interrogated since it's thus far been on a sufficiently unconscious level, is... & this has been popping up more & more frequently, one singular day in november/december of 2021, where i had gotten sick & was forced to stay in bed. what keeps popping into my head, in specific, is the view i had while laying in my bed. my bedside table was cluttered, but it was an organized clutter, where it only serves to reflect your esoteric & charming manner of individual organization instead of making it any more meaningfully difficult to find objects. i remember a small, red table mat, with an empty plate on top it - surrounded by boxes of medication; half-full glasses, gloves and socks; a large bottle, which i used like a pitcher to pour water into the previously-mentioned glasses; unread books, stacked vertically in uneasy towers; forks, vitamin tablets, napkins... all illuminated by the view outside my window. beautiful, glimmering sunlight. one of the bluest skies i've ever had the pleasure of seeing, & i was confined to bed, obliged to appreciate it as much as i could. the leaves outside were swaying. i can recall birds chirping, but i think that's likely my brain injecting the moment with artificial sweetness as a means to get a cheap hit of emotion. what sticks out in my memory pleasantly is, of course, the parts of being sick as a teenager that everyone tends to enjoy: a blank cheque to vegetate in bed, void of responsibility. when sick, your singular & only expected goal is literally to stay still as much as humanly possible. it's fucking awesome - but there's definitely something else, too. i spent that entire day laughing to myself while posting very silly jokes on tumblr & watching scott the woz. i was genuinely, sincerely, very happy. the person i was in that brief period of time... is, i feel, a kole who had finally become benevolent in spirit, & who was yet to be weighed down so heavily by the ideas & habits & self-immolation that i adhered to myself soon after. i often really wish that i could go back to being that unburdened kole, but i don't think it's possible. partly because it would only serve as regression into the past, partly because you can't ever 'take back' self-immolation. maybe i feel like a prisoner of my identity; the extent of my own massacre is breathtaking. i would fashion a guess that the world felt much larger then, too. "my world feels so unsustainably small, now" - these days, my world functionally stretches exclusively to the end of my 6 surrounding walls. "it's probably no larger than the inside of my skull." whereas, uh, back then, uhm, it was, like, probably about as big as an entire street block, maybe.

[polymusepotion]

meggie:

panic swirls in her chest. constricts. tightens around her lungs until she’s not sure she can properly breathe. people are laughing. calling out for them to kiss. she’s faintly aware of the brush of his mouth at the corner of hers and she can’t help but tense slightly, eyes flashing to his as he pulls away. he didn’t kiss her. and for some reason, that’s as jarring as the rest of this is. a quick study of his features tells her why.

                                                    he doesn’t know her either.

it should bring some semblance of comfort. it should release the tension coiled within her chest. but it doesn’t. if anything, it just makes her more nauseous. whoever he is, wherever they are — she brought him here. she had to. her hand slips into his as he pulls them away from the alter. away from the people. but silence doesn’t bring any additional comfort.

his voice is soft. his gaze gentle. she shakes her head in response to his question, shaky hand lifting to gently pry the veil from where it’s tucked into her hair. her dress feels too tight. the room feels too small. her hands shake. —- mo taught her control. her father was insinstent on one thing and one thing only when it came to her abilities: if she used them, she could only ever be alone. the cost was too great. and she had been, or at least she thinks she had been. and looking at him now, there are certain features that are distinctly not human. a slight point to his ears. the striking violet of his eyes. she doesn’t understand. she needs mo. she needs her dad.

❝ i think i did, ❞  her voice comes out small. tight. gaze cutting to his in with a mixture of panic and apology. and before she can tell herself to leave it at that, before she can remind herself that magic is a ridiculous concept to most people — she’s talking.

❝ my father had this ability — i do too — it’s called silvertongue. we…we read people out of books. or into them. mo never used his, i didn’t even know about it until i was 12 and all these men came to find him because he’d read them out of their book and he was the only one who could read them back. and i — i have the same gift. but i… ❞  this is the part that’s hard to voice. the part she hasn’t told anyone about, least of all her parents. if they knew, they’d be terrified.  ❝ i’ve been practicing. alone. since i moved out a couple years ago, and i’m…it’s getting stronger. it used to just be little things here and there. like…like a stray cat would go missing and a gnome would take its place. or a teacup would disappear and i’d find a chalice in my kitchen. nothing big. nothing like this. i think…i think i brought us here. ❞  her from her own world. his from his. and they’ve found themselves somewhere in the middle. somewhere wrong.

meggie swallows, looking up at him. he’s…striking. to say the least. a quick assessment of him and she guesses he was probably the main character. the dark haired love interested. edge. danger. sharp tongue, sharp features. if you read enough books, you start to see the same faces on the pages. but his is memorable. she would have remembered him. but…but it is possible. at any given time she finds herself surrounded by stacks of unread novels. worlds just waiting to be explored, pages waiting to be turned. she’d always practiced alone. but she of all people knows that the worlds within the pages of books are far from being fiction. and she’s always felt that when she’s surrounded by books, she’s far from alone. the thought sinks in her stomach like a pit and her knees go weak enough for her to lower herself onto the small couch in the room.  ❝ i brought us here. ❞

rhys lowers himself onto the couch beside her, though he’s careful to leave about a foot of room. the last thing he wants to do is crowd her when she’s already panicking. this might be the strangest thing he’s ever encountered and, right now, that feels like a lot. still, he’s not a high lord for nothing. he’s not considered the most powerful fae throughout all of prythian because he buckles under pressure. he commanded a damn army, for cauldron’s sake.

his mind thinks back to his home and what he’d been doing moments before hands were grabbing at him, pulling him in and helping him to change. “i... i don’t think this is entirely your fault,” he says gently. there’s a moment when he wants to reach for her, to take her hand in his and offer some comfort. but he’s conscious enough of the situation to know he’s likely the last person in... whatever kingdom? court? this is she would find comfort in. instead, he tries to keep his voice as calm and smooth as possible. if he’s calm, hopefully her system will settle as well.

“my court is struggling. this may... i don’t know how much sense this will make to you. if i’m being honest, i’m still not entirely sure i follow the type of magic you’re talking about for your own powers, but we’ll get to that. but let me tell you about my world. maybe it’ll ring something familiar in your mind, maybe it won’t. it’s not just my court that’s struggling, but all the courts. we defeated king hybern. barely. it nearly cost me my life. but with him out of the way, those in the human realm, the five queens included, are searching for certain... relics. pieces that, when put together, could give the bearer untold power.

“i’ve fought for centuries to protect my people. i wasn’t about to let them down because i couldn’t get my hands on a fucking harp.” he sighs and shakes his head. “anyway. i went in search of clues on exactly what these relics are and where i might find them. i stepped through a portal. so while you might have had a hand in creating some of this. maybe you were reading about an arranged marriage? or... or something? however this works for you. that doesn’t necessarily mean you brought me here. it very easily could have been a combination of things we both did.

“that being said, my magic... i’m struggling to access it. i can feel it. it’s not gone. but the men who helped me dressed...” he’s hesitant to continue. will this scare her? it probably will. “well, they’re only still standing” alive “because i was too distracted over not being able to access my powers. oh, and for the record.” the corner of his mouth quirks up in an almost smile. “the priest mispronounced my name. rhysand.” this time, it sounded like reece-and. “my friends usually call me rhys.” his eyes soften as he meets hers. “i didn’t hate hearing you call me rhy, though.” his smile breaks out fully now.

“would you like to make a deal with me?” in her version of her human realm, rhys doesn’t know what she might have heard about the fae. there’s no keep this deal or die where he’s from. and though many of the humans in his world believe the fae can’t lie, he’s perfectly capable of it. it’s the only reason he’s still alive. he’s not lying or manipulating her now, though. “how about we fake it through the rest of the day. we can look at each other like the sun rises and sets in each other’s eyes. and when the crowds are gone, i’ll do everything in my power to help you get home. you’re the only one i know here. and i’m using know quite sparingly. we’ll be allies. maybe the portal brought me to this realm for a reason, but me finding the harp isn’t your responsibility. i’ll do what needs to be done. we’ll get you home, meggie. i promise.”

@ofthclight

meggie:

panic swirls in her chest. constricts. tightens around her lungs until she’s not sure she can properly breathe. people are laughing. calling out for them to kiss. she’s faintly aware of the brush of his mouth at the corner of hers and she can’t help but tense slightly, eyes flashing to his as he pulls away. he didn’t kiss her. and for some reason, that’s as jarring as the rest of this is. a quick study of his features tells her why.

                                                    he doesn’t know her either.

it should bring some semblance of comfort. it should release the tension coiled within her chest. but it doesn’t. if anything, it just makes her more nauseous. whoever he is, wherever they are — she brought him here. she had to. her hand slips into his as he pulls them away from the alter. away from the people. but silence doesn’t bring any additional comfort.

his voice is soft. his gaze gentle. she shakes her head in response to his question, shaky hand lifting to gently pry the veil from where it’s tucked into her hair. her dress feels too tight. the room feels too small. her hands shake. —- mo taught her control. her father was insinstent on one thing and one thing only when it came to her abilities: if she used them, she could only ever be alone. the cost was too great. and she had been, or at least she thinks she had been. and looking at him now, there are certain features that are distinctly not human. a slight point to his ears. the striking violet of his eyes. she doesn’t understand. she needs mo. she needs her dad.

❝ i think i did, ❞  her voice comes out small. tight. gaze cutting to his in with a mixture of panic and apology. and before she can tell herself to leave it at that, before she can remind herself that magic is a ridiculous concept to most people — she’s talking.

❝ my father had this ability — i do too — it’s called silvertongue. we…we read people out of books. or into them. mo never used his, i didn’t even know about it until i was 12 and all these men came to find him because he’d read them out of their book and he was the only one who could read them back. and i — i have the same gift. but i… ❞  this is the part that’s hard to voice. the part she hasn’t told anyone about, least of all her parents. if they knew, they’d be terrified.  ❝ i’ve been practicing. alone. since i moved out a couple years ago, and i’m…it’s getting stronger. it used to just be little things here and there. like…like a stray cat would go missing and a gnome would take its place. or a teacup would disappear and i’d find a chalice in my kitchen. nothing big. nothing like this. i think…i think i brought us here. ❞  her from her own world. his from his. and they’ve found themselves somewhere in the middle. somewhere wrong.

meggie swallows, looking up at him. he’s…striking. to say the least. a quick assessment of him and she guesses he was probably the main character. the dark haired love interested. edge. danger. sharp tongue, sharp features. if you read enough books, you start to see the same faces on the pages. but his is memorable. she would have remembered him. but…but it is possible. at any given time she finds herself surrounded by stacks of unread novels. worlds just waiting to be explored, pages waiting to be turned. she’d always practiced alone. but she of all people knows that the worlds within the pages of books are far from being fiction. and she’s always felt that when she’s surrounded by books, she’s far from alone. the thought sinks in her stomach like a pit and her knees go weak enough for her to lower herself onto the small couch in the room.  ❝ i brought us here. ❞

rhys lowers himself onto the couch beside her, though he’s careful to leave about a foot of room. the last thing he wants to do is crowd her when she’s already panicking. this might be the strangest thing he’s ever encountered and, right now, that feels like a lot. still, he’s not a high lord for nothing. he’s not considered the most powerful fae throughout all of prythian because he buckles under pressure. he commanded a damn army, for cauldron’s sake.

his mind thinks back to his home and what he’d been doing moments before hands were grabbing at him, pulling him in and helping him to change. “i... i don’t think this is entirely your fault,” he says gently. there’s a moment when he wants to reach for her, to take her hand in his and offer some comfort. but he’s conscious enough of the situation to know he’s likely the last person in... whatever kingdom? court? this is she would find comfort in. instead, he tries to keep his voice as calm and smooth as possible. if he’s calm, hopefully her system will settle as well.

“my court is struggling. this may... i don’t know how much sense this will make to you. if i’m being honest, i’m still not entirely sure i follow the type of magic you’re talking about for your own powers, but we’ll get to that. but let me tell you about my world. maybe it’ll ring something familiar in your mind, maybe it won’t. it’s not just my court that’s struggling, but all the courts. we defeated king hybern. barely. it nearly cost me my life. but with him out of the way, those in the human realm, the five queens included, are searching for certain... relics. pieces that, when put together, could give the bearer untold power.

“i’ve fought for centuries to protect my people. i wasn’t about to let them down because i couldn’t get my hands on a fucking harp.” he sighs and shakes his head. “anyway. i went in search of clues on exactly what these relics are and where i might find them. i stepped through a portal. so while you might have had a hand in creating some of this. maybe you were reading about an arranged marriage? or... or something? however this works for you. that doesn’t necessarily mean you brought me here. it very easily could have been a combination of things we both did.

“that being said, my magic... i’m struggling to access it. i can feel it. it’s not gone. but the men who helped me dressed...” he’s hesitant to continue. will this scare her? it probably will. “well, they’re only still standing” alive “because i was too distracted over not being able to access my powers. oh, and for the record.” the corner of his mouth quirks up in an almost smile. “the priest mispronounced my name. rhysand.” this time, it sounded like reece-and. “my friends usually call me rhys.” his eyes soften as he meets hers. “i didn’t hate hearing you call me rhy, though.” his smile breaks out fully now.

“would you like to make a deal with me?” in her version of her human realm, rhys doesn’t know what she might have heard about the fae. there’s no keep this deal or die where he’s from. and though many of the humans in his world believe the fae can’t lie, he’s perfectly capable of it. it’s the only reason he’s still alive. he’s not lying or manipulating her now, though. “how about we fake it through the rest of the day. we can look at each other like the sun rises and sets in each other’s eyes. and when the crowds are gone, i’ll do everything in my power to help you get home. you’re the only one i know here. and i’m using know quite sparingly. we’ll be allies. maybe the portal brought me to this realm for a reason, but me finding the harp isn’t your responsibility. i’ll do what needs to be done. we’ll get you home, meggie. i promise.”

@ofthclight

[simpsiren]

lee taeyong x reader

description. I liked Lee Taeyong. A lot. And with every book I gave him, whatever purposes, I hid a love letter in between its pages. After all this time, I still wonder if Taeyong has yet to read even one of them.

Tsundoku— buying books and not reading them; letting books pile up unread on shelves, floors, or nightstands.

genre. fluff, angst, love letters!au, friends to lovers!au, one-sided love! au, bartender!taeyong, university student!reader

word count. 12.4k~

warnings. none!

a/n. was randomly scrolling through printerest when i found this word and suddenly this idea popped up in my headd. i had to change the meaning of the word so tha itll fit the story line better but the overall meaning is the same sooo. anyways that’s all i got for you now please enjoyy!

Books. An interest both Taeyong and I shared since college. Though our interest laid in the same object, our uses for it were far from the same. For me, it’s for reading. Like how it should be used, its main purpose. Like any other bookworm, constantly having my head shoved in romance or fantasy novels. Taeyong on the other hand, he... he uses it as decoration. Something that to him, should be kept on shelves, unread for display purposes.

I got to find out quite quickly that it was a habit for him to collect books that had nice spines just so he could place them on his shelves. I’ve been to his home once. One entire wall was just shelves filled with books. It was aesthetically pleasing indeed, but it disappointed me that he didn’t even bother to read a single one. So we made an agreement that I’d read his books. If he were to buy a new one, he’d let me read it first before tucking it away to never be pulled out again. I guess that’s why my friendship with him worked so well.

Taeyong decided to work as a bartender after college while I, went to pursue my studies with university. Should say that I regretted that on-impulse decision of mine nowadays.

It’s Friday. I just got out of university, at one in the morning. What an ungodly hour, considering that my classes started at nine this morning. I agreed to meet Taeyong at his bar. Luckily for me, the distance between school and the bar wasn’t far. Taeyong took me as a factor into consideration while trying out jobs around the school’s area, just so he’d get to meet me more often. That, was one of the million reasons why I fell for him.

I dragged my feet across the side walk, the screeching of my boots scraping against the rough surface. As much as I tried to hold up my posture during my long trip there (it felt like I’ve been walking forever when really, it has only been ten minutes), my back slowly slouched with each step till I was fully slouching. The extremely poor and back paining kind. Can’t blame me. University is mentally draining, but physically as well, having to walk to different classes constantly that’s being situated on opposite ends of the facility. It’s a workout.

I looked up to take a breather, seeing the glowing sign above the bar. I gazed down, to the glass windows, noticing how there was a lot of people in there. Well, it’s a Friday night afterall. I placed my free hand onto the door’s handle, pushing it open and entering.

Classical music played in the background. People’s murmurs could be heard as they had their own conversations. The place was dimly lit with an orange hue; a calming atmosphere. I went right up to the bar, getting on an empty cushioned stool and adjusting my butt onto it. I looked around the area. Taeyong wasn’t to be seen. I only assumed that he was making drinks.

I took out my book from my tote bag, flipping to the page where I folded it’s edge to continue where I left off. I was already two third done with it. And I was determined to finish it by Monday just so that I could get a new book to read.

My head was faced down, eyes scanning each sentence as I blocked out the entire world, putting myself in my own little bubble as I imagined myself in the story’s plot, too immersed to give a single care for my surroundings.

Suddenly, a hand appeared beside me, tapping its knuckles against the wood to get my attention. I lifted my eyes up, seeing Taeyong standing in front of me. White button up shirt, three buttons unhooked, revealing the slightest bit of his collarbones in a way to tease you and having the urge to see them fully. Black dress pants with a belt that cinched on his waist, framing his lower body beautifully.

“Literally called you from two steps away and you didn’t hear any of it.” Taeyong leaned against the counter, elbows supporting him as his face got close to mine. “I was busy.” I said, lifting up my book slightly. “You done with that? I need to put a new book on the shelve soon. It bugs me that there’s an empty spot.” Taeyong shivered as he mentioned that, making me chuckle softly.

“By Monday, I promise.”

“Need anything to drink? You look worn out.” Taeyong eyed me up and down. I probably looked terrible since Taeyong scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “You know I don’t drink. I mean I can, but it’s still the school term. I can’t afford getting off track by anything.”

Taeyong breathed a short laugh in response. “Ah of course. Didn’t you say you wanted to dropout just yesterday?” Taeyong looked up for a moment before bringing his eyes back down on me with a teasing gaze. My mind went back to yesterday when I texted Taeyong a long ranting paragraph about how stressed I was this week. I frowned. “Should I?”

Taeyong bobbed his shoulder. “It’s up to you. But I sincerely think you should. I mean look at you.” He added a light scoff at the end, his hand going up and down in front of me. “I’m just worried.” He proceeded to shift his weight form one leg to the other, sliding his fingers into the pocket of his pants. I felt his sense of sincerity, invariably imbued. Another reason why I fell for him. He’s always caring, too caring for his own good, especially towards me.

“Will think about it.” I mumbled, taking note of my book’s page number since I was too lazy to fold it before closing and shoving it back into my tote bag. “Anyways, when are you getting off work?”

Taeyong turned around to grab something. I realised it was his wallet and phone as he shoved the wallet into his back pocket and kept his phone in his hand. “Right now.” He flashed his smile. The signature smile. One he has on ninety percent of the time, at least around me. It was unique. A smile that only suited him and not anyone else. He owned it . Like he should. Yet another reason why I fell for him.

I got off the stool as he went around the counter that had the space in between for staffs to pass through. “Want me to drive?” He asked as we made our way to the door. I shook my head. “You had a long day. Just go home.” I kindly rejected. I bowed my head as he opened the door for me. A gentleman; adding onto the long list.

“You had an even longer one. I don’t care. It’s late too. I can’t let you walk home alone.” I laughed weakly, waiting for him outside as he closed the door. As we make our way to Taeyong’s car, he whispered, “Sleep straight when you get home, okay?” He opened the car door for me. I nodded, “Yes father.” I dragged on.

The car ride home was silent. Completely silent. There wasn’t even music playing in the background. I had my eyes fixed on the view out of the window, too scared to look at Taeyong as I can’t bare to look at him long enough before I melt on sight.

My apartment came to view after the many trees and street lights we drove past. The car pulled to a halt and I turned to Taeyong, who was suddenly up close to me, one hand looming over my chest as he reached for the seatbelt. I possibly stopped breathing. His eyes looked into mine, expressionless. I couldn’t even blink I was that shocked. “Sorry. I thought you were sleeping.”

Taeyong pulled back to his seat. I exhaled sharply. I looked to the seatbelt. He didn’t unbuckle it. I huffed quietly and did it myself, sliding my tote bag onto my shoulder. “Remember. Sleep right away.” He advised a second time as I make my way out of the car, slamming the car door shut.

Before I turned around, he rolled down the window, leaning forward slightly. “And my book!” He shouted. I placed two fingers up my head and pointed it back at it as a way to say, “Yes sir.” Before swirling around and walking away, his car’s engine starting up and driving away. The noise was quick to get muffled and go away as he drove further out of the neighborhood.

The hours of studying I had to do at home went by quick. Before I even knew it, I didn’t sleep that night at all. Unfortunately, I didn’t listen to Taeyong. I had assignments to complete by Monday for God’s sake. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the number of times I’ve pulled all-nighters are now inhumane.

I checked the time on my clock. 5:05AM. I sighed, looking across my study table that’s pilled with worksheets and my opened laptop. I nodded my head as I made the mental decision of finally cleaning up as I rechecked to see if I’ve left any work undone before beginning to stack the papers and shoving them into my tote bag. The only thing left on the table was a stack of decorative papers, with beautiful outlines of red roses around the edges.

I slid one paper off the stack, placing it in front of me. I grabbed a random pen from my organiser, clicking it as I swirled it around, trying to figure out what to write.

Hey taeyong. This is my 127th love letter, confession letter, whatever you would call it. I’m not sure if you’ve read any of them. My last note was in ‘It Ends with Us’. I find that you aren’t giving any reaction or anything. I know you don’t read the books but do you even bother flipping through its pages for the letter to fall out? I’m still hoping you’d at least open this one. Please. I’ve been waiting for ages. For you. I like you, Lee Taeyong, for the 127th time.

I placed my pen back to where it belonged before holding the note in my hand, lifting it up to my face. I bit my bottom lip before opening my book, randomly opening a page and placing the note in, making sure it’s secured before putting that into my tote bag as well. Too lazy to even get into my bed, I fell asleep uncomfortably at the table.

It was now Sunday. I almost forgot the fact that I’m meeting Taeyong today to pass him the book, which to be honest, I didn’t finish. The book was boring. It was like those books that you force yourself through so you wouldn’t feel the regret of buying it. Though I used Taeyong’s money, I still felt bad for leaving it unread. I wasn’t like Taeyong at least.

While thumbing through my closet to find something to wear after showering, my eyes stopped at the sweater that Taeyong borrowed me not too long ago because I was dumb enough to meet him at two in the morning without a jacket. I was frozen stiff due to the cold.

Absentmindedly, I took it off its hanger and brought it close to my chest, dipping my head down as I deeply inhaled, Taeyong’s scent was still on there. I put it on and continued getting ready.

Just when I was done placing my valuables in my sling bag, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was the mailman, I rushed to the door with immense speed. I opened the door forcefully. But instead of the mailman, I was met with Taeyong standing in front of me. We locked eyes for a split second, which made my heart leap. I then eyed him up and down. He was wearing his usual all black outfit. Shirt, jeans, and boots. I liked how the plain and simple outfit was able to cup his body well, accentuate all his body features. It always made me swoon for him.

“What are you doing here?” I noticed how Taeyong kept eyeing his sweater that’s on me despite his attempts at trying to remain eye contact with me. “I thought of just letting you give me the book now and spend the day here. Can I?” No wonder he wore a regular outfit.

“So I dressed up for nothing?” I feigned my exasperation, folding my arms as I cocked an eyebrow, huffing ever so softly. Taeyong followed my poster one on one. “And wearing my sweater is called dressing up? How lovely.” It was now his turn to fire back, which made me frown. “Whatever.” I gave in, turning around to head back to my room.

I heard the door closing as Taeyong’s footsteps were quick to follow closely behind, maybe due to the large steps he took with his long legs. As I entered my room, Taeyong lets out a hum of satisfaction. “Your shelve’s looking good. More full than last time.” He complimented. I took a seat at the study table as he made his way to seat at the edge of my bed. “Mhm.” I softly answered.

With the remembrance of what he came here for, I grabbed my tote bag and fished out for the book. I then toss it onto the bed beside Taeyong, not speaking a word as I jerked my head to it. “Thanks. You read fast.” Taeyong held the book in his hand. Open it, open it. Oh God why can’t he just find the damn note I placed there?

“No I don’t. It’s just that the book was extremely boring for my liking.” I stated, matter-of-factly. Taeyong examined the book, quickly turning it over to read the synopsis. “Ew.” He mumbled.

“It was only good at first. The ending sucked.” I added on to my complains. “By the way...” Taeyong trailed on. I wonder what he wanted to ask. Was it something about the book? About the notes?

“I’ve been thinking I should read one of the books.” I folded my arms with arrogance, slouching into the chair as I tilted my head, the side of my lip lifted up slightly. “So after more than four years I was able to reel you in to read your first book?” I questioned, sounding smug.

Taeyong let out an annoyed ‘tsk’. “I find ‘If I never met you’ interesting, okay? Let me be.” Taeyong pouted and folded his arms, turning his head away from my direction. I stood up, walking to the bed and plopping myself down which made the two of us bounce up and down of a moment. “It’s cute how you’re a newbie to reading.” I made up an excuse when really what I found cute was how Taeyong acted. It made me blush a bright pink. It was probably extremely noticeable when Taeyong suddenly mentioned, “Did I make you so proud that you’re now blushing?” Taeyong teased, a giggle following after.

“Oh shut up.”

Lee Taeyong. This is the 128th letter. I still remember the first one I wrote. Feeling so hopeful and acting like a little girl that’s too shy to confess up front. I’m still like that. Yet to physically hint at you about my feelings. I can only express them like this, through notes that could all end up being meaningless if you’ve never looked at them. I’ll come by your house today. I’ll probably slide it in between books instead of pages. I long for your love, the kind that’s much more than that of a friend. I’ve been holding on for so long. Perhaps too long. But it’s okay, you’re Lee Taeyong. I won’t let the feelings I’ve bottled up for years go to waste. I’ll do something... soon. Yes, soon.

Later that day, I made my way to Taeyong’s house. I asked him to stay at home so that I could surprise him by coming over. But the reaction that I expected from him was way too predictable.

“You could’ve just told me to pick you up!” Taeyong whined. There he goes again being way too caring. Stop it. It’s hurting me.

“It’s not that troubling to travel, Yong. Calm the heck down! It’s really nothing.” I shouted back, reassurance being imbued into each word. He made way for me to enter. And as I did, I walked slowly, long strides to the living room where the large bookshelf was placed. The one that covered the entire wall. Well, almost, since he made space for the television. Other than that, it was just books surrounding it.

“Wait.” I turned around sharply. I realised that my sudden action made Taeyong stop in his tracks instantly. But he was close to me. Way too close for my own good. We stayed there for a moment, exchanging blank stares while I took the time to remember this moment; my heart stopping, his tall figure looming over me, his eyes looking into mine as if he’s trapping me in his gaze. Moments like these happen often. And I’d often take the time to remember them, shoving them into a mental folder called ‘Head over heels for TY’.

“Sit down. I’ll... get the cheesecake.” Taeyong was the first to back out, taking a step away from me and chuckling awkwardly. He quickly turned away after avoiding my eyes and rubbing the back of his neck. He looked nervous. But why? If I have seen it correctly, it looked like his cheeks were ever so slightly red as well. What even...

I shook my head vigorously, throwing those thoughts out of my mind. I sat down on the brown leather couch, leaning back and allowing my body to sink into it. Somehow, the thoughts crept back in. I thought about how what I observed just now could not have been real. It’s Lee Taeyong. Hundreds of girls are always hitting on him at the bar during his shift. He might even be seeing someone. Wait why am I even saying that to myself? I’d end up feeling jealous with no real reason. Great, you’re a dumb one indeed.

I felt Taeyong’s weight beside me. I looked up from the table, realising now that I was in a trance of my own thoughts, and to the cheesecake that he placed down. He leaned forward to cut a slice, placing it on a small plate as he placed the fork down beside it and handed it to me. “Here. Bought it especially for your brain recovery, and cravings. You’re period came, right?”

My eyes widened. My brows furrowed and got closer to each other as I backed my head away in surprise. “How’d you even know?” I asked shockingly. Taeyong lets out a chuckle, bringing his plate up and taking a bite. “I know you long enough to know that your period’s consistent and is usual around this time. But I was just taking my chances. I know you’d still eat the cheesecake either way.” Taeyong flashed a cheeky smile.

I knew he was extremely considerate towards me. He’d always advise me to take breaks, giving me a shoulder to lean on when I need rest, coming over to comfort me till sunrise whenever I texted him a ‘feel depressed lmao.’ He’s always on standby, ready to assist me when I need him, for whatever reason. Even if he wasn’t there, he was somehow able to choreograph his silent dance of support. But I never knew he was this meticulous to take note of my habits, my favourite food and even my period. He knew everything about me at the back of his hand. He really does make me feel some type of way. Perhaps a feeling far beyond love. An unknown feeling that only I could experience since it’s Taeyong. It’s always him. Always have been, and always will be.

I grabbed a big bite, scooping it in my mouth and moaning out dreamily, letting myself sink into the cheesecake and its flavours like a bath. “Fuck this is good. Where’d you get it?” I questioned with immense curiosity. I was genuinely curious. Because I’d love to get more.

Taeyong raised both his brows, his lips forming a thin line as he gave a slightly awkward or nervous cheeky smile. I couldn’t quite tell. “I made it.” He whispered. “No way!” I instantly take another bite, this time with Taeyong in mind. I mean, he already was from the moment he gave me the plate, but with now knowing that he was the one that made it? It suddenly tasted a thousand times better.

“Fucking bake more! Why haven’t I known that you can bake?!” I screamed with excitement. I finished the first slice, now on my way to tackle a second. Taeyong laughed hilariously at my reaction. “Is it that good? It’s my first time trying the recipe.”

“I know you cook like you’ve cooked for me many times but what the heck you should to do this more often. I’d eat it whole.” I squealed as I savoured the cheesecake’s flavours.

“If it’s for you then I’d gladly do it.”

Once again I felt the kindness and love through his voice and tone that’s ever so sweet and gentle. I’d imagine that this was how angels sounded like. Taeyong has always been able to put me at instant peace with just his words alone. Be it through the phone or in person. I always felt calm and protected.

It amazed me just what love could do to you. Everything they do now seemed perfect and beautiful, you blind yourself with their beauty and everything that’s good in them. In Taeyong’s case, I’ve never seen the bad side of him, shockingly enough. I’ve been friends with him for more than five years yet there wasn’t any argument between us that made a major impact on our relationship, if you don’t count those when I wouldn’t talk to him for only one day but we’d be able to act normal after.

We ended up spending the evening watching Netflix. We’ve been through two movies now. The cheesecake was now fully finished as well, down to its crumbs. “Want me to cook dinner?”

“I’m fine with anything.” I blinked my eyes once and a soft smile appeared on my lips. Taeyong hummed softly and nodded his head as he made his way to the kitchen, the sound of his slippers can be heard as he shuffled away.

I laid down on the couch, using my phone. A thought suddenly popped in my mind. I instantly peeked my head above the back rest, seeing Taeyong’s back in view as his body swayed slowly by the stove. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He ran a hand through his hair. How can a man look this... amazing. I can’t think of any other ways to describe Taeyong at that moment. Boyfriend material? Stunning? Breathtaking? All of the above.

As much as I wanted to stare at his figure, I had another agenda I had to accomplish before getting back to it. I rose from the couch, slowly and quietly, taking the note out of my sling bag. I walked up to the overwhelmingly large bookshelf. I scanned it carefully, trying to figure out where to place it.

“What are you doing?” I turned instantly at Taeyong’s voice. He was a few steps away from me, two plates of pasta in his hands. He turned around to place them on the table.

I took this chance to quickly slide the note into the shelve. One edge of the note was sticking out. Shit. It wasn’t obvious but it’s still there. I didn’t have any time to adjust it when Taeyong faced his body back to me.

“Just looking. The fact that I’ve read all these books... I’m such a bookworm for reading this much.”

“That’s what I like about you.” I was eyeing the pasta when Taeyong blurted that out. It was quick and soft, I couldn’t make out the words. I could only infer. “What?” I asked purposely, just to see if he’ll answer.

“It’s nothing.” Taeyong shoved a spoonful of pasta into his mouth, adverting his gaze on anything else but me.

I thought about how weird he was acting. It’s the first time I’m noticing that Taeyong’s been acting... wary, cautious of his every move around me. Just as I thought about how he’s clueless and delusional about my feelings for him, it could have been the same for me.

Luckily (Thank the Gods kind of lucky), classes ended early today. And Taeyong told me to meet him at his dance studio. For what reason? I wasn’t actually sure. I headed there, passing by the many other practice rooms till I saw the number that Taeyong told me. I opened the door, seeing Taeyong and two other guys I’m unfamiliar with. All of them turned their heads to me in unison, Taeyong blinding me with a bright smile while the others looked to each other with confusion.

“You came!” Taeyong squealed, running up to me and hugging my tightly. He was extremely sweating. I would try to push him away, but he probably wouldn’t let go and let me suffocate. Thankfully, he didn’t and pulled away, grabbing my wrist and dragging me to the other two guys.

“Ten, Mark. This is my friend, _____. I wanted her to come so that we’ll have an audience to show our piece.” Taeyong explained to them freely as he pointed to Ten and Mark respectively, an arm swung around my shoulders. I bowed my head amicably with a smile while they did the same. “You never told me you have a girlfriend, Taeyong.” Ten teased, lightly punching Taeyong’s chest. I couldn’t help but blush a light pink. I swallowed and looked up to him, who had a nervous and shy face on, which I didn’t expect at all.

“We’re best friends, please.” Taeyong denied, no hesitation whatsoever. In my head I wanted to frown but I had to keep a smile on.

“Hey, Ten. Wanna get Starbucks?” Mark suddenly asked, looking at him with a wicked grin as if he’s hinting to Ten about something. Ten was quick to respond, nodding his head with affirmation. “Yeah. I’m thirsty. You should just stay here with her. Need js to get anything?” Ten trailed on while the two of them began to take their wallets out of their bags that were at the back of the practice room.

“You guys are really going all the way to Starbucks that’s a fifteen minute walk from here?” Taeyong asked, extremely shocked. I did walk past Starbucks on my way here, and it is indeed extremely far. What the heck were they trying to do by leaving so abruptly?

“Eh it’s fine. Well we’ll leave you to it! Peace!” And just like that, Ten and Mark have left and it was now just me and Taeyong. The two of us turned to each other and chuckled at the same time. “Come on show me your dance!”

“It’s a duet that I’m doing with Ten. Can’t dance if he’s not here.” I looked up for a moment, thinking. “Dancer by day. Bartender by night. That’s Lee Taeyong.” I spread my hands out with jiggling my fingers as if showing a rainbow and mimicking stars. Taeyong laughed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Broke university student by day, author by night. That’s _____.”

I looked at him weirdly, eyes narrowing at him as I furrowed my brows. “How am I an author?”

“Eh I just assume you’re one since you’re such a bookworm.” Taeyong fakely rolled his eyes but flashed a cheeky smile after. I smiled back and got closed to him, both hand resting on my hips as I rested my weight on one leg. “So what are we gonna do mister dancer?” I asked with the tone of a child, making me laugh after from how ridiculous I sounded.

Taeyong proceeded to take my tote bag off my shoulder, putting it off to the side with the other bags while he grabbed his phone and went to Spotify. “Let’s dance.” He suggested with confidence. He played a song. It’s one of my favourites. A song that didn’t make me think twice to bob my head to, which I instantly did. “I haven’t danced in years and you know that.”

Specifically, it was six years ago. I used to dance in highschool as extra curricular thing. But in college I started to dance less frequently, and my dance friends and I slowly grew distant. But I was okay with it. I mean, it’s life. The world still had to spin no matter the situation.

“Come on I know you have it in you. Just vibe.” Taeyong swayed his shoulders up and down slowly, grooving to the beat as his whole body began to work its magic, his dancing was at the level of professional ones. I never know why he didn’t want to pursue dance as a career and became a bartender instead.

I slowly moved my body in a weird way. Not dancing for years, your body is bound to be uncomfortable and you’d be looking weird as you move. Which was definitely me. Taeyong laughed at me, making me frown and stopped dancing. He huffed with a smile and held both my hands. Instantly, my legs and body moved in sync with his. It felt amazing dancing with Taeyong. It was fun and carefree. I could dance as stupidly as I want and even though Taeyong could pull off the best dance moves, he’d still choose to dance stupidly along with me. He was able to serve himself as a guidance as I found my groove and vibe that I didn’t have in me for a long time.

When the music stopped, Taeyong’s hands where on my waist, while I had mine on his arms. We turned to the mirror and giggled, throwing out heads back happily.

“You still got it.”

“Make sure to find the ones with pretty spines.”

Taeyong and I decided to head to bookstores today for our monthly book shopping. And while I was carefully reading the synopsis of books that had an interesting title, Taeyong was busy examining their cover pages and the aesthetics, mostly the spine.

“Have you started on the book you told me about?” I asked, flipping the book I just took out to its first chapter to get a feel of the writer’s writing style. “I have, actually.” My head shot to him instantly. He’s read the book. But I remembered putting the note in the back pages of the book. Has he reached there yet? “But I’m a slow reader. And busy. I’m only at the third chapter.”

As much as I was surprised about the fact that he’s speed in reading was extremely slower than what I would consider normal, I couldn’t blame him. He’s body with work most of the time and he has a life to live. Not to mention how it’s the first book he’s actually reading. This is a good example that the gap in terms of our reading abilities are definitely big.

“Liking it so far?” I asked. “Yeah.” Taeyong simply replied as he took a book off the display. “I’m getting this. And these as well.” He giggled like a happy child who’s buying a bunch of toys as birthday present from his parents. He lifted the books up slightly, fiddling around and trying to stack them properly while I closed the book that was in my hands. “I’m just buying this.”

“Seriously? Oh wait nevermind you’re a broke university student.” Taeyong taunted, rolling his eyes. My mouth opened slightly, faking my exasperated as I huffed loudly. “Okay mister bartender. You didn’t have to rub-”

“Oh my God. Taeyong?!”

In unison, the two of us turned around to the noise. A girl was running up to us. The moment she came, she didn’t hesitate to hug Taeyong around his torso. Taeyong chuckled, almost awkwardly and hugged her back.

I took a quick look at them. Their hug made a few things clear to me. One, she’s probably known him for a long time. But if she has, why didn’t Taeyong told me about her before? He shares all his secrets, I pretty much know him from A to Z. So why hasn’t he mention her before? Second, Taeyong was quick to reciprocate the hug, from his awkward form to a loving one. They looked like a couple that hasn’t seen each other in ages; a meaningful reunion.

I wasn’t exactly happy with where this was going. I didn’t like how in an instant, she could simply let herself be in such close proximity with him. I’ve never hugged Taeyong for that long at all. It made me feel a couple of things. Jealousy? Judgmental? Sudden hatred towards her? But why should I? It felt so invalid of me to feel these things.

“It’s been years, Taeyong.” She chuckled happily as they pulled apart. Finally. “Who’s she?” Her finger lifted up to me.

“A friend.” Taeyong answered. Of course, Why did I think I’d be any more than that? Just a friend. We’re just friends. Just.

While they were having a chat about who knows what, I wasn’t exactly paying attention since I simply assumed that it was to catch up with each other. I wondered off to another section of the store. After browsing through a few books, it was then I realised that they weren’t no longer in the store anymore when I got back. They left, Taeyong left. Without telling me. It was my fault for leaving the scene discreetly since I felt like my presence wasn’t needed in their bubble at the time, but why did Taeyong not come find me? Was I... simply forgotten?

I went straight home that day after cashing out the books. I didn’t know where Taeyong went after leaving that that girl, but I didn’t want to act like some busybody who asks something that isn’t her business. I got texts from Taeyong asking if I left yet. Was he planning on returning there after leaving for two hours? He actually expected me to wait. Unbelievable.

After that day, my meetups with him became less frequent. He occasionally replied to my texts. More like one sentence after four or so hours. He still updates his socials. And it was all about her. Photos, videos. They were hanging out together more often. For some reason, it felt like she was a replacement; my replacement. I somewhat distanced myself away from Taeyong thinking, “I assume you don’t need me anymore so I’ll stay out of your way.”

But one day, out of pure curiosity, I decided to follow them to a cafe. Taeyong did text me that he’d be heading there, but I left him on seen. Like I said, I’m slowly removing myself out of his picture.

I sat at the corner of the cafe, black jacket, black cap and large black sunglasses. I looked like a stalker in the eyes of strangers. I mean, I was.

I covered myself further by holding up a book to my face. As I continuously stared at them, I grew bored. Don’t get me wrong, I was feeling negative. I didn’t like how she’s teasingly touching Taeyong’s arm, how they laughed happily together and chatting as if they’re in their own little world. But I started to wonder why I even came here. I did want to see what they’re like. But I’m making myself feel more bad this way.

I decided to write a note. I was done with the book I’m currently holding. All I needed to do was give it to Taeyong. With the note. I took out a random piece of paper from my tote bag, fishing out for a pen as well and began to write.

It’s my 145th letter. Fuck how long am I going to do this? Might sound weird, but I’m currently looking at you. Watching you with her. Why does it feel like you’re happier with her? You’re smiling, laughing more. You’re more brighter. I mean you have always been bright. But you just... radiate differently; a new type of glow I never knew you had. I saw your socials, constantly posting about her. I’m jealous, very. I want to be like that with you. But it just feels wrong, perhaps not right. Like I shouldn’t be craving for you. For your touch, your whispers, giggles. Why do I feel like this? The more you spend time with her, the more I realise that my chances of getting you is slowly slipping away from my grasp. But why can’t I move? Why don’t I want to move? I’m not sure what’s stopping me. And that’s what I’m fearing the most.

I felt my cheeks getting wet. It took me awhile to realise that I was balling my eyes out, slowly and painfully. I took off my sunglasses for a moment to wipe off excess tears before putting them back on. I can’t belive I’m crying. I looked down to the note. A tear fell onto it, a spot crinkled as it left a visible mark of my feelings. Just as I was sniffing, constantly having to wipe my cheeks dry since my tears were getting uncontrollable, I looked out the window. And what stood on the opposite side shocked me.

I knocked on the glass, his head turning quickly. He looked around inside the cafe, not sure of where the signal came from. I knocked once again. He looked down on me and I took off my sunglasses, pulling down my hood.

“Nakamoto Yuta?” I mouthed to him, my lips moving widely so he could read them. His eyes blinked rapidly and he leaned in before widening them after realising who I was. We take a few of the same classes. I see him often in school. But we never really talked. He immediately rushed into the cafe, covering his face as if hiding his identity and running up to my table to take a seat.

“Why were you looking in like some stalker?” I asked, pulling my hood back over my head as I lowered myself, my eyes still fixated on Taeyong.

“You look more like one than I do.” Yuta commented. I notice how he was constantly turning around, specifically to Taeyong’s direction. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m looking at them.” He pointed his finger out ever so slightly. And as I predicted, he was referring to Taeyong and the girl. “You know Taeyong?” I immediately asked, extremely curious as to why he was spying on them just like I was. “No, but I know Jiung.” So that’s her name. Pretty name for a pretty girl. Of course.

“And why are you doing that exactly?” Yuta let out a huff, leaning in with his elbows on the table, his shoulder rising up to his ears. “Because I want to see what they’re on about. I keep seeing her with that Taeyong guy. I like Jiung so I’m jealous.” I puckered my lips and nodded. My face showed as if I shrugged it off. But my mind began turning its gears. So he likes Jiung and he’s jealous of them together? He has the same reason of me coming here as well. What forces swirled around the world for us to come together like this? It’s weird how coincidentally the situation was.

“I actually came for the same reason as you. I like Taeyong, and I’m jealous of Jiung.” I frowned slightly, a sigh leaving my lips. I opened up to him quick about my situation since I felt a sense of similarity with him. He probably wouldn’t remember anyways. It’s not like we’ll be crossing paths in the future.

“Were you crying? Your eyes are hella puffy.” He asked suddenly. I breathed out a laugh awkwardly. I gulped and cleared my throat, thinking that I should shove all my feeling down so I wouldn’t look even more ridiculous in front of Yuta. “Yeah.��� I quickly slid the note in between a random page.

“Funny how we met here. For the same reasons. It’s like fate.” I couldn’t agree more. “An idea just came to my mind.” Oh no.

Yuta has always been the class clown, saying out his ideas that were completely mind blowing and far fetched. His way of thinking is... unique, in a funny way. I got somewhat nervous after he said that sentence, you can never guess what he’s thinking about or get a clear grasp of the way he thinks.

“How about we try splitting them up?” I didn’t reply, his words slowly resonating in my mind. He can’t be serious, right? But why am I slowly being persuade by an unknown force?

I have yet to say a word, my eyes still on them as I was deep in thought, wondering about all the possible outcomes of me agreeing and disagreeing, weighing them carefully so that I could make the more beneficial decision.

“Come on. You’ll get to be with Taeyong more. And I’ll have Jiung. Win-win situation, right?”

I sighed, inhaling as my chest puffs up.

“Alright.”

Yuta: How’s it going?

Me: amazingg :D

“Who are you texting?” Taeyong asked, I placed my phone down to the side, screen faced down. “No one.”

This is the sixteenth outing with Taeyong after that day. I was able to spend time with Taeyong a lot more, just like before. And probably just like it should. I’ve seen Yuta posting more often on his Instagram stories, mostly of him and Jiung. Our plan of keeping them apart is working. Though Yuta told me that it was Jiung who’s constantly asking to meet up with Taeyong, he was able to force her to hang out with him instead, giving her no chance whatsoever. It was extremely helpful.

I know this whole situation sounds as if I’m being evil or whatever you call it. But why wouldn’t I accept a chance to be closer to Taeyong?

“Should we head to the carnival after this? Or desserts first? Oh I want to head to that new ice cream shop! Ten said it’s delicious but extremely crowded. I don’t mind waiting since I’ll have you to annoy.” Taeyong rambled on. I laughed happily, taking in this moment. I want to treasure such simple moments like these. I want it to be in a snow globe; something remembered forever.

“Do anything you please, Yong.” I chuckled, flashing an eye smile.

Just then, the bell above the restaurant’s door opened, signalling a new costumer coming in. Taeyong widened his eyes at the door. I tilted my head at his weird action, turning around to see just what made him react that way.

“Jiung?” “Yuta?” The two of us whispered at the same time.

Jiung’s eyes immediately went to Taeyong, her face lighting up at the sight of him as she tried to make her way over. But Yuta stopped her by the shoulders. I now understood what Yuta meant by saying, “She’s so attracted to him.”

While Jiung was struggling to eacape Yuta’s strong grasp, Taeyong was halfway off his seat. I immediately reached a hand to place on his arm. “Where you going?” I asked, faking a smile when in reality I was getting nervous.

“Wanting to say hi to Jiung.” Taeyong was about to alide himself off his seat so I grabbed his arm, trying to stop him in the most natural way possible. “I don’t think you should. She seems busy.” I tugged on his arm slightly, an attempt to get him to sit back down. “But it looks like she’s struggling. I- Wait here.” Taeyong noticed how I was trying so hard to stop him from leaving. He raised a brow and shook my hand off in an instant, his strength powering over my desires.

I followed behind him. Taeyong forcefully removed Yuta away from Jiung and Yuta’s eyes immediately glanced to mine. Both of us sending nervous signals to each other in that split second. “What the hell were you doing to her?” Taeyong growled lowly, his voice and tone suddenly growing dark as he held Jiing’s wrist, his body standing in front of hers as if he’s protecting her.

“I was just getting her out of the restaurant since it’s quite packed.” Yuta awkwardly replied with an excuse. “No you were purposely stopping me from going to Taeyong.” Jiung fought back. I stood there frozen, watching by the sidelines as nervousness started rising in me. Are they going to find out about my plan with Yuta?

“I think it’s just a misunderstanding. You two can go now.” I ripped Taeyong’s tight hold around Jiung’s wrist, dragging him back to stand beisde me. “I just want to chat with Taey-”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Move along now.” I tried to shove Yuta and Jiung out the door. Taeyong’s hand suddenly gripped onto mine. I looked up instantly.

“Pause. You’re very acting weird. What’s going on?” Taeyong’s voice was raised higher than before. A few people were staring at us. “Nothing...” I whispered, looking down. I was now scared to the bone. I didn’t know what to reply, how to cover it up. It’s gonna have to slip out eventually. At least I was able to be with Taeyong more often.

“Yuta and I planned for you guys to never meet again.” That’s it. It’s all over. With that simple line of confession, the truth was now out. No where left to hide or run. Yuta smacked me on the arm, making me wince. “What the heck?!” He half-shouted in a whisper.

“Are you serious? And for what? Jealous or something?” Taeyong was mad. So mad. And I felt it. I was so scared. I was shivering with every word he said. I gulped, avoiding eye contact with him. I didn’t need to give a reply. My body has said it all. A moment of silence filled with tension circled around us. Suddenly, Taeyong stormed out.

I panicked, immediately going back to the table we were at to grab my belongings and rushed out, wanting to stop Taeyong. I looked around frantically. I spotted him walking down the street on the left. I ran as fast as I could, my hand reaching out for him as I shouted his name countless of times, but he doesn’t respond as if he was deaf.

“Taeyong, please!” I cried out. I finally had his wrist tightly around my fingers. He turned around sharply. He tried to walk away, but I tried harder to grip onto the hem of his sweater tighter. “What?”

I realised at that very moment that I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to stop him, but I never thought of what to do afterwards. I wanted to say “Don’t leave.” But it never left my lips.

I stood there silently, my thumb caressing against the cloth as I bit my lip hard. “Hello?” Taeyong asked, annoyed. That one simple word hit me, right on the heart. It was like an arrow, painfully accurate at where its being shot. Just as how one word from him could light up my day, and one word from him can make it come crashing down as well. His change in tone and mood was quick and intense. I couldn’t stop thinking about being terrified.

I eventually took in a deep breath, opening my tote bag and taking out the book that I have forgotten to give him that day while I was spying on him.

“Here. Have it, as a present.” I brushed a hand down the back of my head, my fingers combing through the ends as I turned around and walked away in the opposite direction after shoving the book to Taeyong’s chest, remembering the note was somewhere in there but I never bothered knowing exactly where.

My breathing started to become unstable. The further I walked away, the urge of falling down to the ground and collapsing became stronger. But I continued walking, telling myself to stay strong the whole way till I reach home. “You can cry on the floor all you want. Just quickly get home now.” I kept whispering to myself, begging my legs to speed up but my wobbly knees were not helping.

I cried that night. Very hard. The whole scene of kept replaying like a movie tape. All I could think about was how mad Taeyong looked. With his voice and eyes. It was a look I’ve never seen on him before. It was like a completely new side of him. The entire opposite of what he usually was. I now realised that he’s one of those “Their all butterflies and rainbows till they get pissed off.” That phrase cannot be any more true in regards to Taeyong.

Every day I tried to meet Taeyong. At the bar, his home, the bookstore. Anywhere he could be. He wasn’t replying to my texts, or calls. He probably blocked me. And on his socials as well. He wasn’t responding to me at all. I got worried sick. Is he never going to talk to me ever again?

Constantly, I mentally slammed my head against an imaginary wall, thinking about how I never thought of this outcome while weighing out the possible aftermath of the decision I made. How could I be so stupid, so reckless?

I eventually gave up trying to get in contact with him. He needed time and space away from me, completely. The hole this made in my heart was deep, like a dried up well with vines that has sharp long thorns growing in them. And every time I thought about Taeyong, I am constantly being pierced by those thorns of regret and agony, pricking deeper into my skin the more I fell deeper.

It was choking me; Taeyong’s absence. I couldn’t breathe at all. I was sinking, gasping for air each time I longed for him. I just wanted him back. I wanted things to get back to normal. I wanted to be us again.

Two months have passed. It was the worst two months of my life. Worst than the exam stress I had for last year’s final project. I had university to worry about on top of Taeyong. I was mentally going through hell. And again, the worst one yet. And it was now that I realised, I’d be much better off having him as a friend than anything less. But I was selfish enough to not treasure it that way, and it’s now finally gone. Completely out of my reach.

One night, I was up. Doing assignments. Nothing’s new. Nothing’s changed. Taeyong has yet to open up to me. I glanced at the clock on my phone, groaning as I let my head fall on the table. I closed my eyes. I was too stressed. The world’s spinning too fast. I needed it to stop for awhile. My brain can’t bear this much.

As if on cue, the door bell rang while I lifted my head off the table. My head slowly turned to my room door. The bell rang again. A few seconds later, it rang yet again. Whoever’s outside was frustrated or something, jamming their fingers on the bell while saying “I’ll keep annoying you till you open this damn door.”

I pushed my chair back and walked over to the door. I looked through the peek hole. Taeyong...? I opened the door. On instinct, I grabbed him by his waist while his body fell on me. His face tilted up to meet mine. His cheeks were flushed red. His eyes were half opened and looking around as if stars are swirling above his head. He’s drunk.

“Good night. I wanna go in.” Taeyong whispered. Yup, he’s drunk. His breath reeked or alcohol as he spoke. I stood there for a moment, needing to process the current situation. At three in the morning, Taeyong showed up here drunk. I can think about why later. But now I had to figure out a way to carry his heavy body into the living room.

Taeyong wrapped his arms around my waist, sticking his body against mine. “You’re so warm.” I blinked rapidly. I looked down on him. I can’t believe it. He’s here. After two months of ignoring, he can simply show up here. Drunk, even. Worst of all, I still had the love to move along with this. The anger was still there. It’s just that his sudden presence made me forget about it a little while.

Out of the blue, like a marionette on strings, he jerkily push himself off me and staggered his way to the lviing room. I followed closely behind, not bothering to turn on the lights. I didn’t feel the need to. I sat down at the edge of the couch while he laid his body down. He giggled to himself and muttered things I couldn’t understand. I know what he’s like when drunk. Unstable, crazy, a lightweight. Will not remember a single thing the next morning.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, not even sure why. Why did I bother asking when he won’t remember any of this the next day? Well, he’s here now. And no matter what state he was in, I just wanted answers.

“To thank you. Me thank you. Mwah!” Taeyong puckered his lips in the end, eyes closed and shaking his head furiously. His fluffy hair moving along. I smacked my bottom lip and nodded. “For what exactly?”

“For getting rid of Jiung for me. She’s so annoying. I’d much rather be with you.” Taeyong mumbled, finger slowly pointing up to me. Unconsciously, I pointed back to myself too. “Me?” Taeyong pursed his lips into a thin line and nodded firmly. “Uhuh. Yes, right. Mhm.”

I kept silent for a moment. “That wasn’t really what I got from how you reacted two months ago.” Suddenly, Taeyong forcefully gripped onto my wrist, pulling me down. I let out a soft gasp, realising that my body was laying on top of his. We stared at each other for a long while, the close proximity making it so that I could feel his cold breath on my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I breathed heavily as I felt my face getting hot. Stop it. Why are you falling for him too quickly?

“Go home, Taeyong.” I whispered so softly in a calming and light tone. Taeyong whined in response. He was now pouting with his big boba eyes. He looked like a sad puppy. My heart instantly melted at the sight. I couldn’t resist. “I’m staying here.” He said in a high pitch voice, hugging me closer and putting me in an uncomfortable position for my body. Regardless, I stayed.

After two months he was finally here, and in my arms. This night might not mean anything to him but it made me feel relived. The fact that he remembered my house, my name, me. Whether it was just the alcohol driving him to do such things that are out of his control, I didn’t mind. All I needed was for him to be here. It felt good to be with him for that one night. Just one night was all I needed. It didn’t stop my anger for him about the fact that he ignored me, but I was okay with it. That night, I let it go. All I wanted was to feel such peace with Taeyong.

We ended up sleeping together on the small couch. I woke up with terrible body aches but either way, I sighed in relief when I woke up before Taeyong. I tried finding his phone, that was hidden under the crack of the cushions. I typed in his password. I memorise it like how he memorise mine. I went to his contacts and called the one person I knew.

“I have a favour to ask, Ten.” I said nervously as I watch him carry Taeyong into his car. He hummed, pulling his head out of the car and slamming the door. “Don’t tell him he went here.” Ten gave a half-shrug, nodding his head in response. “Sure. I’m not sure what’s going on between you two, but it seems like a lot. Should solve it soon.”

“Yeah... I hope so.”

16th October.

I’ve lost count on the number of love letters I’ve given you. I can’t give them to you anymore, since you don’t even want anything to do with me. I can’t blame you. I knew you’d be pissed. I was hesitant on doing it but I was so selfish, wanting you all to myself. But what can I do, Taeyong? I’ve wanted you for so long. Yet you’re so delusional of my feelings. How could you have not read any of of my letters? Perhaps you have and chose to ignore it. That’s more painful than you being upfront and rejecting me. As much as I allow you to hate on me, I’d still say this. Fuck you, Lee Taeyong.

23rd October.

I saw you at the bar. You look... happy. Without me. You act as if nothing happened. Like I never happened. I wonder if you’re just putting on an act, or are you actually okay without me by your side. Are you still mad? Did you forget about it but have gotten use to not being with me? I want to know Taeyong so please, respond. That’s all I ask from you. Fuck that. You don’t even have to talk. I just want you here with me. Whether the air around us will be filled with tension, I don’t care. What I’m going through, is not nice, Taeyong. It is punishment for my actions. But how long do I have to keep it up? How long to I have to suffer to take a breath? For you to pull me out of this mess with your forgiveness. I’m falling apart.

14th December.

Wow. It’s December already. I’m sitting at the park we go to every Christmas. We’d be freezing to death but still glued to the bench chatting about life since we just loved being out in the snow. And yet, you never got back to me. I found out from Jiung that you left the country but never said where. I miss you, Lee Taeyong. I’m tired. So tired, of constantly penning my feelings down on pieces of paper. Words I can never say to you out loud, are all in the letters in your books that you never bothered to open. I even hid one between the books of your huge ass shelf. Why haven’t you said anything about them? I know I should move on, because it really does seem like you never want to talk to me ever again. I’m losing hope, more faster than before as each day pass, wondering where the hell as you and how you’re doing. I keep telling myself “Let it be. Let him have his moment.” But I wonder if you ever think about how I’m bearing all of this as well. That without you, I might never be able to forgive myself.

I slide the notes under Taeyong’s apartment door. I knew he was out of the country. Some nights I’d sit by his door, the note in hand as I envision him in his house. I couldn’t think about what he’s doing. And I constantly ponder about it. Is he eating well? Sleeping well? Is he enjoying himself wherever he’s at? Months passed. And as time went on, I began to wonder if my letters were even worth writing. Why was I giving so much? Why am I going through such lengths, physically and emotionally, for Taeyong to be okay? Why am I bearing such emotions when it’s not even certain that I’ll be given the same in return.

I’m making a promise to myself. I’ll let go of Lee Taeyong. I’ll slowly, bit by bit, remove my feelings out of my heart. It’s not worth it, I kept telling myself. I’m meaninglessly suffering for someone who is isn’t appreciating it. So why should I go on? I loved you, Lee Taeyong. I changed my words. I loved you.

And that was the last love letter I wrote.

Along my journey to forgetting Taeyong, I suffered a lot. I was always drawn back to him. I was always willing to put my pen on paper and just write something to him. About anything. It was a bad habit that needed to stop. I had to let go years of feelings that were being pilled up in my heart. And it was something that’s extremely hard to let go. But other than my own factors, there were external, circumstantial ones as well. Whether it was coincidental or not, that was something I can never know the answer to.

I was on my laptop, casually scrolling through Pinterest to calm myself with the aesthetics of random things. Room decor, clothing ideas, handsome idols. Anything that can take my mind off my billions of overloaded projects for awhile.

I didn’t know how, but I ended up looking at quotes, Japanese ones to be exact. The deep meaning of words. Some were heartfelt while other were heartbreaking. I read them off casually till I paused at one.

‘Tsundoku— buying books and not reading them; letting books pile up unread on shelves, floors, or nightstands.’

I scoffed to myself, pinching my temples as I shook my head. It’s just like you, Lee Taeyong. “Fucking hell.” I mumbled, slamming the laptop shut. I’ve been able to not think about Taeyong for a long time now. Or at least I felt like it was a long time. I wasn’t going to let a word get me off course. I placed my laptop on the bed and went back to my study table, suddenly feeling motivated to continue as a way to distract myself from thinking about him.

Thinking that I wouldn’t be facing that state of dilemma again, I just so happen to see a quote the first thing I entered Pinterest.

‘If they were meant to reunite, they had to go separate ways.’

I was then reminded of Taeyong yet again. But I don’t think I was thinking about him as a person, but our relationship. Just our relationship. Having to part ways as a mean to reunite. That’s something I found hard to believe. Why am I having hope that it’ll happen when I highly doubt I’ll experience it? Why is my mind slowly pulling me back to the memories I have with Taeyong? I want him long gone. I want him holed up in the corner of my mind, out of sight, out of mind. But things are always popping up randomly around me, and it all reminded me of him. I feel like it’s his doing, funny enough. Constantly hinting about him with almost everything I come across.

“What the fuck?”

I looked at the Youtube home screen and what was recommended for me. One of the videos had Taeyong’s name. And his face was on the thumbnail. The title? Lee Taeyong | Freestyle dance | Paris In The Rain (Lauv) My finger moved on its own, bringing the cursor to the video and clicking on it.

As I expected, the video was taken in Paris. So that’s where he has been. He was in Paris this whole time without my notice. I was shocked to find that the video has tons of likes and view. I read through the comments. They were all swooning over Taeyong.

“Who wouldn’t?” I said to myself. I scrolled up and played the video. My eyes didn’t leave the screen for a second. I was frozen, not being able to move an inch as I watched, completely in awe. Firstly, Taeyong has his hair dyeda light ashy grey or blue. It suited him well, all too well. His dancing was immensely beautiful. Anyone would fall for him. Visuals, talent. He has it all. Dancer by day, bartender by night. He looked so free and alive in his dance. Serving the world with a hard punch with his deep emotions that were imbued perfectly into his movements.

I bit my lower lip. Fuck. I felt it. The goosebumps, the quivering of my lips. My eyes started to well up with tears. “No, this is not happening again.” The video was still playing, the music ringing in my ears but I couldn’t bear to look at the video. I was watching Taeyong, living the perfect life in Paris. What more could he needed? I clearly wasn’t in his equation. I’m completely gone, removed out of his life. No trace of my presence to be found.

The longer I think, the more I forced myself not to cry. Eventually, being weakling I am, I ended up falling deep into the harsh and intense whirl pool that is my feelings once again, a place I never visited in a long while. The feelings started dancing in my mind like butterflies flapping in unison to the soundtrack of my sadness. I could only assume that it’s what the world wants. It’s how it wants to spin, how it wants to work.

Eight months. I actually counted how long I’ve lost contact with Taeyong for. It didn’t bother me. I was trying to live a life. It’s getting better. It took a lot of baby steps. But I’m feeling a whole lot lighter now. It’s March.

I was walking back from University when my phone started vibrating in my hand since I’ve always left it on silent mode. I lifted it up. It was an unknown number. Instinctively, I chose to not pick up the call. But a few seconds later, the same number showed up on the screen. With a light groan, I picked up and brought the phone to my ear.

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked formally, waiting by the traffic light. I heard the person on the other hand breathe out a chuckle, almost like a disappointed kind. “Who the-”

“So you deleted my number?” That voice... No doubt. It was Lee fucking Taeyong. “Meet me. My home. You got ten minutes.” The call ended.

Rapidly blinking my eyes, I slowly brought down the phone. I read over the number again. It was Taeyong’s phone. Why didn’t I remember it? I used to know it. It’s one of the few things I used to be able to tell off the top of my head. “Ten minutes?” I looked at the time.

I don’t know what urged me, but I ran. I ran as fast as I could. The unknown force. It was unfamiliarly familiar. If that made sense. I was able to live a life without Taeyong. I was. I was capable of it. And that’s what I did. But at the very moment, I felt the need to see him. The spontaneous out of the blue kind of feel. It was all just pouring out of me.

I stood at his doorstep, hand on my chest and other as support for my body against the wall. Panting heavily, I tried to slowly calm myself down. I gulped, and rang the doorbell. No turning back.

The door flung open. And there stood Taeyong. He still had his ashy hair colour. His face never changed a single bit. Nor did his overall physique. He was still handsome, breathtaking. “Come in.”

I sucked my lips and sidled in timidly and warily. Nothing has changed in his house as well. The large bookshelf with the television in the centre. I started to remember the love letters. All of them are hidden in the pages of the books in that very shelf. It reminded me of my feelings for him.

I sat down on the leather couch as Taeyong disappeared into the kitchen. I kept my head faced forward, placing my tote bag down, leaning it against the couch on the floor. Taeyong came back moments later. Two plates with a slice of cheesecake. He handed on to me. “Try it.” He said.

I slowly took a bite. Chewing on it, I scrunched up my nose, placing the plate down on the table. “I hate it. Tastes too artificial.” I commented dryly. Taeyong chuckled and cleared his throat. “Knew you’d say that.” Taeyong shoved a bite into his mouth, eating it as he placed the plate beside mine. “Want to know why you’re here?”

I bobbed my shoulders. This atmosphere, the air between us. It wasn’t awkward at all. Though our words were dry and short, it felt normal. It wasn’t weird being next to him after not seeing him for eight months.

Taeyong stood up, taking small steps to the shelf. As if practiced, he pulled out one letter from a book, another, and another, and another. It was never ending. It took him at least ten minutes to slide out all the letters and placing them on the table. I silently watch, my anxiety turning up a notch with each letter.

He finally took what I hoped was the last letter and went back to sit next to me. A specific letter is held in his hand. He unfolded it, placing the paper on the table and turning it so that I could read.

It was my last love letter.

“So you knew.” I whispered, looking down, leaning forward as I laced my fingers together. I took in a deep breath, my eyes scanning down the note before turning my head to Taeyong. “Then why the fuck didn’t you do anything about it?”

Taeyong lifted the paper off the table, holding it in front of him. He reread it. Running a hand through hair, chest puffing up as he inhaled and exhaled sharply. “Because I wanted you to keep writing to me.”

“What...?” That was definitely not an answer I was expecting.

Taeyong licked his lips, smacking them before sniffling a rubbing his nose. He lets out a weak chuckle. “I liked them. From your handwriting, to your words. I felt it; your love, with each letter.” He whispered softly.

I simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was the explanation and truth I’ve been wanting to hear for months. This is what kept me up at night, what led me to have my mental breakdowns, the constant ‘what if’s I formulated throughout. “You just like them? Taeyong if you’re rejecting fucking do it now-” I was about to scream, but Taeyong was quick to cut me off.

“In a way it felt like you were writing a book. One just for me. That’s why I never bothered to read any other books. I just needed yours. Your... simply overpowering pain in the heart love letters.” Taeyong smiled down at the letter, hovering his fingers over the words.

“And I don’t just like the love letters. I love the author. Paris made me realise that. It took me that long. And I’m sorry for how long you needed to wait.”

“What do you love about the author?”

I could tell Taeyong was taken aback by that question. And I knew he would react that way. He still knew me well, bouncing back and giving a confident answer.

“I don’t want to sound common by saying it’s her smile, laughter, brightness. But it truly is what I love about her. All the times we’ve spent were filled with nothing but pure bliss. Serenity, is what I feel when I’m with her. Longing, like I was meant to be by her side. I’ve known her long enough to know every single detail about her, ones that maybe she doesn’t even know herself. Like how drinks two straws when she’s sad, or having the habit of twiddling her thumbs when she’s excited. Little things like those, I find them adorable. No matter what she is, a nerd, weirdo, plain crackhead, it’s... the energy, her own energy. A light and force only she could illuminate.”

I couldn’t say anything. I frozen stiff by his words. He actually meant it. I could feel it through his voice. He stuttered here and there nervously, finding words to say. But he was able to structure them in the most beautiful way possible. I had no words to say.

Suddenly, Taeyong slowly brought his hand up to cup my cheek. That one touch alone made me feel a lot of things. It was like I was hit by a huge wave of feelings all bunched up together and crashing over me. But it wasn’t something I couldn’t handle. It was overwhelming, but I was calm. I was at peace. It felt good. Just this.

He slowly and carefully swiped his thumbs across my cheeks like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. His touch was lightweight and simply serene. “Another thing the author doesn’t know about herself is that she really doesn’t know when she’s crying and spilling out tears.”

I blinked my eyes, Taeyong smoothing his hands from my cheeks and to my shoulders, placing them there firmly as his eyes stared into mine. I can’t exactly explain what I felt. But it was like the stars aligned, as cliche as that sounds.

‘If they were meant to reunite, they had to go separate way.’ I resonated with this now. I understood what it meant. Our months of separation were all for this exact moment. Both of us suffered, one trying to find themselves again while the other needing the time to realise that what’s most valuable was right in front of him. We needed that gap, for us to reunite and actually be able to love each other properly and willingly. Which definitely would not be a trouble now.